Blue’s house? Who is going to Blue’s house? Is she back?
After a round of yays, thank yous, and smoochy sounds, the group—which sounded no larger than eight—separated. Most continued up the street while two, wearing some seriously unattractive-sounding footwear, rounded the corner toward Clawdeen. She crouched behind a tree and peered up at the sidewalk. Still, they were too far away for her to identify.
“Mark the time and day,” insisted the girl speedily, her voice getting louder, closer. “I’m officially going on the record saying those two are hiding something. Something big.”
Clawdeen finally got a visual. It was Bekka Madden, dictating her thoughts to her curiously devoted friend Haylee.
“And I’m going to expose it,” Bekka said. “They think they scared us just now, but it’s them that should be scared.”
“Who,” Haylee said.
“Cleo and Melody,” Bekka snapped.
Cleo is here? Clawdeen wondered.
“No, I mean it’s them who should be scared. Not them that should be scared.”
Clawdeen began to growl under her breath. No one threatened her sort-of friend and ex-friend and got away with it—especially not that vengeful normie.
“I bet they’re still standing in the middle of their street laughing. But we’ll have the last laugh when…”
Standing in the middle of their street? Omigod! Clawdeen fought every urge to jump from the ravine, scratch Bekka’s white blouse to ribbons, and charge into the street. She had to warn her friends. Had to stop Bekka. Had to find the keys. Had to…
“Look,” said Haylee, pointing at the tree. Clawdeen held her breath, sucked in her stomach, and squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn’t afraid of being captured. Outrunning them would be simple. It was their camera she feared. A shot of “werewolf girl” lurking in the ravine would make proving her harmlessness even more difficult. The damage to her RSVP list could be irreparable. Her black currant would have been wasted on the mosquitoes….
Footsteps crunched toward her. The girls were getting closer. She could hear their beating hearts. One thumped genuine curiosity—babumbabumbabum; the other, revenge—ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum.
The pair approached the tree. Leaned closer. Paused. The anticipation made Clawdeen squirm. Something was crawling up the side of her neck. It was gearing up to bite her. She let it. It itched. She imagined scratching it. It still itched. She imagined scratching it with a rake. She wondered how fast she’d have to run to become invisible.
Bekka shook a branch. Dried leaves rained down around her. “Come to mama,” she cooed, clearly delighting in the thrill of intimidation. They’ve found me! Now what? “Don’t be afraid. Come on.” Kissy sounds popped off Bekka’s thin lips like she was calling a dog. This girl was more frightening than a monster could ever be.
Haylee clapped her hands together. “Got ’em!”
Clawdeen’s ears tensed. The sound of two metal objects being rubbed together filled her with panic. Are they knives? Silver bullets?
“Looks like they belong to that Jetta.”
The keys!
“Where are you going?” asked Bekka.
“To put them on top of the car. Someone obviously lost them. Should we leave a note?”
“Gimme those,” Bekka insisted.
No!
“That’s the Wolfs’ car.” She threw the keys. They landed on Clawdeen’s toes. “Ha! Let’s see them escape now.”
Once Bekka and Haylee were gone, Clawdeen scooped up the keys and hurried through the ravine, on her way to find Cleo. She was so excited to make contact that she almost forgot her anger. But it quickly came back when she reminded herself that the queen bee-otch was, for some strange reason, on Bekka’s side.
Awooo awoooo. Reeeow reeeow. Awooo awoooo. Reeeow reeeow.
Clawdeen stood in the flower beds beneath Cleo’s bedroom window, howling their secret wolf-calling-a-cat call. They’d used it to summon each other back in elementary school, before they got cells. That heap of stone phones at RIP told her it was probably wise to revive it.
Awooo awoooo. Reeeow reeeow. Awooo awoooo. Reeeow reeeow.
All of a sudden someone sneaked up and grabbed her from behind. The assailant smelled like amber.
“For the love of Geb, where have you been?” Cleo asked, beaming. “You’ve completely fallen off the grid! Wait, don’t tell me you’re still out of service at the Hideout.”
Clawdeen took a distancing step back. “How could you do this to us?” she asked, her jeans stained with mud. “You and that normie Bekka—”
“Ka!” Cleo giggled, waving Clawdeen’s anger away like a pesky fly. “Everyone knows I’m innocent. I cleared my name before everyone took off. But since you weren’t there, I’ll give you the thirty-second wrap-up. Iwantedtoshutdownthemoviesoyouwouldmodelwithme. Guilty. I admit it. Bekkawasgoingtohelpmeeraseit. Guilty. Admitted. ThenIhearditwasn’tgoingtoair. Problem solved. SoIbailedonthenormie. She did the rest. I had no clue. Now can we move on?” Cleo clapped her hands, opened her arms wide, and hugged Clawdeen, who didn’t have a chance to answer. Then Cleo linked arms with her friend and began strolling across the lawn as if nothing had ever happened.
And in the name of best friendship with a royal, Clawdeen knew it was best to pretend nothing had. “So everyone left? Where did they go?”
“Deucey went to Greece on one of Mr. D’s private jets. Saying good-bye in front of my dad was double unsatisfying and triple awkward.”
“Did Jackson leave too? Is that why Melody was running around in her pajamas crying the other night?”
“Ha! True, she does dress like a Snuggie model, but don’t let her sleepover style fool you. That normie has some serious sass-appeal. You should have seen her scare off Bekka. It was actually kind of weird,” Cleo said, her gold bangles jingling. “Speaking of, can you believe Deuce is gone?”
“So is my party if this whole thing doesn’t get fixed soon.”
“We promised to be exclusive, even when he’s in Greece, but I can’t help thinking he’s met someone else. Why else wouldn’t he call?”
Clawdeen speed-scratched her neck bites. “Where did Lala and Blue go? And what about Jackson? Do you think they’ll come back for my birthday?”
“I’ll tell you one thing.” Cleo stopped strolling to look Clawdeen in the eye. The late-afternoon sun reflected off her caramel-colored streaks and brightened her topaz eyes. She might be high maintenance, but there was no denying she was beautiful. “If I don’t hear from him by then, I’ll be making the rounds like Grey’s Anatomy. Exclusivity pledge or not.” Cleo began strolling again and sighed. “This whole thing is a major pain in the Aswan.”
Clawdeen sighed too. Having a typical free-for-all chat with Cleo felt better than a hot shower in a boy-free bathroom. It didn’t matter that they weren’t actually having a conversation; all that mattered was that they were together.
“We’ve got to go!” Clawd shouted, sprinting up Cleo’s lawn. He was still in his green-and-yellow football uniform, helmet under his arm. “Did you find the keys?”
Clawdeen tossed them to him.
“What keys?” Cleo asked, hating to not know the details.
“Come on, let’s move,” he insisted, pulling his sister by the arm. His palm was sweaty. His cheeks were flushed. He smelled like duct tape and sweat. “We have to get back to the inn.”
“Why?” she whined. Now that she had Cleo back, it was even harder to leave than before.
“Coach Donnelly set me up. He was trying to trap me. A few of the guys on the team warned me before the game, so I took off. He’s looking for me.”
Clawdeen speed-scratched her neck again. “But we haven’t even talked about centerpieces or—”
“Deenie, we have to go!” Clawd lifted her over his shoulder and began running.
“Wait!” Cleo called.
Clawdeen began hitting her brother’s back. “Put me down! I want to stay!”
“We’re a pack,” he
said, panting. “We stick together.”
“I don’t want to be a pack. I wanna be a lone wolf.”
He set her down beside the Jetta, opened the doors, and forced her inside.
“Normies are invading Blue’s house. Ours could be next!” Clawdeen tried.
“It’s just a house,” he said, slamming her door. He hurried to the driver’s side, put the key in the ignition, and peeled away from the curb.
“What about my friends? My life is here.”
“If it’s life you want, we need to get out of here. Fast!”
Clawd sped toward the inn, with Clawdeen strapped into the seat next to him.
Playing it safe. Just like always.
It was Tuesday after school, and Billy stood in a wood-framed tub wearing nothing but Candace’s purple-and-white-striped Victoria’s Secret boy shorts. Which on him fit more like baby-boy shorts. It was either those or her scant bikini bottoms, because Beau’s XL Calvins were out of the question. Billy had been working out lately, but not that much.
“Stop looking,” Billy said, cheeks burning.
Candace giggled. “I’m a professional.”
“Forget it.” Billy stepped onto the cold lip of the tub. “I can’t do this.” Not even Frankie Stein was worth this kind of humiliation.
“Come on! So far, so good. Don’t you want to see what the rest of you looks like?” Candace gently pushed him back into the tub.
“Not as much as you do,” Billy snapped.
He looked at Candace for a moment. Even in a baggy pair of her father’s old scrubs, wearing snowboard goggles and a shower cap, the girl was flawless. Not that flawless was his thing—he was more of a stitches-and-bolts kind of guy. But he admired Candace’s beauty and envied her confidence, especially now, moments before discovering his own potential. What if invisible was his best option?
“Remember; arms out, mouth closed, eyes closed. Only breathe when the machine is off.” Candace lowered the goggles over her eyes, stuffed a few errant blond strands under her plastic cap, and lifted what looked like a portable vacuum cleaner. “Inhale, exhale, and…” She aimed the hose at his chest, depressed the silver handle, and unleashed the tanning solution. “Arctic blast!”
Cold spray coated his chest. Billy wanted to scream, but he wasn’t allowed to breathe. Thankfully, the only mirrors in the Carvers’ upstairs bathroom were two small rectangles above the wood-paneled vanity: one over each basin. The tub was outside their range.
“The tan takes six hours to appear, but there’s bronzer in the mixture so we can see immediate results.” She turned off the hose. “Breathe.”
Billy exhaled. “How does it look?”
“Like someone’s been doing his crunches,” Candace said, impressed. “Mouth closed, eyes closed, only breathe when the machine is off, and here we go again.” Next she painted his legs, applying the spray in gentle brushstrokes, contouring and defining with the precision of a true artist. After a while Billy got used to the chilly blasts and even started to enjoy them. Each invigorating shot woke a different part of his body, yanked it off the bench, and forced it into the game.
Candace snapped off the hose, lifted her goggles, and took a step back. “Done.” Her expression gave nothing away.
“Well?”
“Hmmm.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Shh. Be quiet. I’m in the zone.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Let’s dye your hair next, put in the contacts, and then get you dressed.”
The following hour was a dizzying mix of chemical smells, Rihanna and Katy Perry tracks, and contemplative mmmms from Candace. Finally, she was done.
Her warm hand covered his eyes. She guided him, stumbling, into her bedroom.
“Ready?” she asked, stopping before her full-length mirror.
“Ready,” he answered, lying. The instant she moved her hand, Billy’s life would never be the same. He’d never be able to blame his lack of dates on anything but himself. Never get to pretend he was a chiseled god cursed to a life of loneliness. Never be able to eavesdrop or be the gossip go-to guy. He’d be fallible. Excuse-free. Normal.
“One… two… three…” Candace removed her hand. “Invisible out!”
Billy looked into her full-length mirror and gasped.
And for the first time in years, his reflection gasped back.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GOING GAGA
Frankie draped gray muslin curtains around the glass cage. Sewed five mini beanbags out of jewel-toned fabric samples and filled them with uncooked couscous. Brightened up the sawdust by mixing in some orange and fuchsia flower petals. And winterized the lab rats’ coats by replacing their summery multicolored glitter with shimmering coal-colored flecks. The Glitterati’s Extreme Home Makeover was complete.
Now what?
Her homework was done. Her room was clean. Tomorrow’s outfit had been selected. If she didn’t come up with another distraction—fast—her thoughts would wander back to Brett. His absences from school… dismissive text… heartless betrayal… denim-blue eyes… STOP! If only she had someone to talk to. But Cleo spent most of her time with Julia and their normie friends, Melody was a no-show for the second day in a row, and Billy wasn’t an option—at least not in public. Not that missing the guy who had crushed her was something she wanted to advertise. But Frankie watched Gossip Girl. She knew that other girls, even rich normies, missed heartbreakers too.
Something rapped lightly against her window. Rain again? Soft knocks followed. Brett? Frankie approached slowly, hoping it might be him. Then she pinched her arm for hoping. The sharp nip was less painful than the stab of disappointment.
Something—a stick of gum?—was pressed against the frosted pane. She looked up and squinted. Her fingertips tingled. Did it say… Gaga?
Frankie dragged over the stepladder, climbed up, and pushed the window open. The mysterious object fell to the ground. Hanging out the window, she looked closer. Was it really? A ticket to the sold-out Lady Gaga concert?
OmiGaga!
She extended her arm, but the ticket moved beyond her reach. Frankie shimmied out the window and tried a second time. It moved again. She scanned the cul-de-sac for an explanation.
The leaves were still; the orange-and-navy sky, clear. It couldn’t have been the wind. She bent down, and the ticket slithered away. Is this some kind of joke? Or worse? What if it’s a trap? Earlier that day Cleo mentioned that Coach Donnelly had tried to trick Clawd. What if the coach knew about her disguise?
Am I next on his hit list?
Summoning every last ounce of willpower, Frankie turned away from the ticket and raced for the house.
“Wait!” called a familiar voice. “Frankie, it’s me.”
Billy?
She stopped and turned.
But the guy walking toward her, dragging the ticket by a piece of fishing wire, was sooo not Billy. For one thing, she could see him. For two things, he wasn’t nakie. And for three things, he looked like an Abercrombie model from planet Hot! One step closer and her normie-colored makeup would melt.
Backing away, she noted his ability to turn a simple olive-colored tee, dark-wash Diesels, and vintage white Adidas into the best Brett distraction of the day. His wavy hair, thick-but-not-Jonas-thick brows, and almond-shaped eyes were espresso brown. His toned arms were the color of caramel; his teeth were whipped-cream white. Tempting, steamy, and out of her league, he could have been added to the menu at Starbucks. Still, Frankie continued to back away.
“Stop moving, will ya?” he said, his kind voice unmistakably Billy-like.
“But how—?”
“Candace helped me,” he said, leaning against the concrete exterior of her house. The sun was dipping below the horizon. It cast a warm orange glow on the neighborhood and lit him like art. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled shyly. “So, what do you think?”
“Good.” She giggled nervously.
“Good?”
Frankie spar
ked.
“I mean, voltage.” Frankie blushed, suddenly too shy to make eye contact. Why was she wearing old pink sweats and UGGs? And why did she care? This was Billy. Her buddy. Only he looked more like an actor who might play Billy if their lives ever became a movie. But he was still the same guy, and that guy didn’t care what she was wearing. He never had. Why should she?
“So, are you going to register for school now?” she asked, trying to make things feel normal.
“Hmmm,” he said, with a sexy half-smile. “I never thought about that.” He pulled a roll of Starburst out of his side pocket and offered her one. It happened to be green. They giggled.
“So, what’s it like to have a place to store things?” Frankie asked, chewing the lime-flavored candy.
“Great,” he said, unwrapping a pink square. “I have all kinds of things in here.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out another ticket. “What are you doing October thirtieth?”
“They’re real?”
He nodded.
“Really?”
Billy nodded again.
“Mint!” Frankie yelled, pulling him in for a hug. He hugged her back with every muscle in his arms. “I love that you’re not nakie anymore.”
“Me too,” he said softly. His breath smelled like sweet strawberries.
She squeezed tighter and grinned. It was easy to stick to her own kind when her own kind looked like this.
CHAPTER TWELVE
J WALKING
Melody snapped open her locker for the first time all week. She had been living for biology ever since she said good-bye to Jackson at the coffee shop. Seeing Ms. J would help her feel connected to him. Maybe Jackson’s mom would deliver a secret love note from him. Or invite Melody to meet them for another clandestine meeting, or—
“I like to be fashionably late, but you’re, like, on couture time,” Cleo joked, the olive-and-blue bird feathers dangling from her ears.
“Those feathers actually look cute,” Melody said, slamming her locker shut.
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