Brett was leaning against a poster-covered wall, waiting for Frankie, when she came out into the hallway. He was wearing the new robin’s-egg blue oxford she’d bought for him. It was the last thing anyone would expect to see with his worn black motorcycle jacket and hiking boots. Yes, he too was fusing like a light box, mashing like sweet potatoes, blending like a smoothie.
“There’s my peanut butter cup,” he joked.
Frankie beamed. Haylee’s platform was full of substance, Cleo’s full of ancient spells. But Stein and Redding had the image down. This was a print campaign, for bolt’s sake. What else was there?
A gaggle of passing girls slowed to check their outfits.
“T’eau-Dally representing Merston’s mix!” Frankie told them.
Once the girls were gone, Brett muttered, “You don’t think we’re going to win this just because we look like Elton John, do you?”
“Brett, image is everything. Look at the Real Housewives of OC, DC, and NYC. They’re famous because of their voltage clothes and their fancy houses.”
Brett rolled his eyes. “And the fact that they try to claw one another’s eyes out.”
Frankie groaned in frustration. “All I’m saying is that this is like a game.”
“Um, look.” Brett pointed to the hand-lettered papyrus banner that stretched from one side of the sophomores’ lockers to the other like a beige ecofriendly rainbow.
Frankie groaned. “And it looks like the game just changed.”
THURSDAY, JUNE 16
Frankie’s joints ached. Her fingertips were blistered. Her portable amp purse reeked of flat-ironed Barbie hair. She flopped onto her metal operating table and pulled the fleece-covered electromagnetic blanket over her shoulders. She was beat. Drained. Exhausted. Exhilarated. And finally on her way to the winner’s circle.
Rolling onto her side, she looked into the glass aquarium by her bed. “You guys were so right,” she told the Glitterati. “It was a megawatt success.” Five white rats sprinkled with pink-and-orange glitter stared back, whiskers twitching as if to say, We told you so.
“I must have zapped two hundred cell phones today. Those things will hold a charge for weeks. That’s got to be good for major votes.” She yawned. Ghostface Killah rose to his hind legs and scratched at the glass with pink paws. I wish I could have helped you, he tried to convey.
“Len Walsh’s car battery died too. So I jump-started it. That alone was probably worth twenty votes.”
There was a light rap on the door.
“Come in,” Frankie called.
A sliver of light entered the room and then splayed out like a paper fan. “I thought I heard voices. What are you still doing up?” asked her mother. She sat on the edge of the table and stroked her daughter’s hair. Frankie inhaled Viveka’s rose-scented night cream.
“I was telling the Glitterati about the contest,” she said, using the last of her energy to roll onto her back.
“How’s it going?”
Frankie yawned. “I’m drained.”
“Remind me why it’s so important to be this ‘It Couple,’ ” her mother said.
“You get to be in ads and stuff,” Frankie answered. “Like real models.”
“And…?” asked her mother, as though that wasn’t enough.
“And what?”
“And what’s so great about that?” Viveka’s violet eyes were wide and expectant, ready to take in Frankie’s answer without judgment.
“Everyone wants to be a model,” Frankie tried. The words came out sounding foreign.
“Why?” asked her mother, wanting to understand.
“Because.”
Viveka waited.
“Because being a model means you’re pretty and—” She stopped. That couldn’t be the reason, could it? She dug deeper. “Brett and I would represent the school.”
“So, it’s more like a political thing?”
“Yeah,” Frankie said. That sounded right.
Viveka considered this for a minute. “I thought you were over politics and just into having fun.”
“I was,” Frankie said, pulling the covers higher. “I didn’t think it would be this much work.”
The Glitterati were sleeping now, curled up and breathing deeply. The glitter on their backs glinted from the light in the hallway.
“You’ve stood up for causes plenty of times. You know how much work that can be.”
“Yeah.” Frankie turned away. “But that didn’t feel like work.”
“It never does when it’s something you believe in,” her mother said. She punctuated Frankie’s forehead with a kiss. She had made her point. The end.
Frankie wanted to explain that she did believe in what she was doing. That winning was the only hard part. That the fun would kick in after that. That being the T’eau Dally High couple would mean photo shoots with Brett. Access to designer shoes and clothes. Inevitable discounts at the mall. More followers on Twitter. Limitless popularity… But how did you explain all that to a science professor? Instead, Frankie kissed her mother back and curled into fetal.
She drifted to sleep soothed by the memory of Cleo’s response to her charging station. The Nile-long line had made the royal gasp; the audible suction had the force of a Dyson vacuum cleaner. Any stronger and her pita chips would have risen off their plate and stuck to her lip gloss. Haylee, on the other hand, said nothing. She simply dropped her basket of individually wrapped “Oat for Me” bars and stared.
Whoever said success is sweet was wrong. It’s mint.
FRIDAY, JUNE 17
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” cried Grace Collard.
Marc Beane kept stabbing her in the chest. The Canon stalked him like the barrel of a sniper’s rifle. But he blocked it out. Being shot was the least of Marc’s concerns. He’d come for blood. “The redder, the better, the deader,” he shouted over Grace’s shrieks.
The eye on the Canon was fixed on her now. “Help me!” she cried.
“And… cut!” Brett called from behind the lens. The audience burst into applause.
“That was killer!” panted Marc, admiring the haunted-castle backdrop, which was now splattered with red syrup.
“You know, you guys can hang out in my horror-movie shed anytime you want. I have all the Screams.” Brett leaned closer to Marc and winked. “You can snuggle during the scary parts.”
Frankie giggled as she offered a pair of authentic bolt earrings to Grace as a parting gift.
“These are so wattage!” The girl shrieked all over again.
Wattage? How voltage!
Sorting bolts, Frankie peered across the cafeteria, evaluating her competition. Cleo was hard at work “Binding Binders”—a fancy way of saying wrapping school supplies in linen. Deuce was by her side winning the hearts and votes of practical jokers by taking off his glasses and turning unsuspecting victims’ homework to stone. Haylee was set up over by the cheerleaders’ table, offering free tutoring and essay revision while Heath chugged soda and burped fire on request.
Someone tapped Frankie on the shoulder. “Make me an ace belly bolt, willya?” asked Blue with a bubbly smile. The linen-wrapped bottle of hand cream poking out of her canvas tote tugged at Frankie’s heart space. Whose side is she on?
“Aww, come on, Sheila, don’t be cross,” Blue said, her eyes beaming sincerity. “We’re all cobbers here. I can’t choose. Besides, only a square takes sides, right?”
Frankie considered this and then grinned. “And only a star would see your point,” she said, offering up the shiny peg and her brightest smile.
“Bonzer!” said Blue, twisting it into her belly button.
“Next!”
“I’ll have what m’lass just had,” said Irish Emmy.
For the next forty-three minutes, Frankie attached her father’s spare bolts to fingernails, earlobes, necks, noses, wrists, and an invisible forehead (Billy’s!). The line in front of her table was longer than Cleo’s and Haylee’s combined. And Brett was cranking out movies fas
ter than Jennifer Aniston. Their approval rating was in the Obama-got-Osama range. Everything was positively wattage!
And then the bolts ran out.
“Quick,” Brett said, handing Frankie his camera. “I need a charge.”
Drained from the day before, Frankie’s electric current flowed like expired OPI. Thick and slow, sticky and clumpy, the reboot was taking forever.
“Bolts are for dolts! Horror is a snorer!” Cleo called. “Come and design your own jewelry!”
Deuce was standing behind a table filled with scissors, paper scraps, and dozens of nail polish bottles. Voters were invited to cut their own shapes, and then Deuce would turn them into stone charms. If they wanted something more vibrant than the rock’s natural gray color, they were invited to polish their creation with Chanel’s latest summer palette. Deuce and Cleo were surrounded. All that remained in the Stein-Redding corner were syrup-stained masks, a semicharged camera, an empty box, and defeat. The crowd had definitely bolted.
Brett began packing up. Frankie began picking her seams. So what if her body fell apart? Her heart space was already broken—
“Stop it!” said a floating forehead bolt. Billy.
“Stop what?” asked Frankie, voice pinched, shoulders slumped.
“Stop telling yourself this was a big waste of time. Or that you don’t stand a chance. Or that you’re going to give up and go shopping… again!”
Frankie couldn’t help grinning. He had her pegged like a pup tent.
“I really wanted to win this.” I’m so tired of failing.
“It’s not over yet,” he said.
Frankie glanced at the fandemonium surrounding Cleo and Deuce. “Sure looks like it.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” he said. And then—hissssssss—Billy sprayed his face with Spectra’s citrus-scented visibility mist. The bolt was stuck to the tip of his nose, not his forehead. “See?”
Frankie giggled.
“Cleo may be binding, but you’ve got this thing wrapped.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked.
“I just nose it,” Billy said, and then began to fade. Hope, however, lingered with Frankie for the rest of the day.
TO: Jackson
June 16, 6:07 PM
MELODY: GUESS WHAT?
TO: Melody
June 16, 6:07 PM
JACKSON: CHICKEN BUTT?
TO: Jackson
June 16, 6:08 PM
MELODY: U R SUCH A DORK!
TO: Melody
June 16, 6:09 PM
JACKSON: U KNOW U LOVE IT. WHAT’S UP?
TO: Jackson
June 16, 6:10 PM
MELODY: SAGE JUST CALLED. U R NOW TEXTING THE OFFICIAL LEAD SINGER OF GRUNGE GODDESS!!!!!!!!!!!
TO: Melody
June 16, 6:12 PM
JACKSON: I KNEW YOU’D GET IT!!!
TO: Jackson
June 16, 6:12 PM
MELODY: FIRST GIG 2MORROW NITE.
TO: Melody
June 16, 6:13 PM
JACKSON: AFTER THE RAD MTG?
TO: Jackson
June 16, 6:14 PM
MELODY: CRAP. TOTALLY FORGOT. WHAT TIME IS IT?
TO: Melody
June 16, 6:14 PM
JACKSON: 7 P
TO: Jackson
June 16, 6:15 PM
MELODY: SOUND CHECK AT 6:30. I’LL TRY TO POP BY AFTER.
TO: Melody
June 16, 6:16 PM
JACKSON: TRY? POP? U HAVE TO! MR. D CALLED IT.
TO: Jackson
June 16, 6:17 PM
MELODY: K.
TO: Melody
June 16, 6:17 PM
JACKSON: PROMISE?
TO: Jackson
June 16, 6:18 PM
MELODY: YUP. THEN MY SHOW AFTER?
TO: Melody
June 16, 6:18 PM
JACKSON: PROMISE.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FRIDAY NIGHT FIGHTS
The last rays of sunshine disappeared behind the maples, and the clearing was left in the dark, just like the RADs who waited for Mr. D to make his announcement. Tall and silent as the trees that surrounded them, they stood united in their commitment to weather the storms that—
Smack!
Lala flattened a mosquito against Clawd’s cheek. “No one bites my guy but me,” she said, gnashing her fangs playfully. She flicked the poor-man’s bloodsucker to the ground with an accomplished grin.
“Thanks,” Clawd mumbled, “but that biter’s the least of my worries.”
“I know.” Lala sighed, releasing her happy-girl act into the crisp night air. The truth was, she hated how stressed everyone was. Double hated that her father was the reason for it. And triple hated that she was just as clueless as they were. Lala shivered. Would it have killed her father to meet at RIP? Or had he not noticed that his daughter was heat-challenged? Did he even know he had a daughter?
Clawdeen linked her arm through Lala’s pink peacoat. She smelled like blackberries. “Still can’t say, huh?”
Lala zipped her chattering lips and turned away.
It had been h-e-double-l acting as if she were in the know. But what choice did she have? He was always locked in his office, talking in his headset, or tanning.
Brrrrap.
Heath burped a fireball and everyone gathered around. Not as much for the heat as the distraction. One by one, parents and friends stole glances at Lala, eyebrows raised with curiosity, hoping for some sort of hint. She responded with pursed lips and a shrug…. I would if I could. Blue stayed off to the side, struggling to access her Cleo-wrapped moisturizer. Her scales were starting to crack. Lala knew how they felt.
Where is he?
Jackson tapped Lala on the shoulder. His eyes were hidden behind the flames reflected in his glasses. “Do you know—?”
“I can’t talk about it, okay!”
Jackson took a defensive step back. “Fine, I’ll ask someone else.”
“Ask me,” Spectra said from somewhere nearby. “I know everything.”
He hesitated for a second and then sighed in a nothing-to-lose sort of way. “Do you know where Melody is?”
Oops.
“Sure do,” said the violet-scented voice. “I heard she got grounded for trashing her father’s motorcycle.”
Jackson scoffed. “Her father doesn’t have a motorcycle.”
“Not anymore,” Spectra said. “That’s why he’s so mad. He loved that thing more than he loved his own son.”
“He doesn’t have a—” Jackson paused. “Forget it.”
A sudden breeze sent the fire dancing. Maddy Gorgon quickly turned it to stone before its embers spread. Everything felt cold again. Darkness had returned. Everyone was still.
Then the sound of crunching leaves, slow and measured, grew closer.
The superior had arrived.
Lala’s heart began to speed. Clawd, sensing her anxiety (or maybe his own), allowed his arm to graze hers in public. An owl hooted. Ghoulia groaned.
“The time is nigh…”—from somewhere in the tall shadows, Mr. D’s voice was low and controlled, his Eastern European accent a melodic embellishment—“… to take the final step toward securing our bloodlines.”
He stepped into the moonlight. Hands at his sides, shoulders back, black eyes shifting from one face to the next, Mr. D appeared before his people with the stateliness of a king. If Lala hadn’t felt so dejected, she might have been proud.
“As many of our elders know, we are standing on sacred ground….”
Sacred? Does he mean scared? Is this a language-barrier thing?
Just as confused, Lala’s friends exchanged glances.
“It was in this clearing, seventy normie years ago, that we gathered to seek refuge from our enemies. Afraid to show our faces, we dug caverns and went underground, literally. Our first tombs, coffins, labs, caves… they’re all beneath us, and thanks to these changing times, they are behind us.”
“Awoooooooooo!” howled the
Wolfs. Others applauded. Clawdeen curtsied.
Mr. D held up a pale palm. The clearing fell silent. “Normies and RADs are now living in harmony. Some are even dating.”
More applause. Frankie and Heath smiled proudly. Mr. D’s palm silenced them again.
“Toleration is sublime. But integration? Assimilation? Those can be toxic. Allow them to enter our systems, and they will corrupt our DNA, weaken our bloodlines, annihilate the very things that make us special… that make us RADs… that make us superior.”
Superior?
Ghoulia groaned again.
“Now that we are free, we can launch new agendas! Teach our ways! Harness our powers! Propagate the race!”
“Seems like the whole congratulations thing was a bit of a porky pie,” Blue whispered.
If that meant it was a long shot, Lala couldn’t have agreed more.
Mr. D snapped his fingers. Muscles appeared by his side with a gold-plated shovel. The superior thanked his aide with a dismissive nod and lifted the shovel high. “Which is why, with the help of Ram de Nile and Wolf Construction, I have purchased this land so I may bring you, and all future RAD generations, Radcliffe High!” He jammed the shovel into the loamy earth and scooped up a pile of dirt. “Construction has officially begun!”
Many of the parents cheered. Most of the kids didn’t. Instead, they turned to Lala, as if she might be able to make sense of her father’s bewildering announcement.
“Why didn’t my dad tell me about this?” Clawd mumbled.
Blue arched her brows in an Is this fair dinkum? sort of way.
I seriously cannot believe you kept this from me, Cleo said with a single squint.
Your father knew about it. He bought the land. Blame him! Lala thought as she glared at Ram de Nile.
I seriously cannot believe you kept this from me and Cleo, the spiked fur on the back of Clawdeen’s neck seemed to say.
Your father knew about it. He’s in charge of construction. Blame him! Lala thought as she glared at Clawrk Wolf.
Is Clawd touching your arm in public? Ghoulia managed to ask with a simple smirk.
Yes, Ghouls, he’s touching my arm in public. And that’s about all I know, Lala conveyed with a nod.
“Say good-bye to Merston High,” Mr. D said. “Starting this September, you will be attending the first RAD-only private school.”
Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever Page 9