Monster High 3: Where There's a Wolf, There's a Way

by Lisi Harrison

  “Did ya hear that?” Candace asked, knocking on Melody’s door. “Mom thinks you’re dirty.” Melody reluctantly got up and unlocked the door.

  “It smells like depression in here,” Candace said, barging in. “What’s up?” Her hair was in a high ponytail; her snowy eye shadow and frosty gloss were Sunday casual. “Jackson didn’t change his mind and bail, did he?”

  Melody shook her head.

  “Did your hairbrush?”

  Melody stood there, ignoring the jab. Her knees were sore, and her butt was tingling. How long had she been sitting on the floor, anyway? “Can I ask you something?”

  Candace looked down at her chest. “Yes, they’re real.”

  “Come on, this is important.” The words, sticky with emotion, barely made it past Melody’s throat.

  Candace leaned against the far wall and folded her arms across her ivory slip dress. “Ask away.”

  Swallowing her trepidation, Melody blurted, “Remember I asked you if you had ever heard of someone named Marina?”

  Candace nodded a little too hard. She loved making her ponytail swing.

  “Well, I asked because when we were at the Teen Vogue shoot and I sang to those camels, Manu told me I sounded exactly like my mother, Marina. When I told him Mom’s name was Glory, he looked like he didn’t believe me. Until he remembered that Marina’s daughter had a nose that looked like camel humps.” Melody grabbed a handful of photos off the floor and held them out in front of her. “And look… humps!”

  “So ask Mom,” Candace suggested, as if they were talking about a second serving of pie.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  Melody shrugged. How could she explain to her fearless sister that she was afraid of the truth? That she’d rather live in uncertainty than know she wasn’t part of the family? That—

  “Maaaah-mmmm,” Candace called.

  “What are you doing?”

  Candace called again.

  “Stop! Candace, please—”

  “What?” Glory called from the kitchen.

  “Can you come up here for a sec? Melly has something important to ask you and Dad!”

  Melody’s jaw hung slack. Shock gripped her speeding heart and squeezed. She wanted to pummel her sister. Beat her into a frothy mousse. Jam her hair in the fan and watch it tangle.

  “Is everything okay?” Glory asked, pushing the door open. She was wearing YSL oven mitts (a gift from an A-list chef she had styled back in Beverly Hills).

  “What’s up?” Beau asked, peeking in behind her. “Why aren’t you dressed, Melly? The Kramers will be here any minute.”

  “Ask them,” Candace urged. And then she left.

  Her parents’ expression was a mix of concern and impatience.

  “Um.” Melody inhaled deeply. When I can’t hold my breath any longer, I’ll ask.

  Her chest began to tighten.

  Her head started to throb.

  She became light-headed.

  Her body was aching.

  “What is it, Melly?” Glory asked, stepping forward. “Cramps?”

  “Does she need a muscle relaxer?” Beau asked his wife, obviously too squeamish to talk menstruation with his daughter. “I have some—”

  Whooooooooooooooooooosh. Melody exhaled. “Who’s Marina?”

  “Who?” Glory asked.

  “Marina? Do you know a woman named Marina?” Melody spoke more slowly.

  “No.” Glory shook her head.

  “Someone from a long time ago, maybe?”

  “Never heard of her. Why?”

  “What’s this about?” Beau interjected.

  Relief coated Melody’s insides. Her shoulders relaxed back into their sockets. Her heart slowed. Manu was wrong!

  Having the answer to the million-dollar question, she could have highlight-deleted the topic and moved on. After all, there was plenty of Jackson drama to focus on. But the billion-dollar question had yet to be answered, and according to the movie The Social Network, billion was the new million. So it needed to be asked.

  Melody took another deep breath and waited for the pain to force it out of her.

  “Momareyoumybirthmother?” she blurted.

  Glory gasped and then covered her mouth. Her blue-green eyes widened, and she glanced sideways at Beau. He put his hand on her YSL oven mitt, reminding her he was there.

  Oh. My. GOD!

  Blood thumped against the insides of Melody’s ears. Her gums. Her scalp. She was going to throw up. Every object in the room seemed floaty; every sound, hollow. Over time, the moment would sharpen. It would inhabit her mind with HD clarity as the moment that changed her life forever.

  “Are you kidding me?” Melody shouted.

  “We can explain,” Glory began. “As soon as dinner is over, we’ll sit down and—”

  “I’m not hungry!”

  Melody needed air. Sliding on a pair of flip-flops and reaching for the nearest hoodie, she pushed past her parents and hurried down the steps.

  “Where are you going?” Beau called. “The Kramers will be here in ten minutes. They want to meet the family.”

  “Then I guess you won’t be needing me!” Melody yelled, slamming the front door shut behind her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SPLIT, SHOWER,

  AND SHAVE

  This Wolf was getting hoarse.

  If I leave one more message, I’ll be talking like Demi, Clawdeen thought as she tossed the Motorola Karma onto her bed. Where is everyone? Why am I getting sent to voice mail? And why isn’t anyone calling me back? If it hadn’t been for the tower of Sassy RSVPs on her desk—twenty-seven yeses and zero nos—she’d be doubting her fabulousness in a major way.

  Anxious to visit her friends and get some answers, Clawdeen peeked through her bedroom window for what felt like the trillionth time. It wouldn’t be long now….

  The normie gawkers were finally packing up their cameras and heading home. A dead-end street inhabited mostly by “monsters” was obviously not where they wanted to be now that the sun was setting. Which suited Clawdeen just fine. She had been hiding out in her bedroom all day, subjected to the clang and clatter of Clawd’s free weights on the other side of the wall. Forbidden to poke her nose outside and sniff the crisp fall air. Banned from playing music, turning on lights, or walking near windows—anything that might alert people that they were back. If only she had been allowed to go online. She’d have updated her Facebook status to Rapunzel.

  Confinement, however, hadn’t been a total waste. After sleeping until noon, Clawdeen spent fifty minutes in a fur-free shower with her fruit-scented products and a fresh Gillette Venus. She jammed her oversized Hideout Inn gift shop clothes in the back of Don’s closet and slid on a black ruffled V-neck and the Hudsons that gave her booty melon-scoop roundness. She painted earth-toned rainbows on her nails and packed a roller bag of toiletries and clothing essentials to take back to the inn.

  Clawdeen dialed Lala, Blue, Frankie, Julia, Billy, Jackson, and even Deuce. Still, she got nothing but voice mails. Fur real?

  Suddenly, a thought more alarming than ADT rang through her mind. What if they’d been forced to leave too? The silky auburn hair on the back of her neck shot up. They couldn’t! Her party was two weeks away. There were playlists to discuss, centerpieces to build, dresses to alter, makeup to test, hairstyles to try, kiss wish-lists to craft, and Cleo’s un-vitation to draft.

  Hhh-ugh!

  Her headboard—a chain-link fence she’d spray-painted gold—rattled as Clawd grunt-dropped his weights.

  “Enough, already!” she shouted, banging on the wall. “It’s dark out. The normies are gone. Let’s gooooooo!”

  The sticky rip of Velcro separating meant he was taking off his gloves. Awoooo! Five minutes in the shower, and big bro was finally ready. Clawdeen slipped on her crimson suede flats and grabbed her suitcase, video camera, sewing kit, glue gun, glitter paints, and the Sassy dress she’d been working on, in case they had to make anoth
er run for it. Preparing for the worst wasn’t something she’d ordinarily do, but two days in gift shop garb will do that to a girl.

  “Let me go first,” Clawd said, holding back his sister with a freshly pumped-up forearm. Sandalwood-scented aftershave, along with strands of brown hair, clung to his blazer. He reached for the brass doorknob with the shaky apprehension of a horror-film actor.

  Clawdeen giggled. “A little dramatic, don’tcha think?”

  “Says the girl with the luggage.”

  Clawdeen pushed past him and opened the door herself. The night breeze, a cool kiss on the cheek, was refreshing compared to the stale air of an abandoned house.

  Something about the neighborhood was different—borderline eerie. Avoiding the streetlamps, they trespassed from one neighbor’s lawn to the next. Peering inside windows and rapping lightly on panes with their fingernails.

  Signs of life were everywhere: recycle bins left curbside, kitchen lights on, dinner tables set, food in serving dishes. TVs tuned to Channel Two, muddy sneakers by front doors, bicycles in driveways…. The only things missing were the lives themselves.

  “Where is everyone?” Clawdeen asked, tapping the mermaid knocker on Blue’s side door. The dolphin fountains in the yard were still spurting water, and the jets in the black-bottomed pools were whipping up frothy bubbles. “It’s like everyone… vanished.”

  “Have you tried calling?”

  Clawdeen shot him a did-you-honestly-just-ask-me-such-a-stupid-question? glare.

  The bloodred leaves of a Japanese maple rustled overhead. Clawd lifted a finger to his lips and held his sister by the sleeve.

  “Relax,” Clawdeen muttered, heart thumping. “It’s just the wind.”

  “No,” he insisted, cocking his ear toward the street. “I hear footsteps.”

  Clawdeen knew better than to argue with her brother about his keen sense of hearing. It was even better than hers. She peered past his shoulder.

  “It’s a girl. She’s running… wearing sneakers… sniffling… sick… no, not sick… crying. Stand back!” He forced her against the cold glass exterior of Aunt Coral’s house.

  Just then Melody Carver ran past the yard. Clawdeen’s chest inflated with joy.

  “Mel—” she began to yelp. Clawd covered her mouth.

  “Are you crazy?”

  Clawdeen licked his salty palm until he removed it. “Why do you think she was crying? Maybe she knows something. We should find her and…”

  “She’s a normie. We can’t trust her. Besides, what’s she gonna know?”

  Clawdeen considered reminding him that Melody was dating Jackson. That she was on their side. And that being a normie didn’t automatically make someone an enemy. She had twenty-seven yes RSVPs to prove it. But Clawd seemed too rattled to listen to reason. Funny, since their father had put him in charge. “Well, we can’t give up yet.”

  “Fine. One more house. How about…” He paused as if contemplating and then casually suggested Lala’s.

  Zigzagging up the block, they walked in what felt like an endless W. Up the side of one house, down the next, up one, down the next, with Clawdeen dragging her suitcase over uncut grass.

  Finally, the old Victorian was next. Hidden under a canopy of branches and maple leaves, Lala’s house was the best concealed on the block. The inside was always dark, but the flicker from Uncle Vlad’s candelabra usually filled it with life. Tonight there were no flickers. There was no sign of life.

  Car lights shone at the top of the block. “Follow me,” Clawd hissed, disappearing under the trees.

  Clawdeen tried, but the wheels of her suitcase kept jamming. She yanked. “I’m trying.”

  The lights were getting closer. Clawd doubled back, lifted the suitcase with one hand, and dragged his sister behind a maple tree with the other. Seconds later, a BMW sedan with the license plate KRAMER 1 rolled by slowly, as if searching for something… or someone.

  “We have to get out of here,” Clawd insisted.

  “What about Lala?”

  “She’s obviously not home,” he said, tilting his head toward the still house.

  “Let’s try the underground. Maybe they’re hiding there.”

  “Might as well.” Clawd smacked a falling leaf. “It’s not like we can go home now.”

  The eight-block drive to the Riverfront was postapocalyptic. Salem was lifeless, ghostly.

  “I’m glad we’re here,” Clawdeen said, glancing at Clawd’s profile as he gripped the wheel. His facial features were perfectly proportioned. His eyes weren’t spread out like Rocks’s. His nose wasn’t as wide as Howie’s. And his lips were full, but not puffy like Nino’s. Even Clawd’s cheekbones were the perfect height. Compared to Don’s, they were like bunk beds next to a California king.

  “Admit it, you’re glad I came.”

  “That depends,” he said, refusing to take his eyes off the barren road ahead.

  “On what?”

  “On whether I get you home safely.”

  “Clawd, I’m only a year younger than you. You can stop worrying about me,” she insisted. But she knew his concern went deeper than that. Worrying about women was instinctive for the Wolfs. The males were stronger. Their hearing was better. They ran faster. Those were the facts. Still, bravery and brains counted for something, and Clawdeen had come fully loaded with those.

  Once inside the RADs’ headquarters at RIP, the siblings stood and stared at the stone pile of credit cards and cell phones.

  “That would explain the unanswered phone calls,” Clawdeen mumbled.

  Clawd was too stunned to respond. They walked back to the car in silence.

  Had her friends really left town? An entire community wiped out by a TV show? Where was their courage? Their pride? Their etiquette? Didn’t they know it was rude to bail on a function after RSVP’ing yes?

  “My Sassy is so not happening,” Clawdeen sobbed on the drive home.

  Clawd looked at her incredulously. “That’s what you’re worried about? Your party?”

  “No.” She sniffled. It wasn’t all she was worried about, but it was up there. For once something was going to be all about her. Not her brothers, her friends, the family business, or the RADs. Just her. Clawdeen Lucia Wolf. Not that she’d ever admit it to someone who was happy with a twelve-pack of sweat socks and a box of powdered doughnuts for his birthday. “I’m just saying, we have to find everyone. We have to bring them back and make things normal again.”

  “If by we you mean two other people, then I agree. Because you’re heading back tonight. Our instincts to hide were right. It’s obviously not safe, or everyone would still be here.”

  “What about you?”

  “Coach said I could stay with him tonight.” Out of habit, Clawd turned onto Radcliffe Way. He quickly reversed and headed for their new spot three blocks over. “I’m picking up my uniform, then I’m taking you back to the inn.”

  “Well, if you’re staying, I’m staying.”

  “Over my hairy body,” Clawd said, turning off the car. “I’m not taking responsibility for you anymore. It’s too much pressure. I have to focus on football and…”

  In an act of desperation, Clawdeen pulled the keys out of the ignition, jumped out of the car, and chucked them into the ravine.

  “Looks like we’re both staying now.”

  Clawd hurried to the edge of the brush but knew it was too dark. Exasperated, he grabbed fistfuls of his own hair and pulled. “Are you insane?”

  Thrumming with adrenaline, Clawdeen began making her way back home. Insane was probably the right word, but she preferred determined.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HOOKY MONSTER

  Frankie and Cleo stood frozen in disbelief at the head of the concrete path that led to the mustard-yellow building. The lawn was abuzz with demonstrations. If a March on Washington were to take place on Halloween, it would look like Merston High that Monday morning.

  To the left, a smattering of RAD supporters wore monster
costumes and chanted, “Don’t hate, tol-er-ate! It’s un-NUDI to discriminate!” Frankie recognized Melody’s sister, Candace, instantly. She had cut holes in a rhinestone-studded sleep mask and wore a normie-flesh-toned bodysuit with the word NUDI written in fuchsia lipstick where bikini tops usually go. Two of her friends were raising a skull-and-crossbones flag up the flagpole.

  “What do pirates have to do with this?” Cleo asked.

  “Ayyyye dunno,” Frankie tried in her best pirate voice. “But it’s pretty voltage! They’re taking our side. I wish Blue, Lala, and Clawdeen were around to see this.”

  “Yeah, all five of them are taking our side. Golden,” Cleo hissed, and then began making her way up the path, purposely trying to stay a few steps ahead of Frankie.

  But what did Frankie expect? They’d only walked to school together because no one else was around. All they had in common was a fear of being exposed.

  Frankie was the new girl. A product of modern technology; a hint of things to come. Cleo, on the other hand, was ancient royalty. Her handbag held priceless gems. Frankie’s? Batteries. The amber-scented princess was wearing gold wedges, army-green jeggings, a long camel-colored tank, an ivory faux-fur vest, and sleeves of jingling, mismatched bangles. Her outfit was red carpet, while Frankie’s turtleneck dress was more like wall-to-wall. But she didn’t have the luxury of obsessing over the superficial. Not today.

  To their right, a group of sixty-plus parents and students, led by normie Bekka Madden, chanted, “Keep us all safe from harm, send the monsters to a farm!” The wack-tivist even tried comedy: “Did you hear about the Steins’ hockey game? There was a face-off in the corner!” Her followers cheered her on, jabbing MONSTER HIGH signs through the thinning morning fog, looking pleased with themselves. As if their wannabe-clever trick—rearranging the letters in their school’s name—was Pulitzer-worthy. Frankie couldn’t help wondering what side of the lawn Brett would choose. Today was the day she’d find out. She managed to slip her fingers inside the sleeves of her dress right before they sparked.