Frankie tugged her seams.
Heath popped a Tums.
Jackson hand-fanned his face while searching the clearing for someone—probably Melody.
“Sounds like someone had a fight with Majorca,” Spectra told Billy.
Clawd sighed. “Looks like I’ll be working construction all summer.”
Mr. D went on to explain that the facility would be state-of-the-art. That classes and sports would cater to the RADs’ individual skills and needs. That this school would be a destination for RADs from all over the world—several had already enrolled, and some had already arrived in Salem. But all Lala could think about was the T’eau Dally contest. What was she supposed to do now? Forfeit?
“Any questions?” Mr. D asked.
Hands shot up.
“What about Double RAmies?” Frankie asked. “This separation could do some serious damage to the relationships.”
Heath nodded in agreement.
“You’re not leaving town. Just switching schools.”
“What if I still want to play football for Merston?” (Clawd.)
“Radcliffe needs you, son. You play for us now.”
“And basketball?” (Deuce.)
“We will have our own basketball team too.”
“Can we still compete against normie schools?” (Clawdeen.)
“If they are brave enough to welcome our superior teams into their leagues.”
“What happens to my swim scholarship?” (Blue.)
“And my track scholarship?” (Rocks.)
“Scholarships will no longer be necessary. We are currently developing a RAD college. Standards will be high, but tuition will be low.”
Several of the parents applauded.
“We tried so hard to fit in with the normies. This feels like a step backward.” (Clawdeen.)
Mr. D forced a patient smile. “You’ll still have time to socialize with the… others. Just not on school days or at weekend sporting events.”
Frankie sparked. “Do we have a choice?”
“I’d rather stay.”
“Me too.”
“Same.”
Mr. D’s expression hardened. A cold breeze blew. His hair did not. “Attendance at Radcliffe High is mandatory for all RADs.”
A collective gasp rattled the branches above.
“Meeting adjourned.”
“What about all the normies who worship me?” Cleo whispered to Lala. “They’ll be lost. And what about the contest? Me and Deuce are about to become spokesmodels. You have to do something!”
Lala knew Cleo was right. But what were her options? Conversation certainly wasn’t one. Dad, can you hear me now? How about now? Now? Their entire relationship was one massive dropped call.
“What about the contest?” Frankie called out.
“What contest?”
Dozens of eyes turned to Lala. He doesn’t know about the contest?
Lala became light-headed. Her insides felt floaty. She was about to have a major fang-xiety attack.
“Thanks to Lala, Merston’s a finalist in the T’eau Dally high school contest,” Frankie explained. “If we win, we’ll get to redo the whole school. And Brett and I get to—”
“Brett and I?” Cleo screeched. “More like Deuce and I.”
“What about me and Haylee?” Heath asked. “We’re in this too, you know. And we have a better chance than you because of our Double RAmie status.”
Cleo put her hands on her hips. “That term is so—”
“Enough!” snapped Mr. D. “Whatever this little contest is about, it’s best left for the normies to deal with. It’s time to start focusing on your own community.”
Little contest? LITTLE CONTEST?
Shaking and floaty, Lala stepped forward and blurted, “Merston is our community.”
Mr. D slowly turned around to face his daughter. Frankie sparked but stood firmly by Lala’s side.
“Not anymore,” he said with an eerie sense of calm. “You have a new school. You don’t need to compete for one in a sad little contest.” His dark eyes gripped her like a vise. “Withdraw.”
Lala shook her head. “You’ve been pressuring me to do something for my school all year. Now that I am, you want me to withdraw?”
“Lala!” Clawd urged. “Be careful—”
“You will do as I say.”
“Why?” Lala folded her arms across her chest. “You’ll just change your mind again.”
There were gasps from the crowd.
Mr. D stabbed the shovel into the ground. “Draculaura, wait for me in the parlor at home. Everyone else, this meeting is adjourned.”
Flames trembled in the glass-screened fireplace.
Lala sat on the edge of the daybed and rolled back her shoulders. She smoothed Count Fabulous’s pink bangs, lifted her chin, and then clasped her hands for warmth. The pose reminded her of the time her grimparents had commissioned Densilav Blega to paint her portrait. Only that time she’d been shaking with boredom, not anticipation.
Before leaving the clearing, Clawd had urged Lala to apologize to her father. Blue and Clawdeen wished her luck and begged her to call them the minute she could. Frankie offered to hide her in the Fab. But Lala refused. What could he possibly do? Kill her? Been there, bit that, 1,599 years ago.
Uncle Vlad appeared by her side, smelling like eucalyptus. “Another scoop?” he asked, spoon at the ready.
Lala rubbed her belly and shook her head. She wanted her father’s attention, but puking soybean pâté on his new jeans was hardly the way to get it. “Maybe some peppermint tea,” she said, handing Vlad her plate.
“A little too much comfort food?”
“A little too much food,” Lala said, peering out the window, “and not enough comfort.”
“I wish I could have been there to—ahhh… ahhh…”—Uncle Vlad set down his serving tray, dug into the pocket of his kimono, and thrust a silk hankie toward his nose—“chehhhhh!”
“Bless you.”
He reached under his glasses and dabbed the corners of his eyes. “I told him—no, I begged him—not to leave that vitamin C–sucking paper shredder in my health corner, but did he listen?” Vlad paused to blow his nose. “ ’Course not.” He blew again. “What do I know about fang shui? I only wrote the book and created the app. Not to mention the—”
Headlights fanned across the walls in the parlor. The town car crunched across the gravel driveway.
“I’ll be right back with your tea,” Vlad said, scooting off.
The front door creaked open. In the bedroom above, her pets scurried to their hiding places. Count Fabulous, still perched on her wrist, began to quake. Lala pressed her hand against his tapping heart. She wished there were a Rosetta Stone DVD that taught animal language, so she could tell her friends to relax. Her father’s bite was bad, but his bark was worse. Besides, he had no interest in them. He had no interest in anyone or anything other than his work. And yet there she was, century after century, stressing to impress.
Thwack!
Footsteps clicked against the marble floors. Clarity smacked Lala like a bat with a spastic wing. A wise old man once said, “Maybe he’s just not that into you.” And maybe that guy was right. So why not speak her mind? At this point, winning was the only thing left to lose.
Count Fabulous flapped away, his pink bang extensions falling to the rug. Lala leaned forward to get them but met with the shiny tip of her father’s shoe instead. He ground the bat bangs like a lit cigarette. What an ash!
“How dare you defy me,” he said, glaring down at her.
At least he was there, not in HD but three-D. Breathing the same firewood-scented air she was. It was the first time they had communicated in the parlor without a flat screen. The realization made her grin. And that made him batty.
“I am the superior!” he insisted, fangs bared. “When I tell you to do something, you are expected to do it. I am also your father—”
Ha!
“By bite,” she man
aged to mutter, “not blood.”
A gasp came from the hallway. It was followed by a sneeze.
Vlad had been eavesdropping. But neither Mr. D nor Lala seemed to care. Instead, they stood frozen, her claim whipping around the room like an icy wind.
A memory of searing hunger. A damp chill. Of being carried through snow… red droplets falling, marking a trail. Each chest-shattering cough reverberating though her body… spouting more blood… mounting a staircase… It was warmer now. The silver light of the moon was gone. Warm orange flickers guided them. She was placed on a bed. It smelled of coins and salty skin. The sheets, once satiny and smooth, were soaked in perspiration. Her mother moaning beside her, asking to see Laura…. I’m here, Mama, she wanted to say, but it was too hard to speak…. Mr. D insisting Laura was right there…. Bone-aching exhaustion… hearing her mother’s final gasp for air… silently begging her not to go… Mr. D racing into the room… calling her mother’s name… Alina… Alina… Alina… pulling her to him, as if she was more than just his housekeeper… as if he was less than Romanian royalty. A doctor announcing it was too late… Mr. D’s shoulders shaking… saying he wished he could have saved her, wished the snow hadn’t kept him from her… The doctor saying the girl didn’t have much longer… Mr. D leaning over her… wiping her sweat-drenched hair aside… An excruciating stab in her neck… paralyzing pressure… darkness… and then a new day. Her strength was back. Her mother was gone. And for some reason, all she could think about was sinking her odd-shaped teeth into a slab of raw steak.
Lala blinked back tears. “You never should have saved me.”
He poured himself a glass of five-hundred-year-old scotch.
“It’s obvious you never wanted a daughter.”
“Wrong!” he said, slamming his crystal glass down on the polished black side table.
“Coaster!” called Vlad.
Mr. D ignored him.
“You should have asked Mr. Stein to build you a robot. Someone who would do exactly what you wanted, exactly the way you wanted her to. Because I—”
“I don’t want a robot,” he interrupted. “But I also don’t want an unmotivated, disrespectful fang-banger who—”
Lala stomped her foot. “Unmotivated?! Because of me, Merston is one of three finalists in the whole country! I did that, Dad, me!” Lala beat her chest like an orangutan, desperate for him to see her. “And what’s a fang-banger? Is that even a thing?”
He lifted the glass to his lips and took a small sip of the amber liquid. “Radcliffe High will be good for you.”
Lala twisted her hair around her finger and tugged. “How do you know what’s good for me? You’re never even here! And when you are, it’s like you’re not—only worse, because you are, but you’re ignoring me.” Hearing those words aloud sharpened their meaning and stabbed Lala in the chest. “I had no idea you were even working on this school. No idea. Do you know how pathetic that is?”
“Well, I had no idea about your little contest,” he countered.
“It’s not little!” Lala snapped. “It happens to be national. And I tried to tell you about it, but you wouldn’t listen and—” Her throat tensed. “I thought you would be proud. That’s the only reason I entered in the first place.”
“I’ll be proud when you stop wasting time with your friends and you start getting serious about—”
“My friends are my family now. And for the last year, we’ve worked hard to become part of this community and—” Tears began to fall. Lala hid her face. In all her 1,599 years, he had never seen her cry.
Mr. D made no effort to console her. Instead, he stood back and watched her sob. “Your friends will never save you like I saved you.”
“They already have.”
He sighed and then checked his pocket watch. “The point is, no one should have to save you, Laura,” he said. It was the first time he’d used her real name since… “You need to be strong. Strong enough to shut out distractions and focus on what really matters.”
Lala wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The cold skin soothed her puffy lids. “Strength isn’t about keeping people out.” She sniffled. “It’s about letting them in.”
Mr. D pointed a finger at her. “You say that today. But what are you going to preach tomorrow? Or the next day? One minute it’s health food and animal makeovers, and the next it’s world peace!”
He’d noticed!
“You never follow through on anything. That’s why your cousins call you Count Slackula!”
They do?
Vlad snorted.
“It’s not funny!” she called.
Mr. D’s phone rang. He checked the screen and then answered. “Hold the line,” he told the caller. He turned back to his daughter. “I’ll make you a deal.”
Lala raised an eyebrow at him.
“I’m not raising you to be a quitter. So finish this little contest. When you lose, you’ll leave Merston and go to Radcliffe.”
“And if I win?”
Mr. D lifted an eyebrow.
“If I win?”
He covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “You stay.”
Hmmm. Not bad for a fang-banger.
LOST CHAPTER
(WHOSE UNLUCKY NUMBER SHALL GO UNMENTIONED)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
No longer home to a paper factory, the warehouse had been magically transformed into a sold-out performance venue. Amid blinding red lights, whistle-laced applause, and a mass of unfamiliar faces, Melody followed her bandmates onto the boot-scuffed stage.
Cici strapped a silver bass over her CHICKS WITH PICKS tee. Sage lifted her doodle-covered guitar. Nine-Point-Five raised her nail polish–painted sticks toward the tin ceiling. Her Pikachu tank slipped up, and her belly roll plopped down. The audience applauded.
Melody stepped toward the mike. Grabbed it by its cold steely stem. Looked down at her pink Converse. Licked her dry lips. Searched for the nearest exit.
It was too late to run. Instead, she had to quiet her mind. But how? It felt as though it had been plugged into Sage’s amp. The Goddesses had taken turns consoling her. Reminding her that these things happen. That no matter what goes down, they have each other now. But nothing changed the fact that the sound check had run long. That she had chosen the band over the RAD meeting. That she had broken a promise to Jackson. That she wished she were sorry but she wasn’t. That—
“One, two, three, four!” Nine-Point-Five beat the opening of Fiona Apple’s “Sleep to Dream.” The others joined in. Melody closed her eyes. She began to sing. Everything but the music fell away.
Luscious Jackson, Soundgarden, and even Britney (tweaked until cool, of course). Nothing but blink-fast images remained. Sweat-soaked girls waving their arms in the air… college guys gazing at her… others singing along… cell phone flames held high… Candace and Spectra blowing her kisses… Candace on Billy’s shoulders… people freaking because she appeared to be levitating… Jackson off to the side with his hand fan… happy that he came.
But most of what Melody experienced during the fifty-five-minute set was a feeling. Floating? Flying? No. It was more like soaring. Like the old warehouse, she, too, had been magically transformed.
The show was over and the spell had been broken. DJ Gold Chedda began blasting Pitbull for the late-night crowd—aka, those too cheap to pay a live-music cover. And Melody was back to being just another girl trying to make things right with her boyfriend.
Crossing the obstacle-ridden dance floor felt more like being a contestant on Wipeout. And then she spotted Jackson by the Monster Energy drink bar.
“Jackson!”
“Hey!” A flamboyant guy grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. “Don’t be yelling and ruining that voice, girl.” His clammy hand soaked through her breath-strip-thin black tee. Candace had paid $175 for the hole-filled rag. But since it looked as if it had been pulled off a hitchhiker, Melody had agreed to wear it. Now, thanks to the
Clam Man, it smelled hitchhiker-y too. “Your voice is the atom!”
Melody backed away.
“You know, the bomb?”
“Thanks,” she said politely. “I-I just have to find someone, so…”
“No worries,” he said, applauding as she wiggled deeper into the dancing crowd.
“Your voice is sick!” cried a girl as a boy was grinding against her thigh.
“Love the feathers!” called out another girl, mid-twirl.
“Biggest fan!” yelled a shirtless male with a tattoo of Gwen Stefani on his chest.
“Join us.” A girl with white-blond hair and short bangs grabbed Melody by the wrist and pulled her into the rump-shaking circle. Hands above her head, she gave herself into the music, surrendering to the strobing lights and the crush of bodies for a full minute before tearing herself away. Jackson first, euphoria later.
Melody, caught between two full-bottomed girls in fishnets and short shorts, was bumped forward like a pinball. She crashed into a guy wearing dog tags and a white tank. He pulled her toward his nautical-scented chest and began swiveling his hips as if riding the open seas.
“Awww, come awn!” Melody winced, shoving him away. But he refused to let her go.
“Come on, sing for me.”
“Ew!” she said, struggling to free her wrist. His grip was strong but effortless, as if he were holding a string of helium balloons bobbing in the breeze.
Melody began to panic. She searched the crowd for a familiar face and finally saw Jackson. He was standing off to the side of the floor, shifting from side to side, clenching his fists in frustration while she struggled. She shot him a Save me! glare. He waved his hand fan. Short for I would if I could but I’ll sweat so I won’t. Instead, he tapped his fingers against his thumb as if working a hand puppet and signaled her to use her voice.
Oh yeah!
Just as Melody was about to tell the fiend Marine to go pee his pants and then run home sucking his thumb, someone lifted her up and ran her off the dance floor. His body was stone-cold and solid. If Jackson was an udon noodle, this guy was manicotti—al dente.
He placed her down gently by the Monster Energy drink bar. “Hi, I’m G—”
Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever Page 10