“You take something of mine? Then I’ll take something of yours!” Cleo said.
“I didn’t take anything of yours,” Melody insisted. But it was too late.
Cleo swiped her glossy lips with more gloss, rocked onto the toes of her wedges, and then reached for Jackson and pulled him close. Suddenly, she was kissing him.
“Oh my god!” Melody laughed, unable to process the audacity. She turned to Claudine in desperation. “What is she doing?”
Claudine ignored her.
“Jackson!” Melody screeched. But he was in a zone all his own: Its color was red, and its lunch trays were shaped like hearts.
Turning left to her right, right to her left, Jackson followed Cleo’s lead like they were on Dancing with the Stars. For someone so nervous, he seemed oddly at ease. Do they share a past? A secret? A toothbrush? Whatever it was, it left Melody feeling like the pathetic outsider all over again.
Maybe Candace was right—you can take the nose out of Smellody, but you can’t take Smellody out of the nose.
“Whew!” Cleo gasped, finally releasing Jackson. She was met with another round of applause. But this time she didn’t wave. She simply licked her lips, linked arms with Claudine, and sauntered, with the cool swagger of a satisfied cat, toward the open seats in the white section.
“Nice meeting you, Melodork,” Cleo called over her shoulder, leaving a trail of smashed grapes in her wake.
“What was that?” Melody seethed, feeling the heat of a hundred eyeballs.
Jackson removed his glasses. His forehead was coated in sweat. “Is someone a little jealous?” he snickered.
“What?” Melody leaned against a blue chair.
Jackson snapped his fingers to the Ke$ha track that had started playing, and began dancing. “I’m just saying,” he crossed one leg over the other and spun like he was onstage at the Soul Train Awards. “You don’t look good in greeeeen.” His voice was suddenly spiked with a shot of late-night radio DJ.
“I am not jealous,” Melody snapped, wishing Cleo had just totaled her face and been done with it.
“Stop ta-ta-talking that… Blah blah blah,” Jackson sang with Ke$ha. He flashed thumbs-up to a table full of girls who were singing too.
“I don’t get how you could just stand there and let her—”
“Take advantage of me?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, it was really awful.” He pouted. “So awful, in fact, that I’m gonna go sit with her.”
“Really?”
Jackson snapped a finger-gun and fired off a round of winks. “Really.” He began following the trail of crushed grapes, kicking them aside with Fred Astaire flare.
Melody tossed her tray onto the table behind her. Eating was no longer an option. Her stomach was tied in—
“Muffin!” shrieked a girl.
People backed away as if Melody had peed in the pool. The Gluten-Free Zone evacuated immediately, leaving her to stew in her own contamination.
Melody sat. Alone. Surrounded by abandoned quinoa, millet, and amaranth-based starches, she caught a glimpse of her garbled reflection in the side of a dented aluminum napkin holder. Her distorted, peanut-shaped head looked like Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream. Despite her new face, twisted old Melody is whom she saw. And all the Clash T-shirts, red pastel phone numbers, and nose jobs in the world obviously couldn’t change that.
Her gray eyes were hard, her cheeks were gaunt, and the corners of her mouth hung as if pulled down by tiny fishing weights.
“Nice gluten grenade.” A girl giggled.
Melody turned toward the stranger. “Huh?”
A freckle-faced girl with dark shoulder-length waves and narrow green eyes sighed. It was the same girl who had suggested the monster-butt pen holder to her boyfriend. “I said, nice gluten grenade. You got rid of the blues like a Saks shopping spree. Next time try spilling milk in the orange zone. We call that a dairy dump.”
Melody tried to laugh, but it sounded like a moan.
“What’s up?” asked the girl. “You seem kinda down for a PT.”
“A what?” Melody snapped, craving just one second of normalcy.
“PT,” echoed the mousy girl who had snapped Melody’s picture and made her see spots before he showed up.
“What’s a PT?” Melody asked, but only because no one else was talking to her and she was tired of being alone.
“Physical threat,” Freckles explained. “Everyone is saying you’re the prettiest newcomer of the year. And yet…” Her voice trailed off.
“And yet what?”
“And yet you’re being treated like a total…” She tapped the side of her head. “Ugh. What’s the word?”
“Anti-threat,” Mousy-bangs answered for her.
“Yes! Perfect word choice.” Freckles wiggled her texting thumbs. “Enter that.”
Mousy-bangs nodded obediently. She pulled a phone from the side of her green faux crocodile-skin attaché case, slid out the keyboard, and began thumbing.
“What’s she writing?” Melody asked.
“Who? Haylee?” asked Freckles, as if there were dozens of girls taking notes on this bizarre conversation. “She’s assisting me.”
Melody nodded like that was super-interesting and then peered across the cafeteria. He was sitting at her table, plucking grapes off a fresh bunch and dropping them in her mouth. It was 100 percent nauseating.
Freckles’s hand appeared under Melody’s nose. “I’m Bekka Madden. Author of Bek and Better Than Ever: The True Story of One Girl’s Return to Popularity After Another Girl Whose Name I Won’t Mention—CLEO!—Hit On Brett Then Got Hit by Bekka Then Basically Told the Entire School That Bekka Was Violent and Should Be Avoided at All Costs.”
“Wow.” Melody shook her hand. “Sounds… detailed.” She laughed.
“It’s gonna be one of those cell phone novels.” Haylee snapped her keyboard shut and then dropped it back into her case. “You know, like they have in Japan. Only this will be in English.”
“Assumed.” Bekka sighed, in a you-can’t-get-good-help-these-days sort of way. She sat on the table, placed her hands under her butt, and playfully kicked a blue chair with her UGG boots.
Haylee licked her bubblegum-pink lip gloss and adjusted her glasses. “I’m documenting her struggle.”
“Cool.” Melody nodded, trying to be encouraging.
Something about Bekka and Haylee reminded her of Candace’s line between ingenious and insane. Ingenuity inspired their dreams, and insanity gave them courage to pursue them. It was something Melody wanted for herself. But she didn’t have any inspired dreams worth pursuing now that Jackson had turned out to be a player who bolted when someone easier came along.…
“I want to crush her too,” Bekka said.
Melody’s cheeks burned. Was it that obvious she’d been staring?
“We could team up, you know.” Bekka’s green eyes bored into Melody’s.
Haylee pulled out her phone and began typing again.
“I don’t want revenge,” Melody insisted, scraping the clear polish off one fingernail. What she wanted was currently feeding grapes to a PT at another table.
“How about a friend?” Bekka’s expression warmed Melody like hot cocoa on a rainy Sunday.
“That could work.” Melody gathered a handful of over-conditioned black hair and dropped it back between her shoulder blades.
Bekka nodded once at Haylee.
The dutiful assistant pushed aside the abandoned gluten-free lunches, reached inside her attaché, and pulled out a cream-colored sheet of paper. She slapped it down on the table and stepped aside to let Bekka explain.
“Promise you will never flirt with Brett Redding, hook up with Brett Redding, or fail to pummel any girl who does hook up with Brett Redding and—”
“Who’s Brett Redding?” Melody asked, even though she had a strong hunch it was the wannabe monster documentarian.
“Brett is Bekka’s boyfriend.” Haylee swayed from side to side dreamily. “They
’ve been together since seventh grade. And they are sickly-ridickly cute together.”
“It’s true. We are.” Bekka grinned with unapologetic glee.
Envy pricked Melody’s skin like a mosquito. She didn’t want Brett, but unapologetic glee would have been nice.
“Lately he’s been checking out PTs when he thinks I’m not looking.” Bekka scanned the thinning lunch crowd like a searchlight. “What he doesn’t realize is—”
“She’s always looking,” Haylee said, typing.
“I’m always looking.” Bekka tapped her temple. She turned back to Melody. “So, sign the document stating that you won’t violate my trust, and I’ll give you a lifetime of loyalty in return.”
Haylee stood over Melody, clicking a silver-and-red pen—the ballpoint Melody would use, should she choose to accept this offer.
Melody fake-read the document to give the appearance that she wasn’t the kind of chump who signs things without reading them, even though she was. Her eyes sped across the words while her mind searched for a reason to walk away from this unusual proposition. But Melody didn’t have much experience in the friend-making business. For all she knew, this was how it was done.
“Looks good to me,” she stated, grabbing the ballpoint from Haylee’s fingers. She signed and dated the document.
“School ID.” Haylee stuck out her palm.
“Why?” Melody asked.
“I have to notarize.” She pushed her glasses further up her wide nose.
Melody tossed her Merston High ID on the table.
“Nice picture,” Haylee mumbled, jotting down the necessary information.
“Thanks,” Melody mumbled back, studying her expression in the tiny laminated square. She was glowing like a jack-o’-lantern with a candle inside. Because she had been thinking about him. Wondering when they’d run into each other… what it would be like… what he would say… If only Melody could go back in time and tell the dreamy-eyed girl in the laminated square what she knew now…
Haylee returned the ID and then began connecting a digital camera to a portable printer. Seconds later a photo of Melody, minus the candlelit glow, was being clipped to the corner of the document and filed inside the attaché.
“Congratulations, Melody Carver. Welcome to the fold,” Bekka said, pulling her and Haylee in for a group hug. One of them smelled like strawberries.
“There are two rules I’d like to share with you.” Bekka squeezed some clear gloss from a tube and dabbed it on her lips. She waited for Haylee’s thumbs to make contact with her keyboard. “Number one: Friends come first.”
Haylee typed.
Melody nodded. She couldn’t agree more.
“And number two.” Bekka pinched a grape off a cluster. “Always fight for your man.” With that, she drew her arm back like a warrior and whipped a grape across the cafeteria. It bounced off Cleo’s chunky blond highlights.
Melody burst out laughing. Bekka launched another missile.
Cleo stood and glared at her opponent. Drawing her arm back, she—
“Duck!” Bekka shouted, pulling Haylee and Melody to the floor.
The girls laughed themselves a side stitch as a hailstorm of mayo-coated luncheon meat smacked the table above them.
It wasn’t the first time Melody had found herself in the center of a lunchroom drama that afternoon. But it was the first time she enjoyed it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SPARKS FLY
Frankie ran-walked down the empty hall, her wool-covered thighs chafing. She didn’t want to attract attention by sprinting, but she needed to be first in the classroom. It was imperative she find a seat in the back. As far from view as one could possibly be without being marked absent. She didn’t need fifteen days of math to know that rumors of a monster sighting plus shocking a girl in the cafeteria equaled trouble.
The bell bwoooped. The halls buzzed with freshly fed normies searching for their fourth-period classrooms. Frankie, mega-paces ahead of the pack, hurried into room 203 for her first geography class. So far, school life hadn’t gone as planned, but at least she was living it.
“No!” she heard herself say aloud upon entering the classroom. The desks were arranged in a circle! No dark corners. No back rows. No place to hide! Her pre-lunch reapplication of Fierce & Flawless would be her only cover.
“This can’t be happening,” she mumbled under her breath while trying to assess which part of the circle would be the least conspicuous. Tiny sparks of electricity shot from her fingertips and sizzled up the metal spine of her pink denim-covered binder. She opted for a seat in front of the windows instead of one facing them, to avoid the sun’s revealing rays.
“What’s with the circle?” An above-average-looking boy entered the room. He was dressed in a white button-down, jeans, and hiking boots. His swagger seemed more leather than L.L.Bean. What he lacked in style he made up for with sass.
He stood by the door, his head cocked as if admiring art in the Louvre. Only he was admiring Frankie. “I’m thinking we should turn this circle into a heart.” He lifted a globe from the shelf and spun it on his finger like a basketball.
Frankie lowered her eyes, wishing she could fire back with something equally flirtatious and cool. Wanna see me burn your initials in this desk with my finger? But instead of playing Frankie, she had been cast in the forgettable role of shy normie by the window.
With one hand in his pocket and the other clutching a tiny flip-top pad (because cool guys don’t take a lot of notes), he strutted over to Frankie. He took his time as he ambled past the wall of maps and the blackboard, probably so she could admire him. “Is this seat taken?” he asked, running a hand through his floppy brown hair.
Frankie shook her head. Did he really have to sit right next to her?
“I’m D.J.,” he said, slouching down in the wooden chair.
“Frankie.”
“Pleasure.” He extended his hand for a shake. Frankie, afraid of sparking, responded with a smile-nod. D.J. tapped her shoulder with his hovering hand, as if that had been the intention all along.
Bzzzt.
“Well, well.” He shook his wrist and looked amused. “Aren’t you the little firecracker?”
Crap! Frankie immediately turned away and opened her geography textbook. She began focusing on the introduction to keep herself from hyperventilating. The class began to fill up quickly, and two girls, in mid-conversation, filled the empty seats beside her.
“I swear,” said the one with the pink-and-black-striped girly-Goth mini, her lips tight against her teeth like someone embarrassed to talk with new braces. “The caf has nothing good for vegans.” She shook two pills from a bottle labeled IRON COMPLEX, and swallowed them without water. Her eyes were smudged with black makeup.
“Why not give the mashed potatoes a burl?” asked her friend, a fair-skinned blond with an Australian accent. Dressed in billowing brown drawstring pants, a tight orange T-shirt, and elbow-length striped knitted gloves, she appeared to have dressed in the dark.
“I loathe garlic,” said Vegan, crossing her legs to reveal a pair of pink knee-high lace-up boots that Lady Gaga would go gaga for.
“Not as much as you loathe mirrors, mate,” joked the Australian as she pushed back a tangle of rope and bead bracelets, rolled down the gloves, and slathered her dry arms with coconut-scented body lotion.
“Help me,” Vegan insisted, lifting her pink-and-black-streaked hair away from her face.
The Australian snapped the cap back on her cream, leaned toward her friend, and began wiping Vegan’s cheek with her thumb. “It’s not easy,” she whispered. “You’ve got lippy where your blush should be. Looks like you were caught in a paintball bingle.”
They burst out laughing.
Frankie returned to her textbook to keep from staring. Even though she wanted to stare forever. Their breezy banter was a comfort of friendship—a comfort Frankie longed to have.
“Faster,” murmured the Vegan. “Before he sees me like th
is!”
There was only one he in the class, and he was sitting beside Frankie, whispering “Firecracker” to get her attention.
Frankie looked straight ahead and accidentally locked eyes with the ridiculously hot boy entering the room. It was the same one she had been trying not to stare at during lunch. But it was impossible not to. He was wearing a picture of her grandfather Victor right there on his T-shirt. He was either a RAD or a RAD lover. Either way, it meant she had a chance.
“’Scuse me, Sheila,” said the Australian, waking Frankie from her daydream.
“Actually, it’s Frankie,” she said politely.
Vegan leaned forward. “Blue calls everyone Sheila when she doesn’t know their name. It’s an Australian thing.”
“Right-o,” Blue said with a sweet smile. “Anyway, Frankie, it looks like you’re pretty into makeup, and I was wondering if my Lala could borrow some.”
“Um, sure,” Frankie dug into her GREEN IS THE NEW BLACK tote and pulled out the gold Fierce & Flawless makeup case marked EYELINER. “Take your pick.”
“This is all eyeliner?” Lala gasped, lips pressed against her teeth.
Frankie nodded, unsure whether she should feel pride or shame.
Melody, the girl she’d shocked in the cafeteria, hurried in after the teacher and grabbed the seat across from Frankie. She smiled cordially. Or was that normie for I’m onto you?
Frankie pulled her turtleneck up to keep her sparking bolts from giving her away.
The teacher, a woman with short curly blond hair and a turquoise sweater set, clapped. “Let’s begin!” She drew a big circle on the blackboard and tapped her long stick of chalk in the center. “This is our world. It’s round, just like the configuration of your desks. And I intend to show you how—” The chalk snapped in half and shot across the room.
“Ahhhh!” The possible RAD gripped the side of his neck and fell off his chair. “I’ve been hit!”
Everyone laughed. Frankie leaned forward, concerned.
“That’s enough, Brett.” The humorless teacher sighed as she picked the errant piece of chalk off the ground.
Brett. Brett and Frankie. Brankie. Frett. Frankie B., just like the jeans.… No matter how she said it, they sounded great together.
Monster High 01 - Monster High Page 6
