“Unfortunately.” Jackson snapped another dandelion. “Something in my sweat triggers the transformation.”
Frankie sat up. “Speaking of which, is it too hot for you over here?” she asked, suddenly afraid that D.J. would show up and crash their date.
“Don’t worry. I’m cool.” He tapped the mini fan in his blazer pocket. “Pun intended.”
Frankie laughed at his corny joke, but only because she was happy. She lay down and stared up at the white streaks in the sky. “I totally remember the first time I saw you,” she said to Brett.
Brett rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand. “You do?”
Frankie nodded. “It was the first day of school. You and Bekka were talking behind me in the cafeteria line, and she said something about using a monster’s butt as a pencil holder.”
His cheeks reddened. “Oh, man, I remember that comment. It was so offensive.” Brett took off his green Ray-Bans and began cleaning the lenses on his shirt.
“Why didn’t you say anything to her?”
He studied her face with his denim-blue eyes while considering his answer. She sparked just a little.
He slid his glasses on. “Bekka is kind of fragile.”
“Ha! If you think she’s fragile, how would you describe me?” she joked, pointing at her neck seams.
He laughed. “I guess I was afraid to set her off.”
Frankie rested her head on her hand, too, and then gazed out at the river. “Fear is boring.”
He chuckled.
“What?”
“It’s just funny, that’s all.”
“What’s funny?”
“When I was younger, I wanted to be a monster so everyone would be afraid of me and I’d be afraid of nothing. And I was right. I mean, that’s kind of how it works, isn’t it? You’re not afraid of anything, are you?”
Frankie thought about it and then shook her head.
“Wow.”
“But it’s not because I can scare normies. Please! They’re much more dangerous than I am. I’m not afraid because, well, I’ve only been alive a couple of months, and I’ve been hidden away in my dad’s lab for most of that time.”
“So?”
“So, I’m too curious to be afraid.”
Frankie scooted closer to his face and ran her fingers down his lenses.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s like those smudges,” she explained.
“What is?”
“Fear. It stops us from seeing clearly.”
Brett took off his glasses and gazed at Frankie as though they were in a romantic movie—specifically, the part where the guy realizes he’s falling in love.
“I wish you didn’t have to wear all that makeup,” he finally said. “Your green skin is so…”
“Mint?” She giggled.
“Yeah, mint.”
She sighed. “I wish normies knew what we were really like.”
Brett reached for her hand. She gave it to him. She rubbed her thumb over his black nail polish, wishing she had made time for a quick manicure.
“Omigod, hide!” shouted Melody. But it was too late.
“Freaks!” shouted a girl in the distance.
Frankie and Brett sat up with a start, then quickly lay down again as Melody shoved them into the grass.
“Bekka?” Brett mumbled at the sight of his ex-girlfriend. She was wearing an orange vest and dragging a giant trash bag through the park.
“Boyfriend-stealing zombie helpers!” she shouted at Melody and Jackson, stabbing a juice box with her wooden harpoon. “This is so not over!” A man in a matching vest ran over and quickly moved her to another section of the park.
Melody stood. “I don’t think she got a good look at you. Let’s get out of here before she realizes who you are.”
No one argued. They hurried off in silence.
Once they reached Front Street, Brett finally spoke.
“I think I can help.”
“I think she might need some space,” Melody suggested politely.
“Not Bekka. The RADs.” He pulled a business card out of his black leather wallet. “Remember that Ross Healy guy from Channel Two News?”
Melody nodded.
“He asked me look out for good stories around school. Maybe he can do something about you guys.”
“Like what?” Frankie asked, secretly questioning his motives.
“A reality show?” Jackson said. “Like The Secret Life of the American Greenager?”
“No,” Brett said with a laugh. “Something serious. More like a news piece, to show people what you’re all about.”
Frankie considered this. A news story would reach a lot of people. But was it safe?
“You should direct it,” Melody said, knocking his arm the way guys do. “You’ve been trying to make a monster movie. Why not make it an exposé instead?”
“I dunno if I’m ready for something that big,” Brett said humbly. “Besides, it’s not like Channel Two is just going to let some high schooler direct one of its shows. I’d be happy if they’d hire me to clean the camera lenses.”
“It’s safer than bringing an outsider on board,” Jackson said.
“That’s true,” Brett admitted, wiping the smudge marks off his glasses and slipping them on again.
“I dunno, you guys,” Frankie said, staring at the passing cars. Cars full of normies who were oblivious to the truth—a truth that would set the RADs free. But what if she messed up again? What if this exposé made things worse instead of better? What if someone got hurt? What if she didn’t try? What would her parents want her to do?
“On one condition,” she finally said.
They nodded expectantly.
“Everyone’s face would have to be blurred. Our identities could never be revealed.”
“I agree,” Brett said.
“You can interview me first,” Jackson said.
“I’ll go second,” Frankie said.
“I should probably call Ross before you get too excited,” Brett warned.
“Too late!” Frankie beamed. “I really think this is exactly what we need.”
“Me too.” Brett smiled as though he might have been referring to something else.
Frankie smiled back, catching a glimpse of herself in his lenses. She may have looked goofy in her jumpsuit, but she felt beautiful in her skin.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TEARS OF A CROWN
Candlelight flickered against the stone walls in Cleo’s bedroom, providing a tomblike authenticity to her well-crafted jewelry display. Or, rather, the display she had asked the staff to create. She had texted Beb and Hasina while she tuned out a lecture on supply and demand during last-period economics class. But Mr. Virga would have been proud. Her text was supply and demand in its purest form. She had asked them to supply her with…
One hundred amber-scented candles
Three dry linen strips in a basket outside the bedroom
Polished stone floors
Raked sand on the island
Blue Egyptian water lilies floating in Nile
Three open sarcophagi outfitted with full-length mirrors
Teen Vogue playlist:
a) “Poppin’ ” by Utada
b) “Lisztomania” by Phoenix
c) “Far From Home” by Basshunter
d) “Your Love Is My Drug” by Ke$ha
e) “Nobody” by the Wonder Girls
f) “Rude Boy” by Rihanna
A veggie-and-hummus platter for Lala
Noncomedogenic dye-free moisturizer for Blue
Organic beef jerky for Clawdeen
Jewelry hung on a linen-covered board
A washing basin with Egyptian cotton hand towels
… and had demanded it all be done by the time she got home from school.
Now, amid the heady scent of amber and the rhythmic claps in Utada’s song “Poppin’,” Cleo elbow-guided her blindfolded friends through her flickering chamb
er. She positioned them in front of the white wrapped board that showcased her twinkling treasures. It stood proudly before the three open sarcophagi like a highly decorated queen facing her handmaidens.
“Rea-dy?” she asked in a singsong voice.
They nodded anxiously.
“Okay, take off your blindfolds!”
The girls pulled the linen strips off their eyes and dropped them onto the stone floor. Miu-Miu and Bastet padded over to claim their new toys and hurried off before the birds could steal them.
“Clee!” Clawdeen gasped. “They’re even more amazing in real life.”
“That’s what he said.” Cleo giggled.
“Can I touch?” Blue asked, whipping off her polka-dot gloves and reaching for the glow-in-the-dark moonstone ring.
“That’s what he said,” Lala blurted.
They all cracked up. But no one laughed harder than Lala, now free to let her freak fangs fly.
It was an old routine, something that brought them to giggle-tears back when they were in grade school. And it kept on delivering. The familiarity of it all put Cleo at ease. Her girls were back.
After washing their hands in the soapy basin, they reached for their favorite pieces and began trying them on. Lala crunched on celery sticks while fastening and unfastening the gold relics with the patience of a true stylist.
Without hesitation, Cleo lifted the jewel-encrusted crown and lowered it onto her head. The weight grounded her bare feet to the stone. Fused the tips of her black bangs to the tops of her lashes. Signified her position in the social hierarchy.
“Fang-tastic,” Lala said, recording the look in a papyrus notebook. “I say no earrings. Just that long snake bracelet and you’re done.” She was so confident behind closed doors—vivacious, opinionated, and strong. A totally different Lala from the shy, sullen girl she was at school. And for a split second Cleo saw the value in living openly. Liberation was Windex for the soul. It let the light shine through. But why dwell? Nothing was ever going to change.
“I agree,” Cleo said, admiring the completion of her first look in the mirrored sarcophagus.
“I’m all over these,” Clawdeen said, holding the pear-shaped jade earrings up against her auburn curls.
“Add these and you’re good,” Lala said, handing her the hammered cuffs. “Oh, and make sure you wax your arms right before the shoot.”
“I’ll book Anya right now. What’s the date?” Clawdeen asked, popping a piece of organic beef jerky into her mouth.
Cleo’s stomach lurched. Teen Vogue didn’t even know they existed yet. “Um, October fourteenth,” she muttered, and then reached for her goblet of pomegranate iced tea.
“Morning or afternoon?”
“Evening.”
“Will they be providing hair and makeup?”
“Of course.”
“Wardrobe?”
“Yes.”
“Dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“Will they give us notes so we can take the day off from school?”
“I’m sure they would.”
“What about transportation?”
“What about it?”
“To and from?”
“For the love of Isis! Stop talking so I can think,” Cleo snapped, wondering how she could have possibly forgotten to confirm the girls.
“What’s there to think about?” Clawdeen asked.
“Nothing. Sorry. I’m good.” Cleo whipped out her phone, quickly deleted some annoying cry-for-attention text from Frankie, and fired off an emergency message to Manu.
TO: Manu
sept 28, 7:40 PM
CLEO: PLS CONTACT TEEN VOGUE ASAP. FORGET NORMIE MODELS. THEY NEED TO HIRE CLAWDEEN AND BLUE INSTEAD. LALA AS STYLIST ASSISTANT. NEED CONFIRMATION NOW. ^^^^^^^^^^^^
“What a beaut!” Blue called from somewhere in the room, her voice muffled.
“Where is she?” Cleo asked Lala and Clawdeen.
They shrugged, craning their necks.
All of a sudden, the sarcophagus in the far corner of the room opened with a slow creak. Blue stepped out admiring the moonstone ring.
“What were you doing in my armoire?” Cleo asked with a charmed grin.
“I wanted to see if the stone really glowed in the dark,” Blue said. “And it does. It bloody well does! Like a giant pearly-pink clump of tobiko,” she said, referencing the flying-fish eggs that hatched her brethren. “I’m wearing this one for sure.”
Ping!
Cleo checked her phone. Letitbegoodletitbegoodletitbegood…
TO: Cleo
sept 28, 7:44 PM
MANU: EDITOR NEEDS TO SEE THEIR MODELING PORTFOLIOS AND COMP CARDS BEFORE BOOKING.
“Ugh!” Cleo pressed down harder on the crown and summoned the strength of her ancestors before responding. What would Cleopatra VII do?
TO: Manu
sept 28, 7:44 PM
CLEO: NO DEAL. TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT. MY JEWELS, MY RULES.
A pair of gray Egyptian nightjars flew out of Cleo’s sleep loft to sip from the red muddy water of the Nile. If only they could appreciate how stress-free their lives were.
“You said the shoot was in the evening, right?” Clawdeen asked, pulling a Motorola Karma from her red leather cross-body bag.
Cleo nodded at the screen of her iPhone, willing Manu to hurry and text back some good news.
“Hi, Anya, it’s Clawdeen. I’m going to be modeling for Teen Vogue and will need a full body wax the morning of October fourteenth.” She checked her long striped nails. “And a nail art manicure too. Something Egyptian. Please call me back to confirm at—”
“See if they can fit me in for a hydrating treatment,” Blue called.
“I’ll take a steam,” Lala said.
Clawdeen nodded and continued adding to the message.
Ping!
TO: Cleo
sept 28, 7:53 PM
MANU: OKAY AS LONG AS THEY CAN PHOTOSHOP. THEY INSIST THAT THE GIRLS BE PROFESSIONAL. ANY MISHAPS AND THE SHOOT IS OFF.
“Yes!” shouted Cleo.
The Egyptian nightjars flapped back up to the sleep loft.
“Were you just reading Frankie’s text too?” Blue waved her phone.
“Huh? What text?”
“About being on TV and changing the world.”
Lala and Clawdeen checked their screens.
“We’re blowing up!” Lala announced. “First magazines, now TV!”
“I reckon we should hire agents,” Blue said.
Clawdeen hitched her purse over her shoulder. “I reckon we should get going. The meeting is in three minutes.”
Blue slid on her gloves.
“Wait,” Cleo said. “You’re not leaving now, are you?”
“Why not?” Lala asked, pulling a violet cashmere turtleneck over her head.
“Because”—Cleo splayed her arms—“we’re kind of in the middle of something here.”
“We’re done.” Lala waved her notepad as proof. “I have everyone’s looks. There’s nothing left to do.”
“What about pose practice? And squint-prevention exercises?”
“You’re joking, right?” Clawdeen said flatly.
“No.”
Flickering flames illuminated their blank stares.
“In case you forgot, we’ve never done this before. And if this shoot doesn’t go well, they’ll cancel the feature. Cairo couture will be out for another five thousand years, and my jewelry designs will never take off. This is my big chance.”
Just saying those words made her stomach roil.
“I totally get it, Cleo,” Blue said, hating to argue. “But what about my big chance?” She hung the moonstone ring back on its hook. “You have ace connections. But what do I have? I want to be a pro surfer. Who’s going to sponsor a scaly girl in gloves?”
Lala snorted.
“Things need to change for us, Cleo,” Blue said, scooping up some Nile water and rubbing it on the back of her neck. “Normies need to start accep
ting us, or we’ll never land our dream jobs.”
Cleo rolled her eyes.
“Aren’t you tired of hiding? Don’t you want to be normal?” Lala asked, spearing a couple of cherry tomatoes on her fangs.
Clawdeen laughed. “La, you couldn’t be normal if you tried.”
“There’s nothing special about normal,” Cleo insisted with a slight lift of her chin.
“Didn’t it feel good to go to that dance dressed as our real selves?” Blue asked gently.
“It wasn’t worth the price we paid, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What if there wasn’t any price?” Clawdeen tried.
“There’s always a price,” Cleo said, shocked by her own cynicism. Was it change she opposed, or a changing of the guard?
“I wanted to be an exchange student because my parents told me it would be different in America,” said Blue, suddenly very serious. “They said there was a bonzer RAD community here, and the RADs were going to change things. They wanted me to grow up better than they did. And ever since I got here, I haven’t had the heart to tell them fair dinkum. My e-mails and postcards are full of bodgy lies.” Blue walked to the door. “So I reckon we should give the Sheila a listen.” Her cute duck walk suddenly seemed annoying to Cleo.
“After the trouble she got us into last time?”
“We’re just going to listen,” Lala said, following Blue. “Come on.”
Clawdeen stood between them, fidgeting with the zipper on her purse, obviously torn. “We should work on our poses.”
Cleo grinned approvingly. She could always count on Claw to have her back.
“Not to be a bludger, but we have two weeks for that.” Blue placed her hand on the scarab doorknob. “And this meeting sounds important.”
“More important than Teen Vogue?” Cleo stomped her foot, wondering when Blue had become so assertive.
Lala burst out laughing. No one else saw the humor, though.
“Oh.” She shivered. “I thought you were kidding.”
The Ghoul Next Door Page 11
