“Good to know,” Jackson said, swiping a finger across his iPhone. “Mind if we take five while I update my status on Facebook?”
“Ha! Does this mean you’re single?” Dickie asked Melody.
Brigitte tsk-tsked and patted Melody’s shoulder.
“I guess it does,” she said to Jackson.
“Don’t act so surprised. It was your idea.”
“Which part? Leaving me outside a bar in the middle of the night or making me feel guilty for following my dream?”
“Only you can make you feel guilty,” Jackson said smugly.
“And only you would say something that pretentious,” Melody fired back.
Lala’s dark eyes were wide with horror. “How ’bout we move along and finish the tour, Jackson?”
“Sounds great,” he barked, and then took off down the hall. Lala and Brigitte hurried to catch him. Dickie shoulder-checked Melody into the wall. “Call me when you graduate college.” He winked and then swish-swished away in all his nylon glory.
Frothing with anger, Melody couldn’t imagine sitting still for a Chan lecture. Instead, she hurried to her locker and opened it just so she could kick it shut again. And then she did it again. And again. And—
Ping.
Melody fumbled to fish her phone from the pocket of her cutoffs. Finally, an apology.
TO: Melody
June 22, 10:17 AM
GRANITE: MEET ME ON THE ROOF.
TO: Granite
June 22, 10:17 AM
MELODY: LOVE TO.
The metal security door had slammed shut behind her. A warm wind whipped her ponytail and sent feathers scattering across the concrete roof. Did Jackson seriously think this was her fault?
“Hey, you,” called Granite, leaning against the humming air-conditioning unit.
Melody hurried toward him, grateful for the distraction.
“Look,” he said, taking her hand and walking her to the edge. His dark gray pocket tee brought out the green in his stone-colored eyes. Her heart began to speed again. “Everything looks so different up here.” He pointed his sinewy forearm toward the Riverfront. The carousel spun in a slow circle like a music box. Behind it, the Willamette River ran smooth as a hot caramel stream.
“It’s like a model city,” she said as people scurried down Main Street like Guatemalan worry dolls. She tried to imagine what they might be stressing about. Boyfriends? Jobs? Family? The little things seemed less important from this perspective. “I can’t believe I’ve never been up here before.”
“Gargoyles always have a penthouse view. But you”—he turned to face her—“you’ve wasted so much time trapped in this box.” He gestured to the building beneath their feet. “Once you go high, you begin to realize that nothing can hold you down.”
“Well, there is gravity,” she joked.
He rolled his eyes playfully and then took her hand. “You have hundreds of choices. Millions of options. You just have to step outside and look around.”
This time Melody allowed herself to look deep into Granite’s eyes. Maybe he was right. She did feel stuck lately—between school and Leadfeather, Camp Crescendo and the tour, Jackson and Gra—
He hooked his index finger through her belt loop and tugged her closer. She tucked her hair behind her ears. He ran a finger down her cheek and lifted her chin. His eyes reflected the summer sun like pebbles in a clear mountain stream. He leaned closer. Melody did not.
I don’t do things like this. Candace does. I don’t play games. I don’t hook up on rooftops. Ultimatums don’t lead to make-outs. Love does. And I don’t love Granite. I love Jackson.…
But I like Granite. I like him a lot. We both share a passion for music and have lived most of our lives on the fringes, surrounded by the action but rarely a part of it. He is hot. I have wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Jackson has updated his status to single and… And somehow they found each other.
Granite’s kiss was strong and assured, passionate and consuming. Honking horns from the traffic below riffed with her thumping heart, creating what she’d come to think of as “their song.” She and Jackson were officially done. She was moving on. This kiss was good. Really good. Tingly, curl-your-toes satisfying. But it was different….
Making out with Granite was like tossing back a hot espresso. With Jackson it was more like sipping a white chocolate mocha. By a fireplace. Under a soft blanket and—
Bam!
The metal door slammed again. Melody instinctively pulled back and opened her eyes. Jackson, Lala, Brigitte, and Dickie were standing by the open door.
“Looks like this bird has flown the nest,” Dickie announced.
Lala covered her mouth with both hands. Brigitte flashed Melody a French thumbs-up.
Jackson powered up his hand fan and turned away. “Over here is where we’ll put the T’eau Dally High observation deck,” he said, leading them to the north edge of the building, taking the warmth of the day with him.
Granite brushed the hair off her face and smiled. “Looks like everyone’s moved on.” He pulled her in for another kiss.
Once again, she wasn’t sure if she should let him.
And then she kissed him back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
T’EAU-DALLY STONED
Bite by bite, Lala told herself as she led her guests down from the rooftop. Sadly, the only three words that could calm her now would be “Congratulations, you won.” But Dickie would fit into Brigitte’s faux-leather pants before that ever happened. Frankie, their spokesmodel, wasn’t answering her texts, the gym looked like an abandoned construction site, and Jackson and Melody were more drama than daytime TV. Oh, and then there was the whole bumping-into-the-clients-and-spilling-hot-coffee-all-over-them incident. And the none-of-this-would-have-happened-if-you-didn’t-show-up-a-day-early fiasco. The only thing left to do now was hope that her father hadn’t moved the Merston yearbook out of her success space. Assuming fang shui even worked.
“No, really,” Jackson told Brigitte, his voice vibrating against the whirring blades of his hand fan. “I’m fine. It was time to move on anyway. We were drifting.”
Dickie smacked him on the back. “Ha! Spoken like a true player.”
Jackson tried to flash a winning smile. It looked like he was holding in barf.
What’s more shocking? Lala wondered. The fact that the iconic Dickie Dally turned out to be a waddling, carb-loaded perv? Or that he and Brigitte were still there?
Once they reached the first floor, Brigitte placed her slender arm around Jackson’s shoulder. “In Paris, kissing eez like talking. Eez not, how you say… eh… biggie.”
“Good to know,” Jackson mumbled. And then to Lala, “Now where?”
She fired off a quick text to Clawd asking how everything was going in the gym. He was heading to football practice but assured her that all was well, so she decided to make it her next stop. Besides, they had been everywhere else.
“Ready to check out the gym,” Lala said, trying to bring the focus back to the contest. Not that she didn’t feel sorry for Jackson, but there would be plenty of time for moping when this was over. Especially if she couldn’t find… Frankie!
Finally!
She was running toward them, chasing Cleo down the empty hall. Her hair was a tangled mess, and she was dressed in a—
“Is that green, uh, person wearing a robe?” Dickie asked, his usual bravado dialed down.
“She needs deep condition for zee hairs,” Brigitte said, patting her own smooth strands.
Lala was too stunned to respond. Homegirl looked homeless.
“I told you,” Cleo shouted, whipping the shoes back at Frankie. “I don’t want them! They’re rashy!” The T’eau Dallys smashed into a locker. What the fang was going on? This was like watching fashion week on mute.
“What eez rashy?” Brigitte asked Dickie.
“Time out!” Dickie made a T with his hands. “Did anyone see her throw those?”
The
floor seemed to shift beneath Lala’s feet. With any luck, it would open up and swallow her, making it impossible to see her father’s face when he laughed at her colossal failure.
Cleo stormed by. “Stop!” Dickie commanded.
Be nice, Cleo. Be nice.
“ ’Scuse me?” the royal said.
If Lala had a white flag of surrender, she would have started to wave it.
“You’ve got quite an arm for a little lady.”
Cleo scanned his stained white shirt with disgust and then stared at his third-trimester belly. “And you’ve got quite a—”
“So!” Lala interjected. “I’d like you to meet—”
Brigitte clutched Frankie’s chin and turned it one way and the other. “Qui a fabriqué vos accessoirs?” Brigitte pinched the bolts and pulled. “Who makes?”
“Owie!” Frankie swatted the woman’s hand away with an audible smack. “That hurts.”
“Who eez Zat Hurts? An American designer?” Brigitte asked.
Frankie ran back to retrieve the boots. She stuffed them into Cleo’s bag while Dickie was telling her about his grandma Marion, who could pitch a no-hitter while making chutney.
Cleo pulled the boots back out of her bag. “I said—”
“Wait!” Frankie leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. The more she said, the bigger Cleo’s smile grew. Her shoulders rolled back, and her chest puffed out.
What is going on?
Lala glared at Jackson, hoping for some insight. He shrugged like someone who couldn’t possibly care less.
“Frankie,” Lala said, “can I talk to you by the water fountain for a minute?”
“Sure.” Frankie smiled.
“What’s going on?” Lala hissed. “I’ve been trying to find you all afternoon! Where’s Brett? Why do you look like this? And why are you giving Cleo the shoes? No, wait, why are you throwing them?”
Frankie’s eyes watered. “I didn’t win. It was a miscount. Cleo and Deuce are the real winners.”
“What?!”
Dickie and Brigitte turned.
Lala lowered her voice. “What are you talking about?”
“High Dam! They pinch!” Cleo shouted, teetering through the hall like someone who’d peed her pants. She had the designer shoes on her feet. “It’s like they have teeth.”
Just as she was about to fall, Dickie lunged forward and caught her. She swatted his arm like a Nile fly. “Who the ka are you, anyway?”
Lala lowered herself to the ground. That way when it opened up, she’d be that much closer to gone.
“Ha!” Dickie’s booming voice echoed. He pointed to the TOE DALLY HIGH GYM sign. “Betcha one of those zombies did that.” He slapped his knee. “Gotta use those guys in a helmet commercial. Like, wear a Dally helmet or you might end up brain dead.”
Good thing Ghoulia wasn’t there. It was also a good thing that he hadn’t ruled Merston out. It was a great sign. (Much better than the one he was laughing at.)
But the instant Lala saw the progress, or lack thereof, she began to panic again. Jackson’s mural was covered by a splattered drop cloth. Overturned cans of paint flowed toward them like serpents’ tongues.
“As soon as Jackson gets back with Deuce, he’ll unveil the new T’eau Dally High school crest,” Lala said, eager to share something positive. Because Cleo’s announcement that she had to go wrap her blisters in linen wasn’t quite cutting it. Luckily, Dickie thought she was joking, and Brigitte was struggling through the language barrier. At least the catwalk looked complete. Thank gawd for Clawd.
“In just a few minutes, our It Couple will walk across this stage and model—” Oh no! Lala could see the crack in the board. It was still there. Running right down the middle of the plywood.
“Deenie?” Lala called, struggling to sound calm.
Clawdeen scrambled out, barefoot, from under the bleachers. She was wearing the crooked T’eau Dally shorts. And a gray zip-up hoodie that said T’EAU on the left side. Her auburn hair, overgrown and wild, made her look like a wilted sunflower.
Brigitte raised a dark eyebrow and pursed her lips. “Mon dieu!” She charged toward Clawdeen like a lion to a gazelle. Clawdeen froze.
“She’s fixing it,” Lala tried, but it was too late. Brigitte’s hands were reaching for Clawdeen’s neck.
“Eeez zat real fur?”
Clawdeen nodded, shrinking back.
“What is with French chicks and body hair?” Dickie asked, thumbing through his text messages.
Brigitte stepped forward and tugged. “Ils sont tellement doux.” She tugged again. “You grow on your skin, n’est-ce pas? Like wild bist.”
“Clawdeen is a werewolf,” Lala said proudly. “I told you about her in my letter. Deenie, this is Brigitte T’eau, from—”
“Isn’t she supposed to be here tomorrow?”
“Yes, they showed up a day early and are making my life miserable,” Lala whispered in a way that only Clawdeen and her super ears could hear. “Please just go with this. It’s our only chance.”
Clawdeen rolled her yellow-brown eyes in a you-owe-me sort of way.
Lala nodded. I promise.
Brigitte pulled nail clippers from her bag and snipped off a sample as Clawdeen whimpered. “Weel do a whole weenter boots line with theez furs. We call them Outer Were, like Werewolf, non?”
“Non,” Clawdeen growled. It was a good thing her overprotective brothers weren’t around to hear this.
“Um, actually, Ms. T’eau, real fur isn’t popular here,” Lala said.
Brigitte threw back her head and laughed. “Mais, non!”
“Same thing with leather. But your faux looks T’eau-tally awesome.” She tried softening the blow by referencing Brigitte’s fake-leather tank and leather pants.
“Faux?” Brigitte gasped. “Deez is not faux! I say non to faux.”
Lala and Clawdeen exchanged a glance. “But your shoes. The new co-design. The straps are synthetic, right?”
“Synthetic? Ha!” Dickie said, dropping his phone back in its holster. “Our shoes are made from kangaroo.”
What?!
“Real kangaroo?”
“Just zee bébé,” Brigitte said. “How you say, jolie?”
“Joey,” Dickie corrected her.
Lala’s pulse began to hop. They had to be joking.
“Touch,” he said, offering his tan wallet. “One hundred percent joey hide. Soft and durable. My 2015 line of jockstraps will be made of the stuff. A wonder for down under. Ha! How’s that for a slogan?”
Cleo appeared before them, flanked by Blue and Frankie, who were helping her stay upright in the shoes. “Nothing a little oil and linen can’t fix,” she said. “By the time they get here tomorrow, I’ll be shooting hoops in these bear traps.” Lala took that moment to make the introductions. Cleo’s tanned skin blanched when she realized what she had been saying. Frankie sparked. Blue kept mouthing what? in search of an explanation.
“Ha! Bear traps,” Dickie swatted Brigitte on the arm like a teammate. “Hear that? That could be next. Sandals made of bear. You know, they hibernate during the winter.”
“We can put bolts on zee sides, like claws,” Brigitte riffed. “And what are zees?” she asked, rubbing her finger along Frankie’s wrist seams. “Zay are zo silky.”
“Real bear?” Frankie asked, hiding her hands in the pockets of her robe.
“Mais oui,” Brigitte said proudly. “Just like zee kangaroo.”
“Kangaroo?” Blue asked, eyeing Lala. “Is this sheila fair dinkum?”
Lala nodded, her insides churning as though she’d just eaten lamb.
“Nothing but the best,” boasted Dickie. He pointed at Cleo’s feet. “Those shoes right there were tested on monkeys.”
“Monkeys?” Clawdeen barked.
“Two dozen,” he announced. “We ran ’em on treadmills for three hours. That joey didn’t even so much as crack.”
“Joey!” Blue said, her eyes filling with tears.
“Don’t hurt it,” Blue said, running to retrieve them.
Brigitte smiled, thinking Blue loved the line. “Perhaps zee scaly one should be our model.”
“Her?” Cleo gasped, grabbing the shoes.
“Take ’em, mate,” Blue said. “S’not enough moolah in lucky country to get me in those.”
All fears of her father’s I-told-you-so faded to the back of Lala’s reeling mind. Pushed aside by images of high-heeled monkeys on treadmills. Skinned roos. Plucked bolts. Wolf-fur boots.
The girls looked at Lala, silently urging her to do something. She was about to ask if it was too late to change the shoe design, when Deuce appeared with Jackson and Heath.
He kissed Cleo hello and asked, “What’s with that thing on your foot? Did you have surgery or something?”
“No, but I’ll need it if I have to wear these shoes for one more second.”
“Tell me who makes your skin cleaning and I should forget I heard zat,” Brigitte said.
“Why, so you can turn me into a handbag?”
“Ha!” Dickie laughed.
Cleo looked at her boyfriend, hoping he’d punch Dickie and defend her honor. But instead he held out his hand and said, “Mr. Dally, I love your basketball gear.”
To which Dickie responded, “And I love your taste in broads.” Deuce dropped his hand in shock.
“How about we unveil the mural?” Jackson said, leading the group toward the giant drop cloth. Jackson grabbed one corner and waited while Heath took a final sip from his forty-two-ounce Super Big Gulp and grabbed another corner.
“It’s not quite done,” Jackson explained. “But you’ll get the idea.”
“One… two… three!” Heath said. They tugged the giant cloth. It snapped and billowed and then brraaaaap! Heath’s Big Gulp became a big burp. An enormous fireball shot through the air and landed directly in the middle of the billowing sheet, immediately engulfing the fabric in flickering orange flames.
“Ahhhhh!” screamed Jackson, fearing the heat. He threw the sheet onto the plywood stage. Seconds later it began to burn. Crackling embers popped and soared throughout the gym, setting fire to the river of paint that snaked along the floor.
Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever Page 16