Cleo nodded. Haylee!
“She gave this to me during lunch.”
Cleo crumpled up the flyer. “This is just another practical joke. Trust me.”
“Vhatever,” said Blond Patch, reattaching her fangs. “Your losssss.”
The girls hurried off in search of fame while Cleo tossed the flyer into the trash with a swish that would have impressed Deuce, had he seen it. Instead, he was leaning on a fire hydrant, with his back to her, thumb drumming to whatever song was blasting from his iPod.
Cleo yanked out his right earbud. “Ready.”
“What was that all about?” Deuce asked, standing.
“Some normie freaks who want to be in Brett’s movie,” Cleo huffed. “I can’t believe anyone wants to be in that thing.”
“You mean normies, right?” he asked, impatiently pushing the button at the crosswalk a few times.
“No, I mean anyone,” Cleo said. “It’s suicide.”
The walk signal flashed.
“I’m going to be in it,” Deuce said as he stepped off the curb.
Cleo pulled him back by the collar of his leather jacket. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought it was assumed.”
“Assumed?” Insecurity slithered up through her belly and wrapped itself around her heart. “Why would I assume you’d be in the movie that’s ruining my life? If I were going to assume anything, it would be that you’d be at my shoot for support. Not that you’d be helping the enemy!”
An elderly lady shuffled by. She eyed Cleo with contempt, probably wondering why such a nice young girl was standing on a public street corner causing a scene. Cleo crinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue at the nosy old bat. The woman looked away in horror. It didn’t solve anything, but it felt good.
Deuce took her hand. “Cleo, I’m not the enemy, remember?”
“You are now!” she said, breaking free and hurrying off as fast as she could in her three-inch mules. Her heart sank with each tottering step. She was totally alone. But the pity party would have to wait. She needed a plan. Fast. She looked back toward the school.
The campus, breezy and gray with the promise of rain, was empty except for two hunched figures sitting cross-legged by the flagpole. Aha!
Purrrr-fect.
“Meetmearoundbackunderthebleachersacrossfromthesnackmachineifanyoneisthereignoreme,” Cleo whispered to them as she passed. She stomped up the cement steps without looking back.
She made a show of opening her locker and stuffing her history text into her metallic gold tote, just in case Billy, the gossip, happened to be lurking. She listened for the sound of his breathing and checked the floor for Starburst wrappers. Nothing. Cleo hurried out the side door.
The back of Merston was a place Cleo rarely visited. As far as she was concerned, tracks were for finding runaway camels, and football was something you got from a stiff pair of sandals. But this was life-and-death critical. Exceptions had to be made.
Bekka and Haylee were already there when she arrived. After checking to make sure there weren’t any lingering jocks, Cleo climbed the bleachers and sat directly above her marks. She opened her textbook, pretending to read about self-government in British North America. After another quick scan, she knocked her wooden heel against the aluminum tier.
“Can you hear me?” she mumbled. “One knock for yes.”
Knock.
“Are you working alone?”
Knock.
“Who told you about this movie?” she whispered, wondering if the RADs had sprung a leak.
“Ross Healy. Channel Two,” Bekka whispered back. “I was listed as a reference on Brett’s film résumé. I said he was a great director, but that was before Ross told me about the zombie propaganda movie. God, why didn’t I think to ask before I gave the reference? I feel like such a—”
Cleo knocked her heel. “There’s no time for feeling anything. Just answer the questions.” She turned a page in her textbook. “What’s your objective?”
“First, to stop the spread of pro-monster propaganda by shutting down the movie. Second, to prove monsters live in Salem and bring them to justice. Third, to get Brett ba—”
Knock! “No feelings.”
“Sorry.”
Cleo considered this three-pronged plan carefully. Objective one was the same as hers. Shutting down the movie would have the girls begging for forgiveness and, more important, would get them recommitted to Teen Vogue. Then she would take Bekka down before she had time to say “objective two.”
“You have a plan?”
Knock.
“Tell me.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” Bekka asked, stealing the upper hand and slapping Cleo with it.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Cleo snapped.
“Not good enough,” Bekka snapped back.
Cleo stuck her tongue out at the aluminum bench above Bekka’s head. Does this normie loser have any clue who she’s dealing with?
“You could be a spy,” Bekka explained further.
“I am,” Cleo blurted, thinking fast. “But I’m not working for them. I’m working against them. I’ve been watching them for years.”
A whispered exchange passed between Bekka and Haylee. “Why?”
“I’m a zombie hater. Long story,” Cleo said, feeling momentarily guilty for betraying Julia. But this was war. And if staying alive meant talking trash about the undead, so be it. She was doing it to protect them.
“Who is their leader? What do they want? What are their weaknesses?”
Cleo pressed her lips together. She wanted to sabotage the movie, not destroy her friends. The royal was loyal.
“Let us join your cause,” Bekka pressed.
“Denied. I work alone.”
“Then what good are you?”
“What good are you?” Cleo fired back.
“I know all of Brett’s passwords. I’ll log on to his computer and erase the movie before it airs.”
Not bad.
“How are you going to break into his house?”
“He works at school. AV room.”
Not bad at all.
“What can you offer?” Bekka asked.
“I can find out when the movie is done so you’ll know when to erase it,” Cleo tried.
More whispering.
“Fine,” Bekka agreed, as though she was doing Cleo some massive favor. “Does this mean you want in?”
“Two conditions.” Cleo turned another page in her history book. “One, no one can know I’m a member of HUNT. Agreed?”
“Why not?”
“Agreed?”
Knock.
“And two, you and Haylee have to stop writing that stupid cell phone novel about me.”
“You know about that?” Haylee asked in her high-pitched voice.
Cleo stomped her heel. “You mean, Bek and Better Than Ever: The True Story of One Girl’s Return to Popularity After Another Girl Whose Name I Won’t Mention—CLEO!—Hit on Brett Then Got Hit by Bekka Then Basically Told the Entire School That Bekka Was Violent and Should Be Avoided at All Costs? Yeah, I know about it.”
Whispers rose like smoke through the spaces between the tiers of the bleachers.
“Do we have a deal?” Cleo asked impatiently.
Knock.
“Good.” Cleo stood and clomped down the bleachers. “I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THIRD-DEGREE BURNS
From the outside, Brett’s backyard shed had less hang-appeal than a frayed bungee cord. Relegated to the far end of the square lawn—past the tree house, grill, and tetherball—it was the shy kid at the party watching everyone else have fun on the dance floor. Its worn cedar siding was masked by cobwebs, crusty leaves, overgrown weeds, and bird poo. The windows were streaked with mud. It was hardly the kind of place a gentleman took a lady on their first date. But Frankie was no ordinary lady. And this was no ordinary date.
“Here it is,” said Brett, sli
ding open the shed door.
A pair of glowing red eyes flew toward them from the back of the shed and stopped dead in front of Frankie’s face. If she hadn’t seen the fake black rubber bat bobbing up and down on its zip line, she might have sparked until Thanksgiving.
“Cute,” she said tickling its distended belly. She saw the words MADE IN CHINA stamped under its wing.
Brett smiled, relieved. “Bekka hated Radar,” he said, shaking his head at the improbability of it all. “She hated everything about this place.”
He lifted his arm to tug the pull chain that dangled from the bald red lightbulb. Frankie inhaled his pine-scented deodorant all the way down to her belly.
“Whaddaya think?” he asked amid the hellish glow.
Had there been a more fitting word than voltage, Frankie would have used it. Instead, she fell back onto his black futon and looked around in awestruck silence, allowing her wide eyes to say it all.
Shoulder-high stacks of classic horror VHS tapes had been glued to form pedestals, on which were displayed his favorite monster busts: Frankenstein, Dracula, Godzilla, Sasquatch, a zombie, a werewolf, the Loch Ness monster, and the headless horseman with a magazine cutout of Spencer Pratt taped to his neck. The walls were papered from top to bottom with vintage Frankenstein movie posters. Arranged chronologically and protected by high-gloss shellac, the artist renderings of Grandpa Stein made the shed feel more like a scrapbook than a scrap heap. More important, they assured Frankie that Brett didn’t just accept her—he had been waiting for her.
“This is like a mini museum,” she finally said.
“I’ve been collecting since I was seven,” he said, sitting beside her. “It’s weird, but if you think about it, I knew your family before you did.”
Frankie angled her body to face him. Brett angled to face her. He rested his elbow on the back of the couch and allowed his hand to dangle alongside her chin. Black nail polish, a silver skull ring, and a green watch face set atop a thick leather cuff; it felt as if he’d been built just for her.
“You know what would look great in here?”
Brett shook his head.
“Grandma Stein’s wedding dress.”
“You mean the one you wore at the dance? That was—”
Frankie nodded. “Yup. The real bride of Frankenstein’s,” she said, charged with the promise of his excitement.
She held her smile, expecting him to gasp. Studied his denim-blue eyes waiting for that spark of recognition. Checked his blood-red lips anticipating a jaw drop. But Brett hardly moved at all. He just gazed at her through the jagged frame of his droopy after-school hair the way one might gaze at a beautiful sunset, with an expression frozen somewhere between admiration and gratitude.
Brett leaned toward her. Frankie lifted her face to meet his. If only she had been wearing that beautiful white lace wedding gown instead of a long-sleeved black-and-white seersucker dress… or maybe that hot-pink chiffon minidress on Bluefly.com. Or a peasant blouse and jean shorts, or a yellow off-the-shoulder tee and cropped jeans.… But all that would have to wait until the RAD revolution was won. Not that Brett seemed to mind. His lips were approaching hers with one thing in mind.…
Frankie quickly checked her neck seams while every crackling watt of electricity inside her seemed to be pressing against the front of her body, pushing her closer to him. As if she needed pushing. Her eyelids closed, her lips parted, and her hands rested gently on his arms.
“Hey,” said Heath Burns, barging in through the sliding door.
Frankie and Brett broke apart, currents of displaced desire undulating between them, unsure of where to go.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, dragging two six-foot-long light stands behind him.
Not late enough.
“No worries,” Brett said, getting up to help his best-friend-slash-production-assistant. “Our first interview subject isn’t here yet, so…”
“Cool.” Wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his dark purple hoodie, the thin redhead sighed. “Where do you want this?”
The boys spent the next fifteen minutes transforming the shed into a film studio. They covered the fake-blood-smeared windows with black felt. Pulled the futon away from the wall to achieve depth. Slid Radar the bat back into his starting position. And moved all eight VHS pillars into the background of the shot.
Once everything was set, Heath powered up his lights. Their set snapped to life. “Dude, this is gonna be so insane,” he said, admiring his work.
“You know this is top secret, right?” asked Frankie, even though Brett had assured her endlessly that his normie buddy could be trusted. “No one can know where we’re shooting or who we’re shooting. Ever.”
“Why do you think I was so late?” Heath asked. “I was being stalked by half the drama department,” he offered. “It looked like I was being chased down the street by a pack of vampires in some B movie.”
“Man, I wish I’d been there.” Brett chuckled. “How’dja ditch ’em?”
“I hopped on the public bus.”
Brett laughed. “Where’d you take it?”
“Across the river. I had to take a cab back, or I would have been even later.”
“Oh, man, that’s classic.” Brett high-fived his buddy and then turned to Frankie. “Trust him now?”
Frankie was about to apologize when someone knocked.
“Who is it?” Brett called.
“Jackson.”
Heath slid the shed door open and welcomed the first subject inside. The sight of him weighted Frankie down with guilt. Somewhere behind his thick black glasses and swingy mop top, D.J. was waiting to come out. And when he did, he would expect to find Frankie, not Frankie and Brett.
But what was she supposed to do? Time-share her boyfriend with Melody? Advocate global warming? Deny her feelings to spare his? Thankfully, Jackson hadn’t broken a sweat in almost a week, so it hadn’t become an issue yet. But summer was only nine months away. She would have to tell D.J. the truth eventually.
“Killer space,” Jackson said, helping himself to a seat on the futon.
“Where’s Melody?” Frankie asked.
“Her parents are forcing her to have a family game night. She slept through the last one or something,” Jackson said, pulling out his phone to send a quick text. “She says she’ll try to come later. So, how does this work?” he asked, squinting against the glare of the bright white lights.
“Frankie will ask the questions from behind the camera, I’ll shoot, and Heath will do audio,” Brett explained, suddenly sounding very professional. “Make sure you look at her, not directly into the lens. Don’t worry—your name won’t be mentioned, and your face will be blurred.”
“Ready?” Frankie asked, unfolding her list of ten interview questions.
Jackson pushed back the sleeves of his tan blazer and crossed his legs. The rubber toe of his black Converse was decorated with a giant M written in red ballpoint.
“Ready,” he said.
“What makes you special?” Frankie began.
“You could say I have a split personality—there are two people living inside me.”
“How did you end up this way?”
“My grandfather was Dr. Jekyll. He became addicted to a potion that gave him courage to act out his darkest fantasies. It altered his genetic code and was passed down to his son, my dad. Traces of it are in my blood. When I sweat, it comes out. The chemicals in my sweat trigger something in my brain. That trigger activates D.J. He’s my other half.”
“How long have you known about this?”
“About a week.”
“When did you first notice that you were different?”
“I always knew I had blackouts, but I never knew I actually turned into a party guy named D.J. Hyde, until my girlfriend showed me a video of the transformation actually happening. I was blown away.” Jackson began shaking his foot anxiously. Brett panned down to capture his stress.
“What is the best part about b
eing a RAD?”
“Being part of a community that looks out for each other.”
“What is the worst part about being a RAD?”
“Hiding.”
“Do you consider yourself or D.J. dangerous?”
“Only to each other. My mom hasn’t told him about me yet because she’s not sure how he’ll take the news. He might get jealous and try to keep me away or something. Also, I have a feeling D.J. doesn’t study as much as I do. So he could do some serious damage to my GPA. And I’m not that into parties, so I might be a drain on his social life. But other than that kind of thing … no, not really.”
“How would your life change if you didn’t have to hide your identity?”
“I’d play sports ’cause I wouldn’t have to worry about sweating. I’d hang out at the beach. My mom would be able to turn on the heat in the winter. Oh”—Jackson reached into the pocket of his blazer and pulled out his mini fan—“and I’d ditch this.” He turned it on and held the plastic rotating blades to his face.
Frankie smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. The show-and-tell was great.
“Why did you agree to be in this film?”
“I want normies—uh—regular people to see that I’m a good person who is tired of hiding and tired of feeling ashamed of who I am.”
“Thanks, Jackson, we’re done.”
“I thought you said there were ten questions,” he said. “That was only nine.”
Brett lowered his camera. “You have to ask him the last one. It will be the best part of the show.”
“I think we’re good,” Frankie said, folding and refolding her questions until they could be folded no more. “We have six more interviews tonight. We have to stay on schedule.”
“What was the question?” Jackson asked.
Frankie lowered her gaze.
“We were kinda hoping you would, you know, let us talk to D.J.,” Brett said.
Jackson’s ankle stopped jiggling. “You serious?”
Frankie wanted to jump through the felt-covered windows and bolt. Breaking up with D.J. would be hard enough. Did it really need to be done that night? In front of everyone?
The Ghoul Next Door Page 13
