Frankie glared at her tear-soaked face reflected in the car window. The ugly truth glared back. Her looks were frightening.
One by one, drops fell from her eyes like they were on an assembly line—gather, fall, slide… gather, fall, slide… each one commemorating something she had lost. Hope. Faith. Confidence. Pride. Security. Trust. Independence. Joy. Beauty. Freedom. Innocence.
Her father turned on the radio.
“… alleged monster sighting at Mount Hood High has four cheerleaders in a state of absolute panic.” News had traveled fast.
“Turn it off, Viktor,” Viveka said, sniffing.
“It’s important to know what they know,” he said, turning up the volume. “We need to assess the damage.”
Frankie sparked.
“… Tell us exactly what you saw,” said the deep male voice on the radio.
“She was green—at least, I think she was a she. But it was hard to tell. It all happened so fast. One minute it was pretending to be human, and the next it was reaching for us like some kind of”—the girl’s voice began to quake—“alien beeeeeasttttttttt!”
Frankie’s sadness froze into anger. “I was trying to introduce myself!”
“You’re safe now,” the interviewer said, trying to comfort the witness. “Why don’t you take a minute,” he suggested, his voice temporarily trailing off.
When he returned, he was all business. “Salem had its first monster sighting back in 1940,” he explained, “when a pack of werewolves was apprehended at the California-Oregon border holding McDonald’s bags in between their teeth. Things were peaceful again until 2007, when a boy named Billy began disappearing and reappearing right before people’s eyes. And now a green alien beast has been spotted at Mount Hood High.…”
Viveka snapped off the radio. “At least they’re looking for an alien.” She sighed, relieved.
“Frankie”—Viktor met his daughter’s eyes in the rearview mirror—“classes start Tuesday. After Labor Day. At your real school. It’s called Merston High, and it’s three blocks from our house. But we won’t let you go unless—”
“I know. I get it.” Frankie sniffed. “I’ll wear everything. I promise.” She meant it. Her desire to go green was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FRIEND-FREE ZONE
The lunchtime bell bwoopbwooped like a European busy signal. The inaugural morning at Merston High was officially over. It was no longer a mysterious place in Melody’s imagination, filled with endless possibilities and hooks on which to hang hope for a better tomorrow. It was completely—boringly—normal. Like meeting an online crush after months of e-flirting, the reality didn’t live up to the fantasy. It was dull, predictable, and way more attractive in the photos.
Architecturally, the mustard-yellow brick rectangle was plainer than a pack of Trident. The sweaty-pencil-eraser-library-book smell that would undoubtedly morph into a sweaty-pencil-eraser-library-book headache by two o’clock was so typical. And the goofy desk etchings that said BITE ME, LALA!, WEAK FOR WEEKS, and GLUTEN-FREE GEEK paled in comparison to the ones she used to see in Beverly Hills, which had read like TMZ text alerts.
Tired, hungry, and disappointed, Melody felt like a refugee, only slightly more fashion-forward, as she ambled along with the masses in search of food. Dressed in Candace’s black skinny jeans (at her sister’s insistence), a pink Clash T-shirt, and pink Converse, she was ’70s revival in a school that still wore original Woodstock. Her pretty-in-punk outfit seemed unnecessarily harsh amid the flowing skirts and flannel, making her feel like she was at the wrong concert. Even her black hair hung with antiestablishment apathy, thanks to a travel bottle of conditioner that had been incorrectly labeled SHAMPOO.
She hoped the tough girl getup would show the students at Merston that she was nobody’s Smellody. Which it must have, because everyone pretty much ignored her all morning. A few average-looking boys eyed her with marked interest. Like she was a slice of cake on a passing dessert cart and worth saving room for. In some instances she even allowed herself to smile back, pretending that they were seeing her for her, not some perfectly symmetrical creation designed by her father. That’s what she had thought about Jackson—but she had been wrong.
Ever since their conversation at the Riverfront, the sweet guy who wrote his number in red pastel had been physically and technologically MIA. After taping his sketch to her log wall, Melody entered him as “J” on her speed dial. And speed-dial she did! But he never responded. She scrutinized their encounter by reading between the lines, looking underneath words, checking behind gestures… and found no logical explanation.
Perhaps it was the stilted conversation. But isn’t awkwardness something we have in common? After forty-plus hours of analysis, Melody had reached a conclusion. It must have been her road trip outfit after all.
And then she heard about the ol’“curdy con,” a term Candace introduced her to while they rocked on the porch swing, enjoying their last homework-free night of the summer.
“It’s a classic sting,” she explained after Melody’s third text to Jackson went unanswered. “A boy acts all curdy to earn a girl’s trust. Once he has it, he gets all Free Birdie and flies the coop for a day or two. This ropes the girl in even more because she’s concerned. Soon concern becomes insecurity. And then”—she snapped her fingers—“he appears out of nowhere and surprises her. The girl is so relieved he’s not dead and soooo happy he still likes her, she throws herself at him. And once they’re in a full-on chest-to-chest hug he becomes…”—she paused for dramatic effect—“the Dirty Birdie! Known in some circles as the Pervy Birdie, or just the Worm.”
“He’s not scamming me,” Melody insisted, peeking at her iPhone. But the Free Birdie was silent. Not a single tweet.
“Okay.” Candace leaped off the swing. “Just don’t be surprised if he’s not the guy you think he is.” She snapped her fingers and said, “Candace out!” Then she marched into the cabin.
“Thanks for the advice,” Melody called, wondering if Jackson was watching her from his bedroom window. If he wasn’t, where was he? And if he was, why wasn’t he calling?
Melody tried to shrug off the overanalysis and shuffled into the cafeteria with the rest of the students. Everyone scattered to claim a table while the rolling reggae-ish beat of Jack Johnson’s song “Hope” spilled from the speakers.
Melody hung back by a sign-up booth for the September Semi Committee (whatever that was), pretending to read about the various volunteer opportunities while assessing the lunchroom politics. She’d assumed she would have seen Jackson by now. It was the first day of school and his mother, Ms. J, was a science teacher, after all. But he had obviously skipped out on her too.
The tangy-carcass smell of ketchup and cows (meat loaf?) was more overwhelming than the four different “food zones.” Defined by chair color and identified with spirited hand-painted signs, the Peanut-Free Zone was brown; the Gluten-Free Zone was blue; the Lactose-Free Zone was orange; and the Allergy-Free Zone was white. Students carrying color-coordinated trays clamored to mark their territory as if racing for seats at the IMAX 3D opening of Avatar. Once their territory had been claimed, they strolled toward the appropriate food station to make their dietitian-approved selections and catch up with friends.
“In Beverly Hills there would be one zone,” Melody told the horse-faced brunette manning the September Semi sign-up booth. “Food-Free.” She giggled at her own joke.
Horse-face knit her thick brows and began tidying her already tidy stack of sign-up sheets.
Great, Melody thought, inching away from Horse-face. Maybe they’ll come up with a Friend-Free Zone just for me.
The Jack Johnson song ended and transitioned into something equally nostalgic and groovy by the Dave Matthews Band. It was time for Melody, like the playlist, to change tracks. At least she could cling to Candace, who was seated between two other blonds in the Allergy-Free Zone, reading some hottie’s palm.
Melody slid her white tra
y along the rails, fixing her gaze straight ahead to the last slice of cheese-and-mushroom pizza. A couple standing behind her held hands and peered over her shoulder for a peek at the day’s lunch specials. But they didn’t sound the least bit interested in meat ravioli or salmon burgers. Instead, they were talking about his latest Twitter update. Which, if Melody overheard correctly, was about a monster sighting in Mount Hood.
“I swear, Bek,” said the guy, his voice low and steady. “I want to be the one to catch it.”
“What would you do with it?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “Oh, I know! You could hang the head over your bed. And use the arms for coat hooks, the legs for doorjambs, and the butt for a pen holder!”
“No way,” he snapped, as if offended. “I’d earn its trust and then make a documentary about the annual migration.”
The what?
Melody couldn’t feign interest in garlic mashed potatoes for one more second. Curiosity was killing her. With a strained half turn, like the kind used to silence loud talkers in movie theaters, Melody looked.
The boy had dyed black hair with frayed, uneven edges that were cut by either a rusty blade or a vengeful woodpecker. Mischievous denim-blue eyes flickered against his pale skin.
He caught her looking and grinned.
She quickly turned away, taking the image of his green Frankenstein T-shirt, tapered black pants, and black nail polish with her.
“Brett!” the girl barked. “I saw that!”
“What?” He sounded like Beau when Glory caught him drinking milk from the carton.
“Whatever!” Bek yanked him toward the salad bar. She had on a flowing white dress and peach knit UGG boots. Wardrobe-wise, she was the Beauty to his Beast.
The line inched forward.
“What was that all about?” Melody asked the petite girl standing behind her. Dressed in a thick wool pantsuit and a full palette of makeup, she may have been at the wrong concert too. She was dressed like she would have preferred, instead of a rock band, an elevator pumping Lite FM as she shot to the top floor of a corporate headquarters.
“I think she’s jealous,” the girl mumbled shyly. She had dainty, symmetrical features that Beau would have appreciated. And long black hair like Melody’s—except shinier, of course.
“No.” Melody grinned. “I mean, about that whole monster thing. Is that some kind of a local joke?”
“Um, I dunno.” The girl shook her head, her mass of thick black hair falling around her face. “I’m new here.”
“Me too! My name is Melody.” She beamed, offering her right hand.
“Frankie.” She gripped firmly and shook back.
A tiny spark of static electricity passed between them. It felt like taking off a sweater in ski country.
“Ouch!” Melody giggled.
“Sorry,” Frankie blurted, her fine features contorting regretfully.
Before Melody could tell her it was okay, Frankie took off, leaving her white tray on the rails and the sting of another botched friendship on Melody’s palm.
Suddenly, a camera’s flash went off in her face. “What the…?” Through a flurry of pulsing white spots, she saw a short girl with tortoiseshell glasses and caramel-colored bangs scampering away.
“Hey,” said a familiar male voice.
Slowly, the flash spots began to fade. One by one, like a cheesy special effect, they fell away, and her blurry vision sharpened.
And there he was.…
Wearing an untucked white button-down, crisp back-to-school jeans, and brown hiking boots. An unstoppable grin lit his quietly handsome face.
“Jackson!” she trumpeted, and then resisted the urge to hug him. What if this is a curdy con?
“Howzit going?”
“Fine, you?”
“I was sick all weekend.” He said it like it actually might have been true.
“Too sick to answer your phone?” Melody blurted. So what if she sounded like a possessive freak? He was a possible curdy conner.
“Who’s hungry?” called an egg-shaped man with a dark mustache, who was standing behind the counter. He clapped his silver tongs at Melody. “What’rya having?”
“Um.” She gazed longingly at the last slice of mushroom pizza. Like a puppy in a pet store making one final plea for adoption, it gazed back. But her pretzel-twisted stomach couldn’t do any major digesting right now. “No, thanks.”
She made a break for the lighter fare. Jackson followed.
“So, what’s the point of speed dial if you don’t pick up?” Melody plopped a bunch of grapes and a blueberry muffin on her tray.
“What’s the point of picking up if no one calls?” he countered. Still, the corners of his mouth were soft and forgiving, even playful.
“But I did call.” Melody popped a grape into her mouth before paying. “Like, three times.” (It was more like seven, but why make things more embarrassing than they already were?)
Jackson pulled a black flip phone out of his jeans pocket and waved it in front of her face as proof. The screen indicated zero messages. It also showed his phone number. Which happened to end in a 7. Not a 1.
Melody’s cheeks burned as she recalled the red thumb smudge—her red thumb smudge—by his number on the sketch-pad paper. The one responsible for castrating his 7.
“Oops.” She giggled, while paying for her random lunch selection. “I think I know what happened.”
Jackson grabbed a bag of Baked! Lays and a can of Sprite. “So, um, you wanna grab seats together? If not I understand.…”
“Sure,” Melody said, and then proudly followed her first friend (with boyfriend potential) at Merston High toward the Allergy-Free Zone.
Two attractive alternative girls, consumed by their own conversation, tried to squeeze past them. The Shakira-looking one, who had auburn curls and a tray stacked with Kobe beef sliders, made it by Jackson. But the other one, with black bangs and chunky gold highlights, got sandwiched between Melody’s shoulder and a blue chair.
“Watch it!” she barked, teetering on her gold wedges.
“Sorry.” Melody grabbed the girl’s latte-colored arm before she fell. Unfortunately, she couldn’t save the lunch. The white plastic tray dropped to the floor with a loud smack. Red grapes scattered like pearls on a broken necklace as the divided cafeteria came together for a round of applause.
“Why do people always clap when someone drops something?” Jackson asked, blushing from the sudden attention.
Melody shrugged. The girl, obviously at home in the spotlight, blew kisses to the audience. Dressed in a black-and-turquoise minidress, she had the Olympic figure skater thing down.
When the applause died, she turned to Melody, and her smile came crashing down like the final curtain. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” she huffed.
Melody laughed. It seemed that all high school battles opened with that line.
“Huh?” the girl pressed.
“Actually,” Melody countered, gleaning power from her Clash tee, “you squeezed by me.”
“Untrue!” barked the girl with the sliders. Her statement came out so quickly, it sounded more like a sneeze. “I saw the whole thing, and you banged right into Cleo.” The barker wore purple leggings and a black bomber jacket lined in fur the same color as her hair. Not quite what Melody expected from the Beaver State. The Show Me State, maybe.
“It was an accident, Claudine,” Jackson explained, obviously trying to keep the peace.
“I’ve got it.” Cleo licked her glossy lips as if tasting the deliciousness of her own idea. She grinned at Melody. “Give me your grapes and we’ll call it even.”
“No way! It was your fault,” Melody snapped, surprised by her own courage (and her sudden affinity for grapes). She had spent the last fifteen years giving grapes to bullies. And now she was done.
“Listen, Melodork…” Cleo leaned closer and gritted her teeth.
“How do you know my name?”
Claudine howled with laughte
r.
“I know everything around here.” Cleo opened her arms wide, claiming the cafeteria as her kingdom. Well, maybe it was. Still, Melodork was nobody’s peasant.
“I also know”—Cleo raised her voice, continuing to perform for her fans in the blue seats—“that if you don’t give me those grapes, you’ll be eating over there.” She pointed to the empty table outside the boys’ bathroom. It was spackled in wet toilet paper and crumbled urinal cakes.
In the distance, over Cleo’s shoulder, Melody could see Candace laughing with her new friends, floating above the world in her happy Candace bubble, completely unaware of her sister’s trauma.
“Well?” Cleo put her hands on her slim hips and tapped her fingers impatiently.
Dizziness overcame Melody. Tunnel vision sharpened her senses and hyper-focused her awareness on Cleo’s exotic Egyptian features. Why do pretty girls always feel so entitled? Why can’t she use her beauty for good instead of evil? What would Dad think of the asymmetrical beauty mark to the right of her eye?
The truth was that Melanie had no clue what to do next. Other people were staring. And Jackson was fidgeting. Was he hoping she’d give in or willing her to fight back? A ringing sound filled her ears.
“Well?” Cleo asked, her periwinkle blue eyes squinting a final warning.
Melody’s heart banged against her chest, trying to beat its way out before things got ugly. Still, she managed to squint a comment of her own. “No deal.”
Claudine gasped. Jackson tensed. The kids in the blue seats exchanged a round of oh-no-she-didn’t glances. Melody dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from fainting.
“Fine.” Cleo took a step closer.
“Uh-ohhhhh.” Claudine twirled an auburn curl with girly anticipation.
Melody’s first instinct was to shield her face, which Cleo’s ring-clad fists looked primed to punch. But there was nothing her father couldn’t fix. So instead she stood strong and steeled herself for the first blow. At least people would know she wasn’t afraid.
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