“She does!” Candace called, lifting her sister’s hand in the air.
Melody ducked. But Billy wrapped his arms around her knees and lifted her up.
“Her name is Melly!” Candace shouted. A wavy-haired guy with wire-framed glasses and a face full of study-stubble appeared at her side. Candace hugged him like a returning war hero. Shane?
“She’s coming!” Spectra yelled.
“Melly! Melly! Melly!” chanted Spectra and Billy. Seconds later everyone else joined in.
“Melly! Melly! Melly!”
Melody stiffened. She was going to kill Candace… if she herself didn’t die of embarrassment first.
Candace grabbed Melody by the shoulders. Her green eyes were sincere. Loving, even. “You know what Mom always says? What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?” Melody clenched her fists as if knowing the answer and refusing to let it go. Candace winked. “Fear out!”
With the help of Billy, Spectra, and Shane, Candace pushed her sister forward. Sage extended a calloused hand to pull Melody up onto the stage.
“Nice pj’s.” The guitarist grinned, meaning it. “From the beginning?” she whispered, and then tossed Melody the mike.
Melody swallowed the Dr Pepper–flavored barf rising in her throat. Faces glared up at her. If only one of them had belonged to Jackson. They didn’t have the warm, loving expressions he would have. Instead, they seemed impatient, restless, and ready to revolt. Their skepticism rose over the strumming guitar, dismissing her as an amateur before she even started.
Melody closed her eyes. She could do this. She had done this. She had always dreamed of doing it again. All she had to do was ignore the talking, shut out their doubtful expressions, step back into the shower, and…
“I am doll eyes…”
Her voice was clean. No wheezing. No phlegm. Just pure and haunting.
Suddenly, Melody was back in Beverly Hills. Angry at the world for dismissing her because of a (massive) nose. Reduced to a body part instead of seen as a whole person. Raging in the shower while her family was out and about, enjoying their beauty.
Sage’s guitar was insistent. Melody gripped the microphone with both hands, embodying the energy of drums, the bass. Her indignation grew, gathering force like a spiraling tornado.
“Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, they really do…”
The music began to slow. The song was winding down. She adjusted her voice accordingly. From anger to vengeance to vulnerability to surrender.
“Someday, you will ache like I ache…”
With a final strum, the song ended. The room was silent. Melody opened her eyes.
Applause popped like a piñata.
She smiled humbly.
“Know any Nirvana?” Sage asked.
Melody nodded.
CHAPTER FOUR
LOOK WHAT THE BAT DRAGGED IN
Count Fabulous swooped down from the top of Lala’s black canopied coffin bed. Claws extended, he gnashed his tiny yellow teeth and headed straight for—
“Stop! It’s not a real mouse!” She caught her leathery pet before he touched down on her keypad and messed up her document. As she scratched his downy head, a string of bat drool dropped onto her pink silk pajamas.
“Ewwww!” Irish Emmy scampered off the ruffled throw pillows and smashed into the silver handles that lowered the top of Lala’s custom coffin bed. The hardening clay mask on her face fissured.
“Everyone drools in America, Emmy,” Blue joked, polishing a caramel-colored poodle’s toenails. “Look at Teeny Turner.” The aforementioned maltipoo pup, who smacked of the singer when her curls were combed out, was snoring peacefully. Beneath her muzzle a wet spot slowly spread across the black satin chaise.
Irish Emmy looked around at the fidgety rescue pets in stacked wire cages and dog crates lined with yellow-stained newspaper. “I know. It just feels like I’m a chiseler again back on the farm.”
“No need to grizzle, Sheila,” Blue said. “You’re behind the scenes of a ridgy-didgy rescue-animal fashion show. Ain’t nothing farmy about it.”
“Fur real,” Clawdeen added. “I thought you wanted to help us,” she said, referring to her video blog, Where There’s a Wolf, There’s a Way. They were about to film her DIY line of animal accessories, and Irish Emmy had volunteered to work the camera.
“Cheers, I do,” insisted Irish Emmy as she fanned the air with a quesadilla.
Lala wanted to tell her friends to keep it down. Between their endless unintelligible chatter and Blue’s bonzer playlist 7.0, it was impossible to concentrate. But the letter she was writing should have been done by now. What was supposed to take hours had taken days.
“Can’t we open a window?” Clawdeen asked, looking at the assortment of screened and tinted windows near the vaulted ceiling. “Teeny Turner’s paw-dicure will never dry in this humidity.” Her luxurious auburn fur was jeweled with droplets of mist from the frog-shaped humidifier that breathed steam over the terrarium for Kale and Sprout, two turtles with denim pockets glued to their shells.
“Kale has a cough,” Lala said. “The cold air is bad for him.” And me!
“Well, something’s gotta give,” Irish Emmy said. “The reek is right brutal in here.”
Lala turned away from her computer with a frustrated sigh. “Count Fabulous, open the top, please.”
The bat flew up to the ceiling and began poking his head against the pink-and-black-striped wallpaper. One by one, heart-shaped holes appeared. Beams of moonlight seeped in, and the stale air drained out.
“Cheers!” Irish Emmy clapped. “I’m feelin’ like a critter in a shoe box on show-’n’-tell day.”
“Clawd made them for me after a crow flew in the regular window and snatched Snake Gyllenhaal from his cage,” Lala said.
Irish Emmy pouted as though that was the most adorable thing she’d ever heard.
Someone knocked. Teeny Turner jumped off the bed and ran toward the door. Small beaded braids on her soft woolly ears bounced and clacked.
“Come in,” Lala called.
Uncle Vlad balanced on one foot and used the other to nudge open the door. The dog pounced and scratched at the toe of Vlad’s custom-designed purple-and-red-checked Vans. “Down, Mariah—or whatever your name is…. Make like Michael Jackson and beat it!” Dressed in bright plaid shorts and a turquoise Hollister sweater, he balanced a precarious stack of steaming quesadillas on a gold tray as if he were some kind of circus clown. Soda cans began to wobble. Blue jumped up to take the tray.
“Wow, I haven’t seen so much glitter since my Studio 54 days,” Vlad said, taking in his surroundings.
“Thanks.” Clawdeen smiled proudly.
Vlad strutted toward the computer to the beat of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls.” He leaned over Lala’s shoulder and tsked at the computer screen.
“I know, I know. But it’s only…” She peered up at the sky and evaluated the position of the moon. “Seven forty-five.” She glanced at Clawdeen, who confirmed with a nod. “I still have fifteen minutes.”
“C’mon, Sheila, give us a peek,” Blue said, patting Kitson, an orange kitten with a belly chain and magnetic clip-on hoops (engineered for sensitive feline ears).
“Yeah, make like BP oil and spill,” Uncle Vlad said.
Lala spun slowly in her chair, wishing she were alone with the animals, as she usually was. Dozens of moist eyes watched her lovingly, without judgment. Her animals didn’t give a hoot, a bark, or a squeak about college applications or leadership skills. They were grateful just because she cared. They never wanted to leave on business trips or cut phone calls short because they were late for a meeting. They were more humane than most humans.
“Hurry up,” Clawdeen urged, anxious to start filming her video blog.
Lala took a deep breath. If she had a beating heart, it would be racing. Where to begin? She considered taking them back to the phone call she had with her dad, and her online search for an extracurricular
activity, but her deadline was approaching, so she went for the bottom-line version. “Brigitte T’eau Shoes and Dally Sports Apparel have merged—”
“Pause!” Vlad lifted his palm like a crossing guard. “It’s not pronounced Two; it’s pronounced Toe.” He took off his tortoiseshell glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose like someone who couldn’t take it anymore. “If that mademoiselle heard you butcher her last name like pâté, you would be dead meat.”
The girls giggled.
“Sorry,” Lala said. “So… the French designer Brigitte Toe and Dally Sports Apparel merged to create a shoe that brings together fashion and function. It’s called the T’eau Dally.”
Uncle Vlad clapped. “J’adore! What’s next? Jimmy Choo and Reebok? They could call it ChooBok-a.”
Everyone laughed but Lala. She was too stressed for jokes. “Anyway, they’re holding a contest to find a school that brings together different kinds of people, the way they did with their shoes. And Merston would be perfect.”
Emmy cracked open an icy soda. “What’s the prize?”
“The winner becomes the first sponsored school in America.” Lala spun faster in her chair. “And gets a million dollars to upgrade.”
“More pools!” (Blue.)
“A grooming kiosk!” (Clawdeen.)
“Bang-on cafeteria food that doesn’t taste like donkey arse!” (Irish Emmy.)
“Wallpaper!” Uncle Vlad chimed in.
“And central heat,” Lala added. “Plus, they want a couple from the school to star in their national ad campaign.”
“You and Clawd would be ace!” Blue said, leaning against the foot of the coffin bed. The Worminator, a trembling yellow budgie, stuck his nose out from under the bed and pecked the carpet for errant seeds. Blue pinched some orange cheese off her quesadilla and waved it in front of his beak.
“Stop!” Lala shouted, grabbing the cheese. “He’s lactose-intolerant. Try the escarole.”
Uncle Vlad gestured toward the untouched crudités platter he’d dropped off earlier. “Glad someone’s enjoying it,” he mumbled.
“What about a new arts-and-crafts studio? With sewing machines and jewelry making…” Clawdeen was using purple and black nontoxic mascaras to paint hearts on a white bunny.
A bat-cave-sized pit opened in Lala’s stomach. Wait! she wanted to scream. I have to win first! She twirled a piece of hair around her left fang as if she were five again.
Vlad put his icy hand on her shoulder.
She forced herself to breathe slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth…Her dark eyes scanned the words on her computer screen. The thing with writing was that it was never done. Sentences could always be better. Words more lyrical. Grammar more good.
Blue fed another bite of escarole to the Worminator. “Let’s have a Captain Cook. We’ll tell ya if its bodgy.”
“Yeah, hurry up and read it to us,” Clawdeen said, smoothing the miniature orange-and-fuchsia sequined tulle skirt she’d made for Fuego’s sister, Caliente.
Lala turned down the music and cleared her throat. “Don’t laugh, okay?”
“Game up and read it already, will ya?” Irish Emmy said.
Lala sighed. “Okay, here goes….” She began to read the message aloud.
Dear Brigitte T’eau Shoes and Dally Sports Apparel,
My name is Lala. Short for Draculaura. I’m a huge fan of T’eau footwear, and I’m sure I would love Dally sportswear, only I’m not superathletic. My boyfriend, Clawd, is on the football team, though. And he has four pairs. Three with those spiky things on the bottom so he doesn’t slip, and a pair of cross-trainers for full-moon nights, when he has to run through the woods and hide so he doesn’t freak out the normies.
Anyway, we go to Merston High. You know, that school in Salem, Oregon, that’s been in the news lately because we have monsters? Just in case Ms. T’eau hasn’t heard of us (not because she’s clueless but because she lives in France, and I assume that country has its own news). I know we’d be perfect for your merger contest.
For example, I’m a vampire. (Don’t worry, you’re safe with me. Blood makes me faint. True story!) And my boyfriend is a werewolf. So is my best friend, Clawdeen. We are also friends with mummies, Frankenstein’s granddaughter, invisibles, sea monsters, a Siren, zombies, a split personality, a Gorgon, and a ton of normies (people like you, unless you’re hiding something, LOL).
We in the Regular Attribute Dodger (or RAD) community used to live in total hiding. But over the past six months, we have come out of the shoe closet (get it?) and merged with the normies at our school. We are just like your shoes, only alive—well, most of us anyway.
We would love to be the first sponsored high school in North America. We would put your logo on everything. Your sponsorship would really help us upgrade our school to accommodate the different needs of the RADs and would give others the courage to live openly. Oh, and I would be a fang-tastic leader.
Lala
P.S. I have the T’eau Mary Janes, in oxblood, from 2009. You really should consider bringing them back. The strap tore off my left one, and I’m dying for another pair. (Not literally. I can’t really die. Not anymore, at least. Which is another reason I’d make a great leader.)
“Brava!” Vlad dabbed his eyes with his ascot.
“Deadly fierce!” Irish Emmy cheered.
“Mad corker!” Blue shouted.
Clawdeen clapped her hands. “Perfect!” Lala wasn’t sure if Clawdeen was clapping because the letter was good or just because now they could focus on her video blog. “I knew it would be great, La! Send it.”
Lala read through the letter one more time. Her lips moved silently as her dark eyes tracked across the glowing screen. She glanced at Vlad. He winked. She sighed and kissed her fingertips, pressing them to the screen. “Okay, here goes…” This is for you, Dad. She hit Send and instantly felt like she could breathe again. You can’t say I didn’t try. Then she jumped up and grabbed some ribbons. “You guys start on the intro while Blue, Vlad, and I put the final touches on the models.”
Irish Emmy switched on her video camera and started pressing buttons on the side.
Clawdeen pulled out a compact and fluffed up her curls. She checked her teeth for berry-colored lip stain and then tossed the mirror into her red bag. Standing in front of the camera, she put a hand on her hip. “How do I look?”
Irish Emmy peered through the viewfinder. “Cracker. All we need’r lights.”
“Roger Dodger.” Blue adjusted a chrome task lamp and pointed the 150-watt bulb directly at Clawdeen’s face. Lala and Vlad squinted.
“Clawdeen in three… two…” Irish Emmy held up a single finger and then pointed at the host.
“Welcome to another episode of Where There’s a Wolf, There’s a Way. I’m Clawdeen Wolf and—” Teeny Turner barked.
“Still rolling,” Irish Emmy said. “I can edit that on my lappy. Carry on.”
Clawdeen stopped abruptly and froze, as if listening to a far-off sound.
Irish Emmy kept her camera cocked. “Keep firing away, lass.”
Clawdeen shook her head. “Sorry. I thought I heard—”
The desk lamp flickered.
Blue held Kale in her left hand and a paintbrush in her right. “What’s going on?” she asked as the turtle’s head drew back into his shell.
Squeaks came from a wire cage. Rat-a-tat screeched mournfully, his midnight-blue tail batting against the bars.
Clawdeen continued. “Teeny Turner was discovered wandering a road in Salem, Oregon. Her coat was dull and her claws were jagged until—”
“Cut!” Irish Emmy’s head popped up. “Lala, can you do something about that noise?” The animals were starting to mewl, whine, growl, and hiss.
Lala raced to soothe her cagey pets.
“Cheers. Okay, rolling in three… two…” The room went coffin-dark. Irish Emmy’s scream chilled the humid air. The desk lamp flickered. Clawdeen and Blue giggled nervously.
�
��Phooey on your energy-saving bulbs, Lala,” Vlad huffed. “They save energy because they’re never on.”
“It’s not the bulbs,” Lala mumbled, wondering whether the power was out in the T’eau Dally offices too. As long as her letter made it before the deadline—
The lights flashed back on.
“Right, then.” Irish Emmy’s voice was unsteady. “Still rolling.”
Clawdeen stood uncertainly in front of the camera, took a deep breath, and continued. “Tonight, Teeny Turner is wearing L’Oreal’s all-natural hair dye in russet red. An orange knit scarf, the same color as her paw polish and—”
Teeny whined and then shook off the scarf. It trailed behind her like toilet paper on a shoe as she squeezed under the bed.
Another thunder boom rolled across the house.
“Try the turtles,” Lala whispered.
Clawdeen faced the camera. “These red-eared turtles were left in an Oregon pond to freeze by someone who didn’t want to take care of them any longer….” Her voice was trembling.
“Ouch!” Blue dropped Kale back in his terrarium, where he promptly crawled into a plastic hollow log. “He bit me!”
“What’s going on?” Lala asked no one in particular. “They’ve never freaked out like this before.”
Teeny yelped from under the bed.
Clawdeen’s ears tensed. “Lala,” she began. “I think—”
“Daaaaad-dy’s home,” Vlad said.
CHAPTER FIVE
SPREE AT LAST!
The energy in the courtyard of the Salem Hills shopping center was electrifying. Frankie wanted to run through the pretzel-scented air screaming about the joy of living freely. She wanted to booty roll in the window of Forever 21—right between the green ribbed tank dress and the studded black mini—and show the passing shoppers her Lady Gaga “Starstruck” routine. She wanted the kids eating soft-serve on the fountain stairs and the lab-coated aestheticians straw-sucking Diet Cokes on their breaks to join in. She wanted to lead a flash mob of liberated dancers Glee-style.
Instead, she was strolling hand in hand with Brett past the three-tiered fountain, eating a passion fruit Pinkberry. Which was perfectly voltage; it just didn’t require much energy, and Frankie had kilowatts to burn.
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