“Look how ugly I was until my plastic surgeon father fixed my face!” she shouted, like her frustration was his fault. Which it kind of was. He had told her she was pretty. He’d started it. And it was her job to finish it before he stumbled across the “before” and “after” shots floating around the Internet.
“You weren’t ugly at all,” he insisted. “You look the exact same.”
“Well, then you’re not looking close enough,” Melody insisted, reaching for the card.
“Wrong.” He took the card and looked at it again. “I’m looking closer than you think. And everything I see is perfect.”
Wow.
Melody’s throat cyclone was building strength. Traveling due south, it was headed straight for her stomach. The heat in the house mingled with the heat in her body, and she was being drawn toward him. “We should probably kiss now,” she blurted, shocking herself.
“I agree,” he said, stepping toward her. The salty-sweet smell of his skin filled her like kettle corn never could.
Closer… closer… closer… and…
“STAND BACK!” shouted a frantic woman.
Jackson pulled away. “What was that?”
“My homeless mom.”
“Can she see us?” He lifted the fan to his face.
“I don’t think so.” Melody hurried to the stairs. “Mom, are you okay?”
“Only if you think getting chased by a giant timber wolf is okay,” she called back, “which your father obviously does.”
“Glory, I’m telling you, it wasn’t a wolf,” Beau reasoned.
Melody and Jackson burst out laughing.
“Hey, do you want to go to the September Semi with me?” he asked.
“Totally.” Melody smiled. “But only if I can wear this.” She struck a pose in her pajama-dress ensemble.
“Perfect.” He laughed.
Melody stepped closer.… Jackson stepped closer… and…
“THERE IT IS!” Glory screamed.
“Where?” Beau chuckled. “I don’t see anything.”
“Melody! Come down here and tell me if you see anything!” Glory called.
“Coming.” Melody rolled her eyes.
She and Jackson hurried down the stairs and said a quick good-bye. Jackson quietly slipped out the front door while Melody walked to the back of the house.
“Look.” Glory pointed at something through the sliding glass doors. “Behind the tent, to the left of the tea service. Do you see anything?”
A reflection of a ragtag girl with matted black hair and unkempt feet, wearing striped pajama bottoms under a tie-dyed dress, stared back.
“Well?” Glory pressed. “Do you?”
“Nope,” Melody lied. Because for the first time in her life, the image staring back at her wasn’t the least bit scary. It was beautiful.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RIP
Frankie slept like a chicken with its head cut off—her brain and her body were on totally different programs. After five boring hours of restitching, during which Viktor insisted on watching the news, Frankie was safely tucked between a fresh set of electromagnetic blankets with a warm current of power streaming through her bolts. Her brain, however, was running in a panicked frenzy.
Sound bites of the lies she had told Viv and Vik taunted her like a never-ending loop of carnival music.
Viveka: Viktor! There’s something wrong with Frankie!
Viktor: What happened? Are you hurt? (to Viveka) Is she hurt? (to Frankie) Are you okay? Where’s your umbrella?
Frankie: I’m okay, just a little cold and tired. (pause) Dad, did you know rodent whiskers remove scars?
Viktor: What? (to Viveka) Is she hallucinating? (to Frankie) Frankie, can you understand me? Do you know where you are?
Frankie: Yes, Dad.
Viktor: Where are the other girls? (He lifts her and carries her to her metal bed.)
Frankie: They wanted to go to the movies after the library. I promised you I’d be home. So I left.
Viveka: And they didn’t drop you off first? (She flicks on the massive overhead light, pulls the arm, and positions it over Frankie’s body, making it feel like an interrogation.)
Frankie: Um, they offered, but I didn’t want them to be late.
Viktor: You could have called and asked to go with them. We would have said yes, especially if we knew you’d be walking home alone in the rain.
Frankie: It wasn’t so bad. But I am kind of tired. Do you mind if I rest?
Viktor: (He dabs something cold and wet over her stitches.) Of course not. Go ahead. (mumbling to Viveka) They almost look burned.
Viveka: (mumbling) Probably just frayed from the wind.
While they assumed, worried, tended, stitched, and listened to the local news, Frankie struggled to get back to that imaginary beach where she and Brett were running freely. She finally arrived—but it was raining.
At some point Frankie must have slept, because she couldn’t recall the moment her parents left and turned off the lights. But for the past hour she had been lying in bed listening to the Glitterati burrow beneath sawdust, wondering how to explain her mysterious disappearance to the girls. Lying to her parents about the spa trip was one thing. But how does a human electrical outlet sell the old dead-phone-battery excuse? It would definitely take some practice.
Hooot hooot.
Frankie switched off Carmen Electra and lifted her head.
Hooot hooot.
Either there was an owl in the house or her parents were experimenting with ring tones.
She checked on the Glitterati, expecting them to be scratching at the glass in a fight-or-flight attempt to escape a winged predator. But they had fallen asleep, curled into mini white disco balls.
Hooot hooot.
“Hello?” Viveka said, sounding concerned. Her voice was muffled by the wall. “I understand.… We’ll be there as fast as we can.”
Seconds later, bare feet were slapping across the polished concrete, closet doors were sliding along their tracks, and a toilet flushed.
In movies, late-night calls meant someone had died. Or there’d been a fire at the factory. Or aliens had burned circles in the crops. But this was real life, and Frankie had no idea what had happened.
Her door began to open. The thin band of light from the hallway widened like a Japanese folding fan.
“Frankie?” Viveka whispered, her purple lipstick already on.
“Yeah?” Frankie squinted in the brightness.
“Get dressed. We need to go somewhere.”
“Now?” Frankie glanced at her phone. “It’s four in the morning!”
Viveka zipped the hoodie of her black Juicy tracksuit, her tiny bolts momentarily exposed. “We’re leaving in three minutes.”
In the background, Viktor was filling two travel mugs with coffee.
Frankie jumped to her feet. The floor was cold. Her new seams felt tight. “It takes me at least a half hour to put my makeup on and—”
“Forget the makeup. Long sleeves and a hood should be fine.”
“Where are we going?” Frankie asked, oscillating between fear and excitement.
“I’ll explain on the way.” Viveka left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
The rain had stopped, but the wind was still blowing. Silver moonlight reflected off the slick cul-de-sac pavement, reminding Frankie of a huge bowl of milk. But instead of leaves, hers would be full of Fruity Pebbles.
“Where are we going?” Frankie tried Viktor.
He responded with a yawn as he backed the Volvo out of the garage.
“We have a meeting,” Viveka said, a slight hint of worry in her voice.
“At the university?”
“A different kind of meeting,” Viktor said, eyes fixed on the red taillights of the black Prius ahead. Considering the early hour, a surprising number of cars were heading up Radcliffe Way.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. Something’s obviously going on,” Frankie snapped.
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“Frankie.” Viveka turned to face her. For a brief moment everything smelled like her gardenia body oil. “Remember we told you there were other people like us in Salem?”
“The RADs?”
“Exactly. When something happens in our community, we get together and discuss it.”
“And something happened?” Frankie asked, lowering the window and welcoming the cool night air.
Viveka nodded.
“Was it me?”
Viveka nodded again.
Frankie sparked. “What are they going to do to me?”
“Nothing!” Viveka assured her. “No one knows it was you.”
“And no one ever will,” Viktor insisted.
“You’ll like our get-togethers. While the grown-ups talk, the kids get to mix and mingle with other RADs,” Viveka explained.
A tingle filled Frankie’s heart space. “I’ll get to meet other RADs?”
Brett! Brett! Brett! Brett! Brett!
“Yup.” Viveka smiled, turning back to face the road. “Ms. J is a wonderful youth counselor. She leads discussions about the issues you’re facing and—”
“Ms. J the science teacher?” Frankie asked.
“Voices down, windows up,” Viktor whispered, turning onto Front Street. He pulled up to an empty stretch of curb beside a public park and shut off the engine. “Shhhhhhhh,” he hissed, with a finger to his lips.
The Riverfront carousel was directly across the street, its painted horses still and silent, like the rest of Salem. Traffic lights changed from red to green to yellow and then back to red, performing for an audience that never showed. Even the wind had stopped.
What are they waiting for?
Frankie controlled her urge to spark, but it wasn’t easy. The beam of a flashlight flickered across the windshield.
“Let’s go,” Viktor said, stepping out of the SUV.
A man appeared, dressed all in black. Without a word, he took Viktor’s keys and drove off with their car.
Too afraid to speak, Frankie looked at her parents on the deserted sidewalk and asked a hundred questions with her eyes.
“He’s just parking it for us,” Viktor whispered. “Follow me.”
He offered his hands and led his girls behind a dense thicket. After a quick scan of his surroundings, he bent down and patted the wet grass.
“Got it,” he said, yanking something that looked like a rusty bangle. A hatch opened, and he hurried Frankie and Viveka inside.
“What is this?” Frankie asked, marveling at the underground walkway that snaked before them. Laid with cobblestone and lit by lanterns, it smelled like mud and danger.
“It leads to RIP.” Viktor’s voice echoed. “RAD Intel Party.”
Frankie beamed. “So, it’s a party?”
“It can be.” Viktor winked at his wife.
Viveka giggled.
The low drone of cars on the road above them vibrated throughout the tunnel. But Frankie didn’t spark once. Filled with the hope of seeing Brett, she followed her parents along the cobblestone road with the bounce and promise of a day at Disneyland.
An old wooden door with thick iron hinges greeted them at the end of their brief trek.
“We’re here,” Viktor whispered.
“Mmmmm, smells like popcorn.” Frankie rubbed her belly.
“That’s because we’re under Mel’s popcorn stand,” Viveka explained while Viktor searched for his key. “And soon we’ll be underneath the carousel.”
“Voltage!” Frankie looked up, but all she saw was a mud ceiling and some broken lantern hooks.
“The carousel was built by RADs, you know,” Viveka announced with pride. “A very nice Greek couple who used to live on a horse farm, named Mr. and Mrs. Gorgon. I believe their son Deuce is in your grade.”
Cleo’s boyfriend? Does she know he’s a RAD?
“The Gorgons can turn things to stone just by looking at them,” Viveka continued. “So one day, Maddy Gorgon hears an uproar in the stable. Turns out one of the groomers’ kids was throwing rocks at a nearby beehive and broke it. So when Maddy runs in, she is attacked and starts swatting like mad. Her glasses fall off, she looks at the horses, and just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“they turn to stone.
“The Gorgons spent the next five years painting the horses.” Viveka gasped at the sheer magnitude of the project. “And in 1991, Mrs. Gorgon donated them to the city.” She giggled. “Oh, you should really hear her tell it. It’s so funny.”
“I bet.” Frankie feigned interest, but her thoughts drifted back to what was behind the door, not above it.
Click.
Viktor opened the door to her new social life.
“Remember,” he warned. “In here we’re family. But up there”—he pointed at the carousel—“any mention of RIP or its members is forbidden. Even in a RADs-only conversation. And that includes e-mails, texts, and tweets.”
“Okay, I get it.” Frankie pushed her father inside the round room and did a quick scan for Brett.
Dressed in PJs, kids of all ages were lounging on couches and club chairs, like they were hanging in a friend’s basement. Everything in this basement, though, had a casing of smooth white stone. Apparently Mrs. Gorgon had lost her glasses a few more times.
“Voltage!” Frankie gasped. “Look at all the kids!”
“Viktor, Viv!” A woman wearing oversize black Dior sunglasses greeted them with open arms. Her hair was piled high under a seafoam-green Pucci head scarf, and her white linen pantsuit looked surprisingly chic, despite its Labor Day expiration date.
“Maddy Gorgon, meet our daughter, Frankie,” Viveka said, beaming.
Maddy clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, V, she’s just gorgeous. Viktor did a wonderful job.”
Frankie practically floated up off the cobblestones with delight. She was completely green, and someone thought she was gorgeous! Someone other than her parents!
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gorgon.” Frankie held out her hand, not the least bit concerned about sparking.
“Call me Maddy,” she insisted, “or Mother-in-law.” She leaned closer to Frankie’s ear and whispered, “If Deuce ever dumps Cleo, I’m calling you.” She tapped one of her dark lenses and said, “Wink wink.”
Frankie beamed.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Maddy said, becoming grave, “I’m going to borrow your parents.” She placed a hand on each of their backs and guided them through the stone doorway.
Once the grown-ups were gone, someone blasted “Bust Your Windows” from the Glee sound track, and everyone shot up to dance. From what she could tell, no one else had seams or bolts. But there were a few guys with snakes for hair, a gilled-couple making out by the stone cactus, several swinging tails, and a serpent-skinned girl who resembled the voltage Fendi clutch Frankie had seen in Vogue.
“Frankie!” called a familiar female voice.
She turned. “Lala? What are you doing here?”
“I’d ask you the same thing, but…” She touched Frankie’s green hand. “It’s kind of obvious. Besides, I heard a rumor a while ago that your dad was making a kid. I just didn’t know she’d be so… voltage.”
Frankie delighted at the sound of her own expression.
“So you knew when we went to the spa?”
“I had a feeling. We all did,” Lala confessed. “But we’re not allowed to talk about RAD stuff out there.” She pointed up. “So we’ve been waiting for the next RIP to confirm.”
“Well, consider me confirmed.” Frankie smiled brightly, luxuriating in the weightlessness of freedom. “Um… what are you?” she blurted, unsure of the polite way to ask, or if there even was one.
Lala took a step back, placed her hands squarely on her hips, and smiled.
Pink-and-black hair… black satin pajamas covered in pink bats… cashmere scarf and gloves… dark eyes… mascara smudges on her forehead… It all looked completely Lala.
“I dunno.” Frankie shrugged.
“Look.” Lala smiled wider for a photographer who wasn’t there.
“Fangs!” Frankie shouted over the music. “You have fangs! That’s why you always laugh with your mouth closed.”
Lala nodded excitedly.
Frankie was about to gush over how amazing it was they were both RADs, when she heard another familiar voice.
“G’day, mates!” Blue called, spritzing her scaly bare arms with the spa’s Evian facial mist. Her forearms were spiked with triangular growths that looked like fins, and her fingers and toes were webbed. “Confirmed?”
Lala lifted Frankie’s arm and pointed at her seams.
“Ace!” The fins wiggled with delight. “Welcome to the party!”
“Ahhhhhhh,” Cleo yawned, shuffling toward them. Other than her feet, which were clad in a pair of gold platform sandals, and her ring-covered hands, she was totally wrapped in strips of white cloth. The fashion-forward look was so Rihanna at the 2009 American Music Awards. “Does anyone know what’s going on? Was there another sighting?”
Lala shrugged.
“Is he here?” Cleo asked.
Lala pointed at the three boys seated on a stone carpet in front of them. Deuce appeared to be in a meditative state. Sitting cross-legged and wearing sunglasses, he was playing the flute for the tangle of green snakes slithering on his head.
“Looks like someone’s having a RAD hair day,” Lala joked.
Cleo giggled into her palm and then turned away from her two-timing, normie-loving boyfriend.
“I can’t believe you’re here too!” Frankie exclaimed, inhaling a nose full of amber perfume.
“I would say the same thing about you, only I’m not the least bit surprised,” Cleo said smugly. “Now pay up.”
“Huh?”
“Not you! Draculaura!” she snapped, her tired blue eyes smoked to perfection. “I told that vamp you were one of us the first time I laid eyes on you. Now she owes me ten bucks.”
“Who’s Draculaura?”
“It’s my RAD name—my real name,” Lala said, handing Cleo a ten-dollar bill.
Cleo folded it into the shape of a pyramid and stuffed it down her linen-enhanced cleavage. “Maybe if my family got some royalties from those Brendan Fraser movies or those tacky Cleopatra Halloween costumes, I wouldn’t need to take your money.”
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