Wax by Gina Damico

brightly colored felt hat shaped like​—​wait for it​—​a candle. Covering the room was a beautiful glass-domed roof, affording spectators a neck-craning view of the defunct storage tanks, conveniently located just up the adjacent hill. Stained into the glass in elegant, loopy letters was the Grosholtz Candle Factory motto: “One fire, many flames.”
    A gaggle of tourists, not a one under the age of fifty, dallied about the room, waiting for the next tour to start. Some studied their maps with the intensity of air traffic controllers, not wanting to lose a precious second of candle factory fun time to poor planning. Others were reading the informational placards on the wall or shouting the contents of the informational placards into their significant others’ hearing aids. Still others were sitting on benches, complaining about their feet.
    But most were captivated by the extensive diorama that wrapped around the perimeter of the room. Behind a wall of glass in a climate-controlled display, no less than two dozen beautifully sculpted life-size wax figures stood frozen in scenes of Vermontian history and noble pastoral labor. Some tilled fields, some churned butter, some gathered eggs. A crowd of villagers traded wares in the town square. One girl who looked to be about Poppy’s age sat on a stool next to a cow, squeezing its udders with a look on her face that could only be described as vengeful.
    In fact, her cheekbones kind of looked like those of Poppy’s gazebo twin.
    Poppy tugged on Jill’s sleeve and pointed out the deranged milkmaid. “Fancy a tour?”
    Jill groaned. “We already did the tour. In fifth grade. Anthony Colucchio stepped on my Hello Kitty sneaker and made me cry. What if history repeats itself, Poppy? Do you really want that on your conscience?”
    â€œI am willing to risk it, yes.”
    â€œYou’re a terrible friend.”
    â€œBut look at the tour guide’s jaunty hat! How bad could it be?”
    Â 
    âˆ— ∗ ∗
    Â 
    The tour was bad. The jaunty hat could not save it.
    Somewhere around the point at which the tour guide cooed, “And
this
is the
wicking
room!” Jill slumped her head up against Poppy and whimpered. “I can’t take it anymore,” she said. “We get it. It’s wax. It melts. It smells. End of story.”
    â€œThe
story
be
gins,
” Poppy said in a pitch-perfect imitation of the tour guide’s opening sentence, “in 1865, when the
Gro
sholtz​—”
    â€œStoooop.”
    Poppy smirked, but her patience had worn as thin as Jill’s. The tour was duller than her ten-year-old self remembered, and it had been a waste of time to boot; she hadn’t spotted any sort of custom-made-statue opportunities. All she’d learned was that Blake may or may not have gone on this same tour and that the popularity of tea lights was on the rise.
    â€œAnd here we have a drum of Forty Winks wax​—​careful, you may begin to feel drowsy after prolonged sniffing!” the tour guide said with a chuckle. “The Grosholtz Candle Factory is at the forefront of the aromatherapy movement, infusing innovative new blends into our candles that will improve people’s moods . . .
and
lives. We’ve partnered exclusively with the Paraffin Resort and Spa on a new line of relaxation melts, and we’re even working on a product called Beacon, a powder that can be used by emergency responders as a sort of olfactory flare gun, for victims to ‘follow their nose’ toward help. Just sprinkle it in any flame, and you’ve got the opposite of citronella​—​reeling them in, instead of warding them off!”
    â€œBecause that’s what we need,” Jill joked to Poppy. “
More
candle weirdos.”
    â€œAnd now for a special treat,” the tour guide continued once they’d shuffled from the wicking