“Dude, the transformation will be the hottest part of the show,” Heath added.
“It would be cool,” Brett said. “Normies would see that even at your worst, they have nothing to fear.”
Frankie squirmed. She was uncomfortable with this, but Heath did have a point. It would be good for the show. And good for the show meant good for the RADs.
Jackson leaned back and considered this.
Frankie, Brett, and Heath waited silently.
“On one condition,” Jackson finally said.
Frankie clenched her fists. She knew what was coming next.
“Break up with D.J.”
“Break up?” Brett asked, shocked. “What are you talking about?”
“Please,” Frankie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t have my head on straight back then. It was a total rebound thing.”
“Well, then I agree with Jackson,” Brett said. “You should definitely break up with him.”
“Why?” Frankie giggled.
Brett’s pale cheeks burned red. She had her answer.
“Fine,” she agreed. “Crank up the lights.”
The shed was thick with heat. Frankie and the boys watched Jackson like a pot, but he refused to boil.
“Try jumping jacks,” Brett suggested. The camera sat on a tripod, facing Jackson and ready for action. Brett was leaning against the wall, his cheeks flushed and his hair damp with sweat. Jackson jumped. The shed shook. Brett made him stop.
“What about push-ups?” Frankie suggested.
Jackson obediently got down on the ground and pushed himself up.
“How are you dry?” Heath asked, leaning against the blacked-out window and fanning his face with a bus schedule. “I can hardly breathe.” He fanned harder, kicking up the dust from the window ledge. His eyelids fluttered, his nostrils twitched, and… ah… ah… ah-choo! He sneezed with gale force, unleashing a stream of fire. Before it could do any damage, it retracted back inside his mouth like slurped spaghetti.
Nobody moved. Peach-colored drops dripped from Frankie’s fingertips like melted candle wax. Her Fierce & Flawless had liquefied.
Brett lifted his eye away from the camera’s viewfinder and turned to his friend. “What the…” he whispered.
“I dunno,” Heath shrugged. “It just started happening around my fifteenth birthday. Mostly when I burp or, you know—” He gestured to his butt. “Never when I sneeze. And the flames aren’t usually this big.”
“How come you never told me?” Brett asked, slightly offended.
“Dude, it’s embarrassing.”
They paused and looked at each other. The corners of their mouths curled up slowly as reality soaked its way into their brains.
“You’re a RAD!” Brett shouted with joy.
“I’m a RAD!” Heath shouted back, his red eyebrows lifted in disbelief.
“Look,” Frankie pointed at the futon.
Jackson, sweat-soaked and stunned, looked straight ahead while his eyes shifted from hazel to black, black to hazel, hazel to black, and finally to blue. His brown layers lightened two shades to a sandy blond, and a light dusting of stubble formed around his jawline.
That’s new, thought Frankie.
D.J. had arrived.
“Smells like burned toast in here,” he said, parting his hair from right to left. He took off Jackson’s tan blazer, balled it up, and tossed it across the shed. “Firecracker!” He stood. “Where have you been?”
Stunned by the new physical transformation, Frankie spluttered to answer. “Uh, where have you been?” she countered.
D.J. scratched the back of his head. “Someone’s a little needy.” He smirked. “We just saw each other last night. Before I blacked out…”
“Actually, it was almost a week ago.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to make up stories. I think it’s cute that you missed me. I missed you too.” He paused. “Wait, what’s Bekka’s boyfriend doing here? What’s with the camera?”
“We’re making a movie about special people, and you’re special, so we wanted to ask you some questions.”
“As long as I get to ask you one when we’re done,” he said, rolling up the sleeves of Jackson’s navy button-down and settling into the futon. Unlike his other half, D.J. splayed his arms over the back of the couch, a rock star between two invisible supermodels.
“Okay,” Frankie agreed, hands shaking. “Here we go.” She fumbled nervously through her notes, smearing makeup on the edge of the paper. “So, um, what makes you special?”
“I’m fun, I’m laid-back, and I get good grades without studying.”
“How did you end up this way?”
“One part genes, two parts charm.”
“Genes? Whose genes?” she pressed.
“Old man Hyde’s. The man was a mad partier. I read his journals and, believe me, he was out there.”
Frankie considered telling D.J. about Jackson right then and there. Imagine the footage! Oprah would have done it. But it wasn’t Frankie’s place. It was his mother’s. Their mother’s. All Frankie could do was skip a few questions and pray D.J. didn’t see Jackson’s interview when it aired.
“Why did you agree to be in this film?”
“Because you agreed to let me ask you a question.”
Frankie giggled. He was charming. “Okay, what’s your question?” She gestured for Brett to turn off his camera. He did immediately. She steeled herself for the inevitable, reminding her guilty conscience that hurting him would help Jackson, Melody, Brett, and her. The benefits outweighed the costs in a mega way. Besides, he wasn’t around that much anyway, so…
“I was wondering,” D.J. asked, taking off Jackson’s glasses. His blue eyes were brimming with sincerity. Suddenly, it didn’t matter how well Frankie rationalized breaking his heart. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. He didn’t deserve it.
“Firecracker?”
“Yes,” Frankie said to the rounded toe of her gray boots. Her bolts were starting to itch.
“Do you mind if we see other people?”
“What?” Frankie burst out laughing.
“I know you weren’t expecting this,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just that my life is kind of all over the place right now, and I never know where I’m going to be from one minute to the next. And that’s not fair to you.”
Brett and Heath snickered.
“I totally understand.” Frankie smiled. She opened the barn door, desperate for a rush of cool air and the return of Jackson.
But before the transformation occurred, she lifted her finger and gave D.J. a spark right on the cheek.
He rubbed the tiny red spot happily. “What was that for?”
“Something to remember me by.”
“I’ll always remember you, Firecracker.” He winked.
Frankie’s heart space swelled. Tiny electric happy faces rained down inside her like fireworks. And then his eyes turned black. Then blue. Then back to hazel.
Change was definitely in the air.
CHAPTER TWENTY
STALL WARS
Melody shoulder-leaned on the bathroom door, grateful that she had three minutes to pee before language arts class. One more class until the weekend—not that it really mattered. There would be no time for sleeping in. No time for a “halfway decent latte search” with Candace or a rom-com rental with Jackson. Not when she had to screen every single RAD interview they’d shot over the last eight days. Not when Ross was expecting a rough cut on Monday so he could give notes. Not when it aired on Thursday. NUDI duty called.
Instead of the typical third-floor bathroom smells, the scent of amber greeted Melody as she entered the girls’ room. Beverly Hills Smellody would have darted for the second floor. But Salem Melody refused to run.
Cleo exited the middle stall and clomped toward the sink in her platform wood sandals. Gold triangles swung from her ears in perfect time with the flounce of the hem on her black and emerald-green mini. Her figure
-skater style—emphasis on figure— was so uniquely her own, so incredibly flattering, that Melody couldn’t help rethinking her boxy white tee, drawstring kakis, and navy mesh low-tops. She suddenly felt powerless, like a peasant in the presence of royalty.
“Hey,” Melody said over the loud hum of the hand dryer. “Cute dress.”
Cleo pressed the silver button for another blast of air.
She clearly blamed Melody for the botched Teen Vogue shoot, for the falling-out with her friends, and simply for having been born a normie. But it was easier to attract queen bees with honey than with vinegar, so Melody forced herself to be sweet.
“You know, I totally knew you were in here, ’cause I smelled your amber perfume, which is cool. I read that girls with a signature scent are more ambitious than girls without signature scents.”
Cleo responded with a third blast of air.
Stay sweet… stay sweet… stay sweet…
“At lunch today, your friends were saying how much they missed you,” Melody lied, ignoring the mounting pressure in her bladder. The truth was, Clawdeen had seen Cleo walking to class with Bekka and Haylee and had pretty much written her off for good. “They want you to come back.”
Cleo finally made eye contact. “Oh, so you’re sitting with them now too?” she snapped, fixing Melody with a paralyzing gaze.
Obviously, Cleo felt threatened. If ever there was a time for some peacekeeping sweetness, it was now. But all Melody could taste was vinegar.
“What’s your problem?” she practically spat. “I’m just trying to help, and you act like I’m the Roman Empire or something.”
Cleo’s eyes widened to a warning. But Melody couldn’t stop. Assertiveness—combined with her ability to work in a historical metaphor—gave her more confidence than a figure-skater outfit ever could. “I’m not trying to dethrone you,” Melody continued. “I’m just—”
“Shhh,” Cleo hissed, gesturing toward the first stall, where a pair of peach UGG boots dangled above the vinyl flooring.
“Look,” Melody whispered, refusing to let up, “I never meant to come between anyone. I’m just standing up for what I believe in.”
“So am I,” Cleo insisted, her triangle earrings swaying in concurrence.
“How? By choosing a fashion shoot? Is that all that matters to you? What about equal rights and—”
Cleo stomped her foot. “What are you talking about? Have you seriously lost your mind? Did the zombies get you too?”
“What?”
Melody searched Cleo’s blue eyes for an explanation—a wink, a tear, a sign—a clue floating her way before she drowned in confusion. But Cleo offered nothing. Her gaze was hard and cold, just as Bekka’s had been when she discovered the video of Jackson.
“Wait.” Melody smirked. “I know what’s happening. You’ve been hanging around with Bekka and—”
Bwoop. Bwoop. Last period was about to start. Still, Melody couldn’t stop. Cleo was a queen bee-otch, but she deserved to know the truth.
“Bekka can’t be trusted. You need to be careful.”
The toilet flushed.
Bekka emerged.
Melody hurried into the last stall and slammed the door. But embarrassment, anger, and regret found her anyway. How could she have been so dense? The peach UGGs, the sudden zombie comment, the wide eyes of warning? Cleo had tried to tell her, but Melody had been too seduced by her own voice to see the clues.
“Hey, Melodork,” Cleo called over the running faucet. “Thanks for the warning.”
Bekka burst out laughing, and then they were gone, leaving Melody behind to drown.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IT’S A WRAP
Merston High was dimly lit and empty. Anyone with a life renounced school on Sundays. But the kids without lives were the ones Cleo worried about; the ones who geeked out in the AV room until the weekend janitor sent them home. Because they would know that Cleo’s visit to their tech temple was disingenuous. Not only would her exotic beauty stand out among their plainness like a calla lily in a cabbage patch, but she had never even considered entering their subterranean lair before—especially during prime tanning hours. If they didn’t suspect white-collar crime, they’d assume Cleo couldn’t afford her own computer. Neither theory would be good for her reputation.
So there she was, spending Sunday in the basement bathroom instead of with the three S’s (sunning, shopping, spa-ing). Cleo was waiting for an “all clear” text from Bekka. As soon as the geeks were gone, Bekka would hack into Brett’s computer and erase “The Ghoul Next Door.” Which, thanks to Cleo’s access to her friends’ Facebook pages, they had learned Ross was expecting by the end of day on Monday. Cleo exhaled two weeks’ worth of social angst into the chlorine-scented air. Finally, the end was near.
She checked her iPhone. Zero messages.
Ptah!
It was hard to believe that Deuce hadn’t come around. He’d texted Cleo once, the night of their fight, asking her to “reconsider.” She’d texted back THE MOVIE OR ME. To which he’d responded, BOTH. She typed WRONG ANSWER and cried into a heap of cat fur for hours.
It took all of her strength to play hard to get and not to pressure him to change his mind, especially since her heart-shaped hump was running dangerously low on reassurance. But if she didn’t teach him the importance of putting his girlfriend above everything else, who would?
But her friends? She definitely thought they would have come back by now. Which is why she hadn’t told Teen Vogue they were short two models and one stylist’s assistant. With the shoot only four days away, her need to fess up was becoming more urgent. Cleo’s professional connections were at stake, not to mention her father’s trust. If she told the truth now, the magazine could find replacements. But the day of? Would they even want to?
Cleo checked her phone again. Still no messages. Were her friends really having fun without her? Was it even possible?
Still, Cleo clung to hope.
Ping!
If it weren’t for Bekka’s constant HUNT updates, Cleo’s cell phone would die from loneliness.
TO: Cleo
Oct 10, 4:03 PM
BEKKA: ALL CLEAR!
A pink rubber-gloved hand reached out and yanked Cleo into the computer-packed room. “Hurry,” Haylee insisted, shutting the door behind them and securing the window shade. Her stakeout ensemble—a peach boyfriend cardi over mauve-and-gray-striped leggings—couldn’t have been more conspicuous if it flashed neon and blasted death metal.
“Hey,” Bekka called from the third row of computers. She was already clacking away but paused to wave her blue rubber-gloved hand. “This is easier than I thought. I should be done in a minute.”
Cleo winced, fanning the musty air. It smelled like flying coach beside a passenger eating nacho cheese Doritos. Cans of soda and balled-up fast-food wrappers overflowed the trash can by the door, as if trying to escape the maddening hum of machines and unflattering fluorescent lights.
“Here,” Haylee said, reaching into her attaché case and pulling out a pair of red wool mittens. “Put these on before you touch anything.”
Cleo pinched the itchy mitts as if they were covered in poo.
“Oh, and here’s a HUNT wristband,” she said, sliding a mangled yellow bracelet off her wrist. “I melted down my old LIVE-STRONG bracelets, and voilà!”
“Seriously?”
Haylee lowered her tortoiseshell frames and glared at Cleo in a why-wouldn’t-I-be-serious? sort of way.
“It looks like chewed gum.”
“Perfect.” Haylee snickered. “Since we’re trying to stick together.”
Good Geb! Are all normies this scary? Cleo wanted to tell Haylee where to stick her itchy mitts and clumpy bracelet, but she wasn’t going to get into a power struggle now. Why ruin an already ruined Sunday? Besides, HUNT was only a means to an end. And that end was near.
“What can I do?” Cleo asked, trying not to inhale.
“HIDE!” Haylee whisper-shou
ted.
“What?” Cleo turned.
“Get down and turn off your ringers!”
Haylee sprinted from her post and tackled Cleo to the ground. Together they crawled across the crumb-covered carpet to the end of the third row. Knees burning, Cleo regretted her decision to wear a miniskirt almost as much as she regretted having joined this ragtag operation. Knowing Haylee, this was probably just a drill.
They scurried under the long rectangular table and joined up with Bekka.
“Who was it?” Cleo whispered, rearranging her black-and-pink chiffon banded mini to prevent a Cosabella sighting.
“Brett!” mouthed Haylee. “And—”
The door squeaked open. A pair of scuffed hiking boots and knee-high platform boots entered.
Frankie!
The feet hurried inside, and the couple sat by a computer in the first row.
What are they doing here? Cleo asked with raised brows.
Bekka responded with a shrug of her shoulders. You tell me. Isn’t that your job? her bugged-out eyes asked.
We’re dead, Haylee said by finger-slicing her neck.
Cleo lifted her gaze in reverence to Hathor. She was about to ask for guidance and protection, but when she saw a constellation of crusty boogers and mashed Skittles on the underside of the table, she decided not to involve the goddess in this one.
“Ready?” Frankie asked.
Someone began typing, then stopped after a few seconds and sighed.
“Ready,” said Brett.
“Good luck.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you. I mean, I wouldn’t have done it without you,” he said. Then came the sound of kissing.
Bekka rolled her green eyes, which were starting to tear. She lowered her head and hid, softly sniffling, behind the sway of her wavy bob.
Cleo was starting to feel sorry for her. Watching Melody revenge-kiss Deuce had made her sweat amber for an entire weekend— and Deuce had been attacked. She couldn’t imagine how Bekka felt knowing that Brett actually liked Frankie. And Cleo wasn’t going to try. She couldn’t! Bekka was the enemy. She was dangerous. No matter how pathetic she might look at the moment.
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