Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever

by Lisi Harrison

“Thanks, man,” Jackson said, wrapping a protective arm around Melody. “I can take it from here.”

  Before she had a chance to thank the stranger or even get a decent look at him, Jackson had led her into a dark corner. “You okay?”

  Melody nodded, reaching for his bottle of water.

  “What happened to you tonight?” he asked, hazel eyes wide with concern. “You said you were going to be at the meeting and—”

  “Sound check ran long,” Melody said, straining to spot her mysterious savior amid the flashing lights and shifting bodies. “I’m sorry. I should have called, but…”

  “The show was great,” he said with a sincere smile. “You were great.”

  “I was?” Melody asked, surprised. He’s not mad?

  “Better than great. You should have heard what people were saying about you.” The concern in his eyes morphed into pride. He’s not mad!

  Melody lifted herself onto her toes and kissed his soft lips. An apology for underestimating his coolness. And another for showing up in her favorite denim jacket, even though it was hot in there.

  “So.” Jackson quickly pulled away. “I’ve got some great news.”

  “What?” Melody asked, arms still clasped behind his back.

  “I was going to tell you at the meeting, but—”

  “Melly!” Sage called.

  Melody giggled as the guitarist danced toward her. As usual, Sage looked like a Teen Vogue version of rock. Thick black hair, dark red lipstick, ironic T-shirt, ironic tutu, and motorcycle boots. Her dark eyes and cocoa-colored Neutrogena skin reminded Melody of a chocolate-covered almond: smooth and impossible to resist. She was too pretty for rock, too cool for pop. And she was calling Melody’s name!

  Melody turned away from Jackson and signaled for Sage to come over.

  Jackson broke free of Melody’s grip.

  “What?”

  “I was about to tell you.”

  Melody giggled at her thoughtlessness. “Omigod, I’m so sorry, you’re right. What is it?”

  Jackson’s face illuminated. “We got them!”

  Them? “You mean the leather bracelets we ordered?”

  Jackson shook his head. “The jobs.”

  Jobs?

  “At Camp Crescendo. We got them!”

  Melody’s thoughts shifted and locked. Oh yeah, camp. “That’s great!” she said.

  He leaned down and kissed her sweetly. “Think about it. Two months, just you and me. Camping, singing, painting—”

  Sage slung her arms around Melody and squeezed.

  “You bolted so fast that we never got to tell you what an awesome gig that was,” Sage yelled into her ear. Then she greeted Jackson with a fist bump. “Cici and Nine are backstage looking for you.”

  “Sorry, I just wanted to find Jackson before—”

  “This is Granite,” Sage announced.

  A boy—the boy—in the leather jacket leaned forward, flashed the side of his hand, and leaned back. Something zapped Melody’s insides. It felt like she’d run into an electric fence.

  “He’s our roadie,” Sage chirped. “And our eye candy,” she teased, mussing his black Dave Navarro–style ponytail. But it was obvious she wasn’t kidding. Along with his al dente body, Granite’s narrow eyes—an unusually light shade of gray—gripped Melody like magnets.

  “Thanks for saving me from that freak out there,” she managed.

  He shrugged as though it was no big deal. “You looked like you were in trouble, so…”

  Jackson cleared his throat. “Mel, it’s getting hot in here. We should probably get going.”

  She nodded. “Sure.” And then to Granite, “So, uh, thanks for packing up our stuff and everything.”

  “Mel, we should really get going.”

  “Going?” Sage interrupted. “The DJ just started.”

  “It’s a different D.J. that concerns me,” Jackson said, reaching for Melody’s hand. She wanted to go with him. The last thing she needed was D.J. Hyde swooping in, telling everyone how much he hated girl bands and ruining the perfect night. But for some reason she couldn’t move.

  All of a sudden Cici and Nine appeared, flushed and panting.

  “I just requested Björk,” Cici announced.

  “ ‘Human Behaviour’?” Melody asked, hoping.

  Nine nodded. “Club remix.”

  On cue, heavy industrial beats began pumping all around them. The red lights turned to steely blue. Faux fog hissed down from above. Cici and Nine yanked Melody, Sage, and Granite onto the dance floor. Melody looked back at Jackson like a helpless kidnapping victim. “Go without me,” she called through the smoke. “I’ll get a ride home with Candace.”

  He flashed her a thumbs-up and raced for the exit.

  Oops. Siren alert! Did I just use my voice on Jackson?

  Melody turned to her new friends and banged her head, shaking out her guilt with each cranial thrust. Accidents do happen.

  The house lights came on like a slap. Wake up! Party’s over! Time to get your sweaty butts to bed, they seemed to say.

  “Already?” Nine whined.

  Cici checked her armful of Swatches. “It’s one o’clock.”

  The girls giggled, marveling at their stamina. Only a handful of people remained, most of whom were staff, none of whom was Candace.

  “Van’s loaded,” Granite said, dropping a set of keys into Sage’s hand.

  “Mind if I catch a ride?” Melody asked.

  “If you don’t mind sitting on Nine-Point-Five’s lap,” Sage said.

  Nine gripped her roll of belly fat. “It comes complete with air bags.”

  “Or would you prefer saddlebags?” Cici said, slapping her meaty outer thighs.

  “I like it all,” Melody said, wondering what her parents would think of her rolling up after midnight stuffed in a van.

  “How about I take you?” Granite offered.

  “I guess it would be safer that way,” she rationalized, ignoring the scratched motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, the teeming rain echoing off the tin roof, and the fact that she was required to wrap her arms around his stone-cold body while riding—the last of which was safe in a dangerous sort of way.

  They stepped into the bone-chilling night. Other than the occasional whoosh of a passing car, the dilapidated block was silent. Rain fell sideways all around them and stung Melody’s bare arms.

  “You don’t happen to have an umbrella, do you?” Granite asked.

  Melody giggled. “You afraid of a little water?” she teased.

  “Nah,” he said, lifting his palm above his head. Water trickled down the backs of his fingers as if they were drainpipes. “I was worried about your feathers.”

  “Oh,” Melody said, examining his dry clothes. “They’re um, they… It’s okay. Birds get wet all the time. So… how are you doing that?”

  He placed the helmet on her head and lifted his other hand. The water stopped falling on her too.

  “Have you ever been on a bike before?” he asked, straddling his black-and-silver motorcycle. He took off his jacket and draped it over her narrow shoulders.

  Melody nodded, even though she hadn’t. Something in her wanted him to think she was just as cool as he was. But why? He didn’t seem to care about cool.

  Granite stepped on the clutch, and the engine sparked to life.

  “Aren’t you going to wear a helmet?” she asked.

  “Nah. My head is like a rock,” he said. “Hold on tight.”

  Melody wrapped her arms around his worn white T-shirt. It felt like hugging a statue.

  They zipped down the slick road amid streetlights reflecting halos—a black-and-white photograph come to life.

  “How was that?” Granite asked, pulling up in front of Melody’s house.

  Over too fast.

  “Great,” she said, removing the helmet and handing it to him. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. “Thanks again for—”

  Ping! Ping! Their phones signaled text messages at
the exact same time.

  “Probably your boyfriend,” he said.

  And your girlfriend? she might have asked. If she cared. Which she didn’t.

  They checked their screens, and Melody read her message:

  TO: Melody

  June 18, 1:22 AM

  MR. D: RAD MEETINGS ARE MANDATORY. ROCK CONCERTS ARE NOT.

  “Whatever,” Granite muttered under his breath.

  Melody stiffened. Hand umbrella, stone-cold body, clear gray eyes… “What are you?”

  “Huh?” He slipped his phone in the back pocket of his jeans.

  “That text. It was the same as mine, wasn’t it?”

  “Depends,” he said, his gray eyes fixed on hers. “What did yours say?”

  “Something about rock concerts.”

  “No way,” Granite said calmly, incapable of losing his cool.

  “Yes, way!” Melody said, cool lost. “We’re both RADs!”

  “I knew there was something different about you,” he said. “So, what are you? Some kind of Siren?”

  Melody nodded. “Impressive. What are you? Some kind of umbrella?”

  “Close,” he snickered. “I’m a gargoyle. Put on old buildings to keep the rain from dripping down the sides and eroding them.”

  “And to freak people out,” Melody teased.

  He snickered again. “That too.”

  “So where do you… live?”

  “I did live in Portland. Right over the entrance of Venue, the oldest rock bar in the country. Every cool act came through there. It was incredible, until they demolished it last month.”

  “Starbucks?”

  “Coffee Bean.”

  “Sucks.” Melody sighed.

  “Big-time. My parents sent me here because the school here is”—he made air quotes—“ ‘RAD-friendly.’ But I think I’m going to stick with the music thing. Life experience will teach me more than sitting in some classroom.”

  The porch lights flicked on. Slapped again.

  “I’d better go,” Melody said, not moving.

  He took out his phone and bumped her his number. “In case you need your microphone packed up.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled. There was nothing wrong with making a new friend, was there?

  She turned as Granite’s taillight faded down the street, and caught a glimpse of Jackson looking out his bedroom window. She blew him a kiss. But his curtains swung shut before he caught it. The kiss dwindled in the breeze, fading like the smoke of a doused flame.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  GREEN PLEAS

  Principal Weeks leaned across the podium and turtled his neck toward the microphone. “Testing… testing.” His usual drill was to demand silence, but the minute he took the stage, the chatter stopped. Today, no one wanted to miss a word.

  Frankie turned in her front-row seat and smiled politely at her competitors. But Cleo and Haylee were too busy swapping a secret to notice. Their close-talking camaraderie struck Frankie as odd, considering the golden girl and the brownnoser were about as tight as a boyfriend sweater. Maybe their dads had lectured them about good sportsmanship too.

  “Nervous?” Brett whispered into Frankie’s ear.

  “No,” she said, smoothing her black-and-white-striped hair. How could anyone be nervous in a glitter-speckled minidress, new plaid booties, and lips slathered in MAC’s Viva Glam Gaga gloss? If looks could kill, she’d be serving back-to-back life sentences. “Why? Do I look nervous?”

  “You look like a winner,” Brett said, and then gently kissed her neck bolt.

  Frankie sparked. “Are you sure you don’t want to be part of my presentation?”

  “Stage fright,” he reminded her.

  She giggled. There was something about a horror-film fanatic with stage fright that Frankie found charmingly mint. Of all the things to be afraid of!

  “Hello, Merston!” Principal Weeks bellowed. “We’re here to choose a couple to represent our school—and hopefully the T’eau Dally brand—for the next year.” Applause erupted behind the candidates’ VIP seats. Frankie and Brett squeezed each other’s hands. Haylee bit her bottom lip. Cleo and Deuce high-fived.

  “Go, Frankieeee!” shouted a girl from the back.

  Frankie turned, smiled graciously, and then crossed her green legs.

  Cleo and Haylee exchanged a loaded glance. Frankie wanted to lean over and tell them not to be jealous. That it all boiled down to the speeches. That they still had a chance. But Principal Weeks was holding up his palm, insisting on silence, and she didn’t dare disobey. She wanted his vote.

  “As you know,” he continued, “winning this contest would mean national recognition for Merston High. Not to mention one million dollars in upgrades—”

  Applause rolled through the auditorium.

  “—which I am hoping will be enough to keep the RADs from leaving to attend Radcliffe High.”

  Clawd cupped his hands over his mouth. “Boooooo!”

  Lala buried her face against his arm. Poor vamp, thought Frankie. Winning this sponsorship suddenly meant more than prize money and national fame. Because of the deal Lala had made with her father, winning meant keeping RADs and normies together at Merston. Losing meant the end of everything they had been fighting for. Frankie began tugging her wrist seams, suddenly feeling the pressure. Were she and Brett the best people for that job? Cleo and Deuce were Merston royalty. Haylee and Heath were both prized students. Being voted the It Couple was only a minor success. The real victory would come after they won over the sponsors. If they won over the sponsors…

  What if she got voted in and the T’eau Dally people didn’t like her? Then whose fault would it be if they had to switch schools? Frankie sparked.

  “No more RADs at Merston would mean the end of our championship sports teams, and a significant cut in state funding.” More boos.

  In a show of empathy, Frankie reached behind Brett and placed her arm on the metal back of Lala’s chair. “No one blames you,” she whispered.

  Lala nodded appreciatively until her black hair began to rise. Strand by strand, it floated to the top of her head until it resembled Clawd’s mohawk.

  “Frankie!” she hissed.

  Principal Weeks glared at them.

  “Whoops!” Frankie pulled her arm off the chair. The static electricity faded, and Lala’s hair returned to its normal glossy state.

  “Before we get too down in the dumps, I’d like to introduce the student who single-handedly brought T’eau Dally to Merston. The girl on whom our hope now rests: Lala!” Principal Weeks gestured grandly while everyone cheered.

  Lala’s fully exposed fangs symbolized her newfound pride as she stepped up to the podium. “Hey,” she said shyly. Her voice was aftershock shaky, but she stood up straight and looked directly at the crowd. “In three days, Brigitte T’eau and Dickie Dally—”

  “She said Dickie!” someone whispered.

  Lala busted out laughing along with everyone else. Principal Weeks scanned the rows.

  “Continue, please,” he said.

  “Our job is to pick the couple the T’eau Dally representatives will like best, not the ones we like best, so vote with your heads, not with your hearts. The future of RADs at Merston depends on it. So let’s get started with Frankie Stein and Brett Redding!” Lala stepped off to the side like a presenter at the Oscars.

  Mindful of not slipping or sparking, Frankie blocked out the cheers and recited the alphabet while mounting the stage—a relaxation technique her mother had picked up during her early days of teaching.

  By the time Frankie got to T, she was all set up at the podium. No slips, no sparks. Just an auditorium full of expectant faces, eager to judge.

  Yellow bolts crackled from her fingertips. “Ooops. Sorry!” She giggled. Start confident. “Hi. I’m, um, Frankie. And my boyfriend, Brett, and I are the best couple to represent Merston in the T’eau Dally contest because, like the shoes, we are two different things that have come together as one. For starte
rs, he’s got stage fright and I don’t.” She giggled again. The expectant faces didn’t even crack a smile. “But, um, more importantly”—she sparked again—“he’s a normie. I’m, obviously, a RAD, as you can see by the sparks that are melting my manicure.” More silence. “And speaking of electricity, uh, he has bolts and I have nuts—”

  Laughter.

  Brett buried his face in his hands.

  “Wait, I mean, I have bolts and he has nuts! Wait, no…” Murmurs and snickers built all around her. She was losing them. Even Principal Weeks was checking his BlackBerry. “And that’s kind of how Brett and I are….” Frankie’s heart space seized. Her gut space churned. Her brain space asked for one more chance. “Because we’re so different, we’re kind of like a male and female socket, you know? How one goes into the other?”

  “Yeah, baby!” hooted Candace Carver.

  “Wooo-hooo,” echoed Candace’s friends.

  Blue and Clawdeen buried their faces in their hands.

  Frankie abandoned her notes. “Basically, you guys know me, right? And you know Brett.” Scattered applause. “You know we’re super fun. We’re super nice. And we’re obviously super stylish.” She twirled in her glitter dress. Her supporters woot-wooted. Voltage! She was winning them back. “And if you vote for us, we promise to show T’eau Dally that we are just as perfectly mismatched as their sneakers and pumps. If we were food, we’d be a Big Mac and a Diet Coke. A spring trend? We’d be florals and plaids. A haircut? We’d be a mullet. A—”

  Bzzzzzzz.

  Lala approached the podium and hip-nudged Frankie aside. “Time’s up. Thank you very much, Frankie and Brett.”

  “Woooo-hoooooo!” Billy and Spectra shouted from somewhere. Others eventually joined in, until the applause had spread like a current. Frankie grinned and curtsied.

  “Up next, Haylee and Heath,” Lala announced.

  Cleo and Deuce approached the podium. Her three-inch T’eau heels clomped across the plywood. Deuce’s Dally high-tops squeaked dutifully behind. Nice touch.

  Lala looked just as confused as everyone else, and Haylee just pushed her beige glasses up her oily T-zone and slumped down in her seat.

  Cleo unhooked the microphone as if she were on the last stop of her worldwide tour. “Unfortunately, Heath and Haylee are out of the race. They thank you for considering them and ask that you respect their privacy during this time.”