Free Wax by Gina Damico Page B

. . .
    â€œSo,” Poppy said before the unease consumed them both, “you do modern-day sculptures too?”
    â€œYes. Sometimes.”
    Poppy took out her cell phone and found the news clip of the gazebo, which was still up on Channel Six’s website​—​a website maintained by so-called adults who should have known better than to prolong the bullying of a teenager, celebrity or otherwise. “Did you make this?” she asked, showing her the video.
    Madame Grosholtz squinted at the screen. For the first few seconds she looked like any other old person attempting to interact with technology, but as soon as the shot zoomed in on the sculpture, her eyes widened and her jaw tensed. “When was this?”
    â€œLast night. Look, it’s not a big deal​—​trust me, I’ve been through a lot worse. I just came here looking for someone to help me out with a little bit of payback on the kid who did this to me . . .”
    Madame Grosholtz had stopped listening. She was urgently darting around the workshop, picking up odds and ends and looking inside paint cans, muttering, “That’ll do it . . . any day now . . .”
    So much for revenge. Poppy scowled, imagining Blake Bursaw laughing his hyena laugh at her. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œYour friend​—​the one who set this up​—”
    â€œObviously he is not my friend.”
    â€œHe is dealing with people he should not be dealing with. He must stay away. You must stay away too. And make sure this sculpture is destroyed!”
    â€œIt already has been. But I still don’t know who made it.”
    Madame Grosholtz abandoned her preparations, or reorganization, or whatever it was, and rushed up to Poppy. “You must take one,” she told her, glancing at the figures around the room. Her eyes, desperate, fell on the boy with the yellow sneakers. She picked it up and dragged it across the room. “I’ll lend you one, to protect you. Like a bodyguard. Yes?”
    â€œOh, that won’t be necessary.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Um, because they’re dolls?
Poppy wanted to respond. She didn’t want to hurt the woman’s feelings, but this was getting ridiculous. Plus, the thought of having any one of these creepatrons in her possession​—​even that dashing SexyFace Viking​—​was enough to make her skin crawl. “I’ll be fine on my own. This is just a childish prank war that got a little out of control​—​the kid’s a dick, but he’s not dangerous. Besides, these belong in a museum, not​—”
    â€œIt’s starting . . .” Madame Grosholtz had put the sculpture down and was back to the muttering. “They’ll be starting . . .”
    â€œ
What
is starting?” Poppy squeezed her head between her hands, trying to make sense of what was happening. “What’s going on?”
    â€œI’ll do what I can, but it’s up to you now.” Madame Grosholtz stood up on her tiptoes to retrieve something on a high shelf. “Open your backpack!”
    She said it with such authority that Poppy did so immediately. Madame Grosholtz dropped the item into her bag​—​a hefty pillar candle, about the size of a can of tennis balls. Though the wax of the candle was black, it was encased in a tube of solid white stone.
    Poppy struggled to lift the bag and zip it at the same time. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
    â€œYou must​—”
    Poppy’s phone rang. She held up a finger to Madame Grosholtz, who gave her the look of annoyance common to all who have been relegated to second place by a cell phone. “Hello?”
    The seething could be felt over the airwaves. “Where
are
you?”
    â€œOh God, Jill, I’m sorry.” Poppy reflexively started walking toward the door, and Madame