“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” he screeched, flapping back up the stairs toward their bedroom. Nine years old and he was still terrified of Mr. D.
Lala tossed her fuchsia microfiber tote onto a black-and-gold velvet bench and then hurried down the hallway that was lined with generations of vampire portraits modernized by high-gloss lacquer frames. The corridor looked more like the celebrity-studded walls of Sardi’s restaurant in New York than a tribute to an ancient bloodline. But there was nothing ancient about Mr. D. He liked his home the way Lala liked her hair: sleek, dark, and luxurious.
She followed the sound of her uncle’s raspy voice to the parlor—which was an homage to Armani’s decadent home-furnishing line. Instead of historical relics or valuable works of art, a sixty-four-inch flat screen was mounted to crinkled-for-effect gold wallpaper.
Standing before it was Uncle Vlad, a small man with tousled gray hair and round tortoiseshell glasses. With his arms crossed over his double-breasted blue cardigan, he looked like a fed-up gnome.
“I know you called to speak to Lala,” Uncle Vlad said. “But first you and I need to talk color scheme. The fang shui in here is totally off. We need a dash of happy.” He gestured to the glass hearth around the fireplace, the black daybed, the black shag rug, the black lacquer console with pleated doors. “I feel like I’m trapped inside a violin case.”
Lala giggled.
“We’ve been over this,” Mr. D’s deep voice bellowed from the screen. “I refuse to believe bright colors and the location of furniture can solve problems. If you want good things, you have to go out into the world and get them. Now, where’s my daughter?”
Lala zipped into the frame. “Here, Daddy.”
Uncle Vlad stepped aside, dabbing his slick forehead with a pale pink kerchief. A slow eye roll let Lala know that stalling for her was stressing him out big-time.
She bit her bottom lip. Sorry!
Uncle Vlad stuffed his small hands in the pockets of his plaid pants and hurried toward the pantry to eat his emotions.
“Hey, Dad,” Lala said, sitting stiffly on the edge of the daybed.
On-screen, the deeply tanned man with slicked-back hair nodded once. He was wearing a sharply creased silver-gray suit and sat behind a polished wood desk with a row of round windows behind him. Glimpses of bright blue sky and turquoise sea bobbed in and out of view. His black eyes were stern as he examined his daughter’s outfit.
Lala crossed her pink-stockinged legs and leaned forward, doing what she could to conceal the frilly black miniskirt he had once said would get her the kind of attention she wanted but not the kind she needed. Lala pulled a wool throw over her tight black blazer. Even with the fire roaring and the central heat kicked up to Bahamas, she began to shiver. Blood and warmth: Her father had a knack for sucking them both.
“So.” Mr. D’s voice was clipped and hurried. “Any news?”
Lala looked up. For the first time, she did have something to report.
“Um, look what I got,” she said, holding up the picture of Clawd.
Mr. D lightly steepled his fingertips and then pressed them to his lips.
“It’s Clawd. My boyfriend. Clawdeen’s brother?”
He narrowed his eyes. “A Wolf?”
Lala nodded slowly.
“Anything else?” he managed. “Anything you can be proud of? Anything that might further your personal growth as a leader?”
Ashamed, Lala lowered her gaze to the black ribbon laces on her boots. She considered telling him she had applied for the Balance Board. But what if she wasn’t chosen? He’d be even more disappointed.
“I got an A on my biology quiz,” she lied.
He tried to smile. It looked like gut pain. “Did you sign up for that summer school teacher’s aide program?”
“It’s full,” she lied again.
Mr. D sighed. “Of course it is.”
Sorry, Dad, okay? I’m not class president, and I don’t want to be. I’m not obsessed with college applications or leadership skills or power. My friends and family aren’t afraid of me, and I don’t want them to be. Animals don’t hide when they hear me coming. And everyone thinks my outfits are fang-tastic. Maybe if you moved back here instead of living on that yacht, you’d see that. And then you’d love me the way I am. Because I love you the way you are, Lala wanted to shout. Instead, she promised she’d find another college-application-worthy pastime the minute they hung up.
Lala faced the empty screen. Now what? It was June. Opportunities to “better” Merston High were hardly flooding her in-box. But if she wanted her father’s approval, she’d have to do something. Take initiative. Try.
She hurried over to the laptop blinking on an antique mirrored credenza and Googled OPPORTUNITY HELP SCHOOL. About 730,000,000 results popped up. Lala began scrolling and stopped at number thirteen.
And there it was. The high school extracurricular dream. Whoever had said that number was unlucky was about to be proved wrong. Dead wrong.
CHAPTER THREE
SUBSTITUTE CREATURE
A swarm of stylishly disheveled hipsters inched toward the squat brick building, drawn to the yellow light spilling from the open door.
Despite the warm night, Melody Carver zipped her black hoodie and folded her arms across her chest. Was she seriously outside a college pub dressed in a bleach-stained Hello Kitty tee, striped pajamas, and UGG flip-flops? She was the one with the influential Siren voice. She was supposed to be telling other people what to do. And yet somehow her older sister, Candace, a normie, had her beat when it came to persuasion.
“IDs,” grumbled the thick-necked bouncer. He wielded his black penlight Darth Vader–style.
A doe-eyed pixie at the front of the line stepped forward, flashing her card and an eye roll. “I’m here, like, every night,” she told her friends. “Does he seriously need to check?”
“When you grow to five-nine and weigh a hundred and fifty-five pounds, I’ll stop. Now beat it, Bambi,” he said, waving the next person forward.
“Nice pit stains!” the petite girl shouted, wobble-stomping away in wedges as high as the box they came in.
“Next!”
A boy in skinny jeans patted his pockets frantically as a guy in a white muscle tee and tattoo sleeves fist-bumped Pit Stains and cruised inside.
“Clear your throat,” Candace mumbled from the side of her poppy-red mouth. “We’re next.”
They inched forward. The humid air smelled like cigarettes and patchouli oil. Fearing an asthma attack, Melody waved away the smoke. Candace smacked her. “Stop acting high school.”
“But I’m in high—”
“Tonight you’re not!” Candace fluffed her blond curls.
“I can’t believe Shane hasn’t busted you yet.” Melody giggled, amazed. “Does he honestly think you go to Willamette College?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“For one thing, he never sees you on campus,” Melody said, suddenly needing to pee. Why had she drunk that thirty-two-ounce Dr Pepper? Oh yeah, because she’d thought she would be at home studying for her math test, not working a dive-bar bouncer so Candace could meet her college boyfriend.
Candace plucked an olive-colored feather from Melody’s hair and tucked it behind her own ear. “Accessorizing is so easy when you’re around. I swear, everyone should have a Siren for a sister.”
“I think someone should have you for a sister,” Melody teased. “I need a break.”
Behind them, a brunette wearing a flannel dress and combat boots was examining Candace. Melody was used to it by now. Her sister’s beachy good looks and city style were checked out more than the library’s copy of Twilight.
A girl with dreadlocks tapped Candace on her shimmer-dusted shoulder. “Hey, Barbie. Like, prom is next month.”
“ ’Scuse me?” Candace asked, confused.
Melody’s heart thumped. It always did when she was about to get bullied. What would it be tonight? Her slippers? Her pajamas? Her tangle
d hair?
“You think you’re gonna get past Mini dressed like that?” asked Flannel.
“She belongs on top of a birthday cake.” (Dreads.)
“Or a parade float.” (Flannel.)
“Or a hill of Skittles.” (Dreads.)
Flannel burst out laughing. “What’s a hill of Skittles?”
Dreads blew a line of smoke from her thin lips and shrugged. “I have no idea.”
They laughed together.
Shock overshadowed Melody’s urge to pee. These girls were making fun of her sister’s clothes, not hers. For once!
Candace stepped into Dread’s personal space. She put her hands on her hips and—
“Next!” called Mini.
Melody pulled Candace forward.
Rattled by her first experience with criticism, Candace was stunned into silence. “Um…”
Flannel leaned forward and muttered, “At least I look over twenty-one.”
Candace’s green eyes snapped back to life. “At least I don’t!” She pulled a business card out of her beaded clutch and flicked it toward the other girl. “Don’t worry. My dad’s a plastic surgeon. If you ever win the lottery, call him. He loves a challenge.”
Melody couldn’t help laughing at the girls’ shocked faces. Trust Candace to have the perfect comeback.
“I said, IDs!”
Candace shoved Melody forward.
Please let my voice work, please let my voice work. Excluding the call she had made to the University of Southern California’s admissions office (Candace had needed more time on her entrance essay, and Melody had needed Candace to stop begging her for help), Melody hadn’t used her Siren skills in months. Controlling destiny was too much responsibility for her. She’d learned her lesson after Clawdeen’s Sassy Sixteen. And again when she got the server at Dairy Queen to load Jackson’s Blizzard with every mix-in on the menu. That night he had puked gummy bear/Oreo/graham cracker all over her new jean jacket.
Melody took a deep breath and looked directly into Mini’s black eyes. “You do not need to see our IDs. We are twenty-one. The two girls behind us are not.”
He began blinking. It was working.
He placed a warm hand on Melody’s back and ushered her and Candace into the yellow light.
Candace slipped her arm through Melody’s and squeezed. “I told you it would be fine!”
The pee pain returned, but Melody smiled anyway. Not so much because she got in. But because for once, she didn’t stand out.
The musty air smelled like beer and stale popcorn. Melody desperately scanned the crowded venue for a bathroom while her eyes adjusted to the dim light.
A scarred wooden bar ran the length of the room. Behind it an Asian hipster in a black tee and Dickies tended to the three-deep crowd. Tall tables were like gigantic coasters for empty pints and purses, and college students mingled and bobbed to the Cure track that was blasting from the speakers by the stage. The music was a placeholder, a distraction while the all-girl band set up.
Melody thought back to her days as a singer, before the asthma. Performances were for grown-ups seated in auditoriums and smelling like expensive perfumes. She tried to imagine singing for people her own age. The idea quickly became a feeling; it was a lot like falling.
“I’m off to find Shane. You sure you’re okay getting home?” Candace asked, smudging her eyeliner to look like a sexy accident.
Melody had gotten her license only six days before, but she was consumed with not peeing her pajama pants, so she nodded convincingly. Candace tossed her the keys and then bolted.
Finally.
The narrow black bathroom was plastered with posters and stickers from some of her favorite bands: Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Blind Melon, STP…. It was like an homage to nineties grunge. Or rather an homage to the dark music she had played in sunny Beverly Hills. Songs for outcasts. Songs for her.
Washing her hands with cold water and no soap in the wobbly pedestal sink, Melody checked her reflection in the cracked mirror. She certainly didn’t look her best. Tangled black hair tied in a messy ponytail, scattered feathers dangling by the sides of her face, narrow gray eyes propped open by caffeine. She was no Candace, that’s for sure. But tonight that didn’t seem to matter. No one seemed to notice Melody. It was incredible.
As she pushed her way toward the exit, the lights dimmed. The crowd gathered in front of the stage and began cheering.
A blond in tight cutoffs and a half shirt that exposed a roll of belly fat that didn’t seem to faze her took a seat behind a worn drum kit mended with duct tape. A girl with pink hair, a silver bra, and black skinny jeans plugged her bass into an old amp with a peeling sticker that said BAD CAT. The guitar player wore a poofy blue prom dress, torn fishnets, and combat boots. Once they were situated, a brunette with a high-gloss ponytail and an off-the-shoulder black jersey tee stomped onto the stage. Her white leather booties reflected the dirty wood floor. She looked more like an indignant cheerleader than a fellow rocker.
“Heyyyy, boozers and losers!” she called. “My name is Davina, and I’m about to rock your cock-a-doodle-doos!”
Her bandmates exchanged an irritated glance. Pink Hair leaned into her mike and added, “And we’re Grunge Goddess.”
Everyone cheered.
“Oops, forgot about them.” Davina girlie-giggled. “My rude.”
“We’re used to it,” shouted the drummer, knocking her sticks together. “Five, six, sev-uhn, eight!”
Which reminded Melody—math test! It was time to go. And then familiar chords blasted through the bar. Pearl Jam? She couldn’t leave now.
Melody began shoving her way toward the stage.
“Watch it!” called a blue-haired girl in jeggings and a mesh tank top. Then Melody collided with a muscular mass in a dark gray tee.
“You okay?” he asked, gripping her shoulder. Despite the cluster of sweaty bodies, his hand was surprisingly cool. She nodded and slipped past him.
“Follow us,” said a familiar boy’s voice. It was Billy and his violet-scented girlfriend, Spectra: Merston High’s beloved invisible couple. They pulled her to the front of the stage with dexterity. They had navigated these crowds before.
As the spotlight roamed, Melody caught a glimpse of Spectra. The light moved on, and the purple-haired ethereal beauty in a black tank dress disappeared. “What are you doing here?” Melody asked.
“I’ve been coming here for years. The music is awesome.”
Melody nodded her head vigorously and flashed Spectra two geeky thumbs up. Then she held her arms up and cheered as the band played “State of Love and Trust.”
“Where’s your sister?” Billy asked.
“Shane,” Melody called.
“Look who I met!” shouted Candace, dancing toward them in the center of a three-person conga line. “Rudy and Byron.”
“Brian,” said the guy in the front.
“Then stop saying your name is Byron,” Candace said.
“I didn’t!”
Candace jumped out of the line. “I don’t conga with liars.”
For the next thirty minutes, they danced and laughed through the best of the nineties. Melody’s math book beckoned, but each song was better than the last. She couldn’t pull away from the thumping bass notes and the moaning guitar. From the music that had been her friend when no one else was interested.
Onstage, Davina half-swallowed the microphone and swung her ponytail like a revving chopper. She turned her back to the crowd and slapped her Pilates-toned butt.
The song began to build, and Melody sang along. Bouncing up and down as the chorus peaked, she surrendered to the collective energy of the crowd. Chugging Red Bull while getting shot from a cannon probably felt like this.
A sudden longing for Jackson gripped Melody like a zipped leather jacket. She wanted him there. Needed him to know this part of her. Music roused something inside her the way Jackson’s sweat roused D.J. She had witnessed his transformation, and she wa
nted him to see hers. Life’s special moments didn’t feel real anymore unless they were shared. That was love. But wasn’t love also leaving him alone so he could study for their math test?
Davina was at the front of the stage, leaning toward the audience. “Catch me, you chapped-lipped weaklings!” she shouted. And then—arms splayed, chin up, toes together—she dove. She glided through the air toward her fans with the assurance of a wide-winged seabird. “Incominggggg!”
Bodies scattered like roaches from Raid.
Thump. Awreeeeeeeeeeee. The fallen microphone shot feedback through the bar as it—and Davina—crash-landed on the sticky floor with an amplified ooof.
Audience members searched the club frantically, as if expecting a friend who still hadn’t shown. The band continued to play.
“My shoulder!” cried Davina. “I think I broke something….”
The bouncer appeared and knelt in front of the injured diva. He picked her up like a baby bird and slung her injured wing around his neck.
She kicked him in the shin. “Oww!” she snapped. “That’s the broken one!”
“Ooops.” He winked at the band as he hauled her off. “My rude.”
The girls onstage suppressed their smiles.
“Aren’t they worried about her?” Melody asked.
“They hate Davina,” Spectra explained. “She’s such a snob. She doesn’t even know these songs—they have to bribe her with clothes or she won’t practice.”
“Why didn’t they kick her out?” Melody asked.
“Her father is Danny Corrigan,” Billy explained, tilting her head to face the neon sign above the bar. “As in Corrigan’s. It’s his place. And right now this is the only place they play.”
“I heard that Sage, the guitarist, paid the people in the front row to drop Davina!” Spectra said, with the certainty of someone who could back up her statement with proof, even though she rarely did.
“Anyone know ‘Doll Parts’?” Sage asked, swaying in her combats.
Melody gasped. She’d been singing that song in the shower for, like, forever. She could sing it backward while chewing gum. But there was no way she could get up in front of a crowd like this. What if her asthma kicked in? What if…
Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever Page 3