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

by Lisi Harrison

  “Is that normie fur real?” Cleo asked, borrowing Clawdeen’s favorite expression.

  The scene reminded Frankie of her first high school experience. Ignoring her parents’ advice, she had arrived makeup-free and scared the pom-poms off a group of cheerleaders. Thankfully, it was a Sunday, the school was in another town, and she had escaped unharmed. Sort of. Mentally, Frankie was scarred; her pride was wounded, confidence shot. Why did people like Bekka Madden get to decide what was acceptable and what wasn’t?

  “You’re not going to believe it,” said Billy, suddenly joining them.

  “Ahhh!” yelped Frankie, startled.

  “Daryl Komen and Eli Shaw are giving people monster tests by the sophomore lockers.”

  “Go onnnn,” muttered Cleo, like a spy.

  “Yeah, what’s a monster test?” Frankie asked, directing the question at Cleo instead of the Starburst-scented air, in case anyone was watching. She knew they were safe for now—their identities hadn’t been revealed on TV—but this was hardly the day to get caught with an invisible friend.

  “They’re checking mouths for fangs, pulling off sunglasses… that kind of thing.”

  “Thank Geb I wasn’t in that film,” Cleo said, twirling a chunky blond highlight around her self-righteous fingers.

  “Speaking of which,” Billy said, gripping the top of Frankie’s head and angling it toward the parking lot. Heath Burns was getting out of his sister’s blue Prius. Brett, who always rode with them, was not. “Look who decided to skip school today. Told you he was guilty.”

  Frankie’s heart space clenched. Did Billy have to sound so amped about it?

  “Heath!” she called, taking off without saying good-bye.

  He turned. “Oh, hey.” He smiled, relieved. His eyes darted across the lawn. “Y-you okay?” he asked quietly.

  “Fine, you?”

  He nodded, then thumb-flicked a white Tums into his mouth, obviously trying to keep his fire-burps under control.

  “Is this freaky or what?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the demonstrators. “Guess I’m lucky I was working the camera, or I would have been exposed too.”

  “Where’s Brett?”

  Heath pulled her toward the Prius, refusing to answer until he was out of earshot.

  “Have you seen him?” Frankie tried again.

  He bit into another chalky tablet and then shook his head. “Not since…”

  “Do you think he set us up?”

  Rolling his eyes, he said, “My sister does. She never liked him. But I don’t think so.”

  “Have you tried calling him?”

  “Voice mail every time. You?”

  “I don’t have his contact info. It was in my old phone, and…” Frankie stopped herself, wondering if the excuse sounded as silly to him as it had to her. After all, she was made of synthetic body parts. Fueled by electricity. Kept alive by a rockin’ handbag. If technology was capable of all that, shouldn’t she be able to track down a cell?

  Heath thumbed through his mobile and then sighed. “I hope he’s okay.”

  Okay?

  Never once had Frankie considered the possibility that Brett might be in danger. Not that she wanted him to be hurt. But if he was, that would mean he hadn’t betrayed her. He and Bekka would not be in cahoots with Hollywood. Her mother would be wrong about “sticking to her own kind.” And she would be free to crush on him again, to save him the way he’d saved her. A dam burst inside Frankie. Hope surged toward her heart space.

  Heath rattled off Brett’s number just as the first bell rang. Protesters tucked their signs under their arms and began racing up the steps.

  “Let me know if you hear anything,” said the pin-thin redhead, flipping up his green hood and hurrying toward the entrance.

  Frankie stayed by the Prius. Once her fingers stopped sparking, she began composing her text.

  U OK?

  (Delete.) She sounded too concerned. What if Brett had betrayed her?

  HEATH IS WORRIED ABOUT U. PLS CALL.

  (Delete.) He might call Heath and not her.

  I DESERVE AN EXPLANATION, DON’TCHA THINK?

  (Delete.) Too angry. What if he’s in trouble?

  KNOCK ONCE FOR DANGER. TWICE FOR BETRAYAL.

  (Delete.) Too glib.

  LOVE TO HEAR UR SIDE OF THE STORY.

  The final bell rang. Frankie’s thumb hovered over the SEND button. Was this the one? She read it one last time. The tone seemed free of judgment, curious in case he was innocent, yet firm in case he wasn’t.

  She hit SEND and waited… and waited… and waited….

  Checking her phone every forty-five seconds didn’t pay off until the end of third period, when Brett finally wrote back. Starving, Frankie devoured the white conversation bubble in a single glance.

  BRETT: CAN’T HELP U. DON’T CONTACT ME AGAIN.

  Limp with disappointment, Frankie couldn’t bring herself to respond. There was nothing more to say. His bubble was clear. Hers had burst.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LOOTY CALL

  Vroooom. Vrooom.

  Melody woke to the sound of a revving motorcycle. Eyes stinging, insides weighted with sorrow. Something distressing had happened the night before. Her body remembered, but her mind was too hazy to recall the details.

  Vroooom. Vrooom. That grating noise had to go. She buried her head under her pillow. And then, in a flash of clarity, she recognized her own ringtone. Please be Jackson. She fumbled around her lavender sheets and found her iPhone. “Hullo?”

  “Where are you?”

  Melody flopped back down and closed her eyes. “Hey, Candace.” She peered outside to gauge the hour. The view was darkened by the caramel-colored tint on the pane. “What time is it?”

  “One thirty. Peee-em! Haven’t you been reading your texts?”

  “Melly,” Candace continued. “Do I need to have you examined? I’ll call a doctor if you want. Just don’t die while Mom and Dad are away. They’ll never leave me in charge again.”

  “I’m fine,” Melody grumbled. A bird feather—dusty blue and olive, with a golden tip—landed on her thigh. She was still wearing the striped J.Crew pajamas. The ones she wore last night… when she ran out on dinner….Suddenly, the details came rushing back.

  The knowing glance her parents had exchanged when she asked if Glory was her birth mother… the probability that she was adopted… skipping out on the Kramers… seeing Clawdeen and her brother getting into a car… hiding in the bushes because she didn’t want them to see her cry (which must explain the bird feather)… waiting outside until the Kramers left… stomping past her parents and heading straight for bed… insisting they leave, even though they offered to cancel their trip… pretending to be asleep when they kissed her good-bye at four thirty AM before heading to the airport… ignoring Candace when she came in to wake her up for school….

  The fifth-period bell bwooped in the background. “Gotta go,” Candace said into the phone. “Oh, by the way, you owe me big for leaving me with those Kramers. Either they didn’t think the ‘Mia Rosen’s face-plant off the high dive’ was a funny story, or they rode the Botox bus to Cannotsmile Station. I swear, it was like eating at Madame Tussauds.” The bell bwooped again. “Candace out.”

  After a much-needed shower, Melody contemplated her next move over a bowl of Cap’n Crunch’s Crunch Berries.

  What would Jackson do? (Crunch, crunch, crunch.) What would Jackson do? (Crunch, crunch, crunch.) What would Jackson do? (Crunch, crunch, crunch.) A valid question, since Ms. J had kept the truth from him too, simply never bothering to mention that he was a RAD who was sharing a body with D.J. Hyde. Yet he had handled the situation with bravery and grace. He’d sought the answers, accepted them, and then adapted. Seek, accept, adapt… three principles Melody had resisted her entire life. Typically, she sat back and hoped things would change because they were unjust. Bullies, liars, snobs… the universe would even the score eventually. When it didn’t, she would become cynic
al and angry. Then withdrawn. Never once had she considered changing things herself. Until now.

  Until Jackson.

  Light-headed from her day of sleeping—or was it her night of crying?—Melody stepped out onto the sun-soaked street in search of answers. She had traded her striped pajamas for a fitted military jacket (thanks, Candace!), faded thrift-shop Wranglers, pink Converse, and a look of determination. Her black hair was in a sleek let’s-get-down-to-business ponytail, and her narrow gray eyes were dry. She could practically hear Jackson cheering her on.

  Regal and stoic, 32 Radcliffe Way seemed more intimidating than usual. It had taken on the appearance of a sprawling, three-story vault. Dutifully guarding the person who held the secrets of her past. Finger trembling, Melody pressed the doorbell and took a step back. Soft bells chimed on the other side. A security camera lens was the first to greet her. The bald, dark-skinned man she had come to see was second. Lips pursed, he smiled. Had he been expecting her?

  “Melody, right?” he asked, with a mild Middle Eastern accent.

  She nodded.

  “Cleo’s at school.” He paused. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, I’m here to see you.” She stepped inside the dimly lit anteroom. A second door, the one that opened into the house, was shut. Upholstered benches offered a respite for those not welcomed inside.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a bench. He smoothed the front of his white tunic, sat across from her, and waited for her to speak.

  “So, um, I’ve been thinking about what you said, you know, at the photo shoot last week….” Melody’s mouth dried. “You know, about Marina.”

  “Ah, yes.” He smacked his thigh playfully. “Marina. The woman who is not your mother.”

  “Well, that’s just it. It turns out she might be—”

  The front door clicked open. Amber-scented perfume seeped in. Cleo followed.

  “Melody?” She dropped her gold metallic tote on the reed carpet. Her ivory faux-fur vest and jingling bangles were proof that she was not lying low like the other RADs. “Hey, why weren’t you at school today?” asked the princess, tossing her black-and-gold-streaked hair.

  “I wasn’t feeling so great.”

  “Maybe some fresh air will do you both good,” Manu suggested.

  Cleo rolled her kohl-lined eyes, kissed his bald head, and giggled. “I swear, you sound like Father.”

  Manu stood and placed his arm around Cleo’s shoulder and gave her a loving squeeze. “I have helped raise you since you were born,” he said. And then to Melody: “You know, a person doesn’t have to be biologically linked to a child to be a parent. At the same time, biological parents aren’t always the best ones to raise us. Families come in many forms. What’s important is that we feel loved and—”

  “All right, all right, wrap it up,” Cleo joked, like someone who had heard this many times before.

  “But wait,” Melody said urgently. “What if that person who is being raised by nonbiological parents wants to know more? You know, about her real past and why she… or he was being lied to?”

  “No one is lying to me,” Cleo said, her eyebrows knit in confusion.

  “Then that person should find the courage to speak to her parents,” Manu said.

  “But—”

  “For the love of Geb, there’s nothing to speak about! My dad travels. I love staying with Manu. It’s all golden. Now can we please talk about something that matters? My best friends are gone, and Deuce has been in Greece for”—Cleo checked her phone—“eleven hours and hasn’t called yet.”

  “You’re right,” Manu said, turning the scarab knob on the inner door and stepping into the grand foyer. “I’ll leave you girls to more important matters.”

  “Manu, wait,” Melody started, unsatisfied with his clichéd speech about family. But the door closed behind him, and he was gone.

  Cleo smoothed the ivory faux fur on her vest and pouted. “What’s the point of cute outfits if no one is around to admire them?”

  Melody sighed disappointedly.

  “Don’t worry,” Cleo assured her. “I was just being rhetorical. I’ll still wear them.”

  All of a sudden, a familiar female voice blasted through the neighborhood. “HERE WE HAVE THE HOUSE WHERE DRACULA’S SPAWN RESIDES….”

  Melody and Cleo bolted outside.

  Bekka Madden was standing on Lala’s mossy front lawn, clutching a bullhorn and posing with six girls while her sidekick, Haylee, took their picture. Bekka’s brown bob had been wrestled into stumpy pigtails, and her usual farm-girl chic had been replaced with a pair of sensible black slacks and a white blouse. She looked like a nun on casual Friday.

  “Help yourself to a souvenir from the property,” she offered. “For an extra five dollars, Haylee will photograph your treasure in front of the house to prove authenticity—which you’ll need if you want to sell it on eBay.”

  The girls scoured the grounds for the perfect keepsake.

  “This is total ka!” Cleo hissed.

  Melody had no idea what ka meant, but she was just as vexed.

  “You’re trespassing!” Cleo called, stomping across the street. “Get off Lala’s property or I’m calling the police.”

  The girls froze and looked to their tour guide for further instruction.

  “Look who it is.” Bekka tapped her nails on the bullhorn. “Ignore her,” she called to the six girls. “Taking pictures is not a crime.”

  Cleo placed her hand on her hip. “Well, murder is, and I’m going to kill you if you don’t get out of here.”

  “I have a permit,” Bekka announced. She snapped her fingers at Haylee. “Show them.”

  “Show them what?”

  “The permit,” Bekka insisted. “I put it in there when we left the courthouse. Re-mem-ber?” She gritted her teeth.

  “Oh yeah,” Haylee said, adjusting her beige cat-eye glasses. The mousy sidekick began rifling through her crocodile attaché case. Meanwhile, behind them, the girls were hard at work. One tucked Lala’s black doormat under her arm while another began unscrewing the house numbers with a metal nail file. She yanked the 3 loose and quickly went to work on the 7.

  Melody spoke up. “Bekka, what you’re doing is cruel. Even for you.”

  “No way!” Bekka knocked her forehead. “I can’t believe it took me so long to figure this out.”

  “Figure what out?” Cleo asked, backing away nervously.

  “Just when you think you’ve seen it all…” Bekka called, splaying her arm like a ringmaster. “I give you two actual monsters!”

  Cleo gasped. Once again, the girls froze.

  Fury and vitriol churned inside Melody. “What are you talking about, Bekka?” she yelled. And then to the girls, “Do you actually believe her?”

  “Of course they believe me,” Bekka shouted through the bullhorn. “Why shouldn’t they? You both live on this street. You date known monsters. Ergo, either you are monsters or you know where they’re hiding.”

  Cleo, tooth-scraping the gloss off her quivering bottom lip, took a step closer to Melody. Bekka had no shortage of unappealing qualities, but stupidity wasn’t one of them.

  “These people you’re exploiting are harmless,” Melody said, more to Haylee and the girls than to Bekka. “They went on TV to show you that they’re not going to hurt anyone, and this is how you respond?” An image of Jackson hiding out in some damp, dark basement—alone, without cell service, without her—made her insides lurch. “GET OUT OF HERE!” she yelled.

  Birds launched off Lala’s maple and flapped away. Oddly enough, Bekka, Haylee, and their six-pack followed, scampering up the street like frightened deer.

  “How did you do that?” Cleo asked.

  “I have no idea,” Melody admitted as a feather—shimmering muted blues and greens, with a golden tip—drifted onto her shoulder. Absentmindedly, she brushed it to the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Cleo asked, picking it up and holding it
to the sunlight. “This thing is awesome.”

  “Yeah,” Melody mumbled, her thoughts drifting back to the power of her voice and Manu.

  “What bird is this from?”

  Melody shrugged.

  Cleo held it against her collarbone. “How royal would this look as a necklace?”

  As a second feather landed on Melody’s arm, Cleo quickly snatched it up. She lifted the pair to her head. “Or earrings?”

  Melody nodded.

  “Can I have them?” Cleo asked, walking backward as she crossed the street to her house.

  Melody stayed put. She wanted to be alone. Needed to process. Needed more clarity. “Go for it.”

  “MONSTERS!” Bekka shouted one last time from the top of the block. “Just wait! I’m gonna prove it!”

  “Let me know when you do!” Melody yelled back, meaning it. Maybe then she’d have some answers.

  CHAPTER TEN

  LORD OF THE FLEAS

  While normie kids were enjoying after-school snacks and updating their Facebook pages to the smell of dinner cooking, Clawdeen was on all fours, searching the ravine for the Jetta keys. Keys she had tossed the night before because she didn’t want Clawd to take her back to the inn. Which, after five hours in a twiggy, leafy, ant-infested, deer poo–peppered gully, no longer seemed like such a bad idea. Compared to this, the inn had been upgraded to spa status. Hopefully, Clawd would return from his football game with good news. If not, the whole we-have-to-run-back-to-the-inn-and-then-return-with-the-spare-keys news might not sit so well.

  Focus, Clawdeen thought, blinking away her negativity. Clear your mind and become one with the keys. Focus. Look. Feel…. A mosquito pierced the back of her ear. (Smack!) The bugs were loving her new black-currant body wash. The latest buy for her Sassy Sixteen, the signature scent would help ring in a new year and maybe attract a guy… or ten. But who knew if her party would even happen now? Her parents seemed to think it was over, but she refused to—

  “We’ll head back tomorrow, free of charge,” said a girl in the distance. Clawdeen’s supersensitive ears perked up. “Bring bikinis. We’ll hit up Blue’s house and go for a swim.”