Boop…
Someone began dialing on speakerphone.
Boop… boop. Boop… boop… boop… boop.
“Ross Healy,” answered a man after the first ring.
“Whaddup? It’s Brett.”
“And Frankie.” She giggled.
Bekka rolled her eyes.
“We just sent it,” Brett said.
Cleo gasped, then covered her mouth. Just sent it? Today? But it’s not due until tomorrow!
Bekka shot her a how-could-you-screw-this-up? glare. Cleo flicked some carpet fluff off the side of her shoe, pretending not to notice.
“Hey, B-man, thanks again for getting it in a day early. The network is dying to see it.”
“As long as they know it’s rough,” Brett reminded him. “But I can change whatever. So just let me know.”
“You got it. Thanks again, B-doggy-dog. I’ll be in touch.”
The line went dead.
“I hope this works,” Brett said, sounding nervous.
“It will,” Frankie assured him. “You’ll see.”
If only someone were there to reassure Cleo. Someone to tell her she hadn’t just blown the biggest opportunity of her life. Someone to tell her she’d find a way to get her friends back. Someone to tell her this movie wouldn’t change life as she knew it, even though it already had. Because that life was good. Things went her way. People listened to her. And no one—
A cell phone rang.
“Hey,” Brett answered on speaker. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s great, Brett,” said Ross. “As long as you tell me this is a joke and you’re sending me the real movie in zero-point-two seconds.”
Bekka lifted her head.
There is a Geb!
“Whaddaya mean?” Brett asked.
“What do I mean? I mean, what’s with all the blurred faces?” Ross shouted. “Our viewers are going to think they have cataracts. We can’t air this. Send me the clean cut.”
Bekka and Haylee exchanged a luminous smile and a silent high five. This is exactly what they wanted—proof! And exactly what the RADs feared.
Another botched job by Frankie Stein. What a shock!
Now what? worried Cleo. A clean cut would be the end of the RADs. Their identities would be exposed. Their images would be downloaded all over the world. They would become targets. Medical experiments. Scapegoats. No matter how docile and charming the interviews were, normies would find some reason to be afraid. Some reason to discriminate. Some reason to hate. They always did.
Cleo wanted to sink into a lavender-scented bath. She wanted to snuggle with her cats and laugh with her friends. She wanted a Sunday full of the three S’s and text messages and Deuce. But that life seemed like centuries ago.
“So, are you sending it?” Ross asked.
“Uh,” Brett groaned.
Stop him, Frankie!
“Brett?”
Frankie! Stop him. Don’t let him do it!
“Are we cool?”
“We are,” Frankie said. “But you’re not!”
Cleo bit her bottom lip. Not bad for a bolt head.
“B-man?” Ross asked, dismissing Frankie.
“Sorry. I can’t.”
“You’re kidding, right? This is a huge opportunity,” Ross pressed.
“I know.” Brett sighed. “But I promised.”
“Promised who?”
“My friends,” Brett countered.
Ross chuckled. “These freaks are your friends?”
“Yes, and they need to be protected.”
“He has integrity, you know,” Frankie added.
“Do you really think you’re going to make it in this business with integrity?”
“No,” Brett said. “I’ll make it with my talent.”
“Come on, kid. Talent has nothing to do with success.”
“Yeah, R-man.” Brett chuckled. “I knew that the minute I met you.”
The line went dead.
Frankie and Brett were silent. It was over.
Golden!
Cleo tried to mirror the frustration on Bekka’s and Haylee’s faces but stopped for fear of looking constipated. All she wanted to do was bust out from under the table and leave berry-scented lip prints on every computer screen in the room. Geb had saved her once again. “The Ghoul Next Door” was ancient history! She didn’t have to betray anyone! No crime. No time. She pulled off the red mitts and let them fall to the carpet. She was free!
“I’m so sorry,” Frankie said. “You worked so hard on this.”
“It’s okay,” Brett said kindly.
“No, it’s not.” Frankie sniffled. “I shorted it again!”
“How? You promised to keep everyone safe, and you did.”
There was a short pause and then another sniffle. “They’re going to be so disappointed. How are we going to tell them?”
“Together.”
Awww. Liquid warmth filled Cleo like the melted chocolate inside Hasina’s molten lava cake. Brett was pretty decent for a normie.
The door to the lab closed with a defeated click.
Cleo emerged from under the table and smoothed her skirt. Either the fluorescent lights were making her hands look ashen or stress had faded her in a big way. “You think it’s still sunny outside?”
Bekka shrugged, wiped her cheeks dry, and stood.
“Now what?” Haylee asked the HUNT leader as she scooted out from under the table.
“We start over.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Cleo hooked her ruffled denim tote over her shoulder. “See ya on the other side.” Without another word, she crossed the grimy carpet and walked out. Each step that echoed in the empty hall brought her closer to starting over—and proving that there was, indeed, a life after death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MUMMY’S HOME
Cleo was the first to arrive. As before, she followed the sound of rushing water through the leafy thicket and emerged in the Steins’ secret backyard. The rock-bottomed falls were still flowing and frothing. The grassy perimeter was still manicured and damp. And mist still danced above the stone ledges of the pool. But this time the visit felt completely different. Because this time Cleo was freshly spray-tanned and thrilled to be there.
A late afternoon breeze blew her bangs skyward. It was much too chilly for her bronze minidress and black satin booties with the bows on the back, but Cleo was feeling too festive for anything less. “Hey,” she chirped.
Frankie was sitting alone on the ledge, finger-batting her wrist seams like a cat with yarn. “Hey,” she mumbled, her head still down. Even her gray terry sweats looked miserable.
“Laundry day?”
Frankie lifted her eyes. Normally periwinkle, their hue had been downgraded to plain blue against her SillyPutty-colored makeup.
“What happened? You’re toting bigger bags than Mary-Kate Olsen!” Cleo remarked.
“Whatever.”
Cleo considered recommending cold cucumber slices, a steaming mug of Hasina’s skin-replenishing Nile elixir, and a more inspired comeback. After all, Frankie had proved herself to be a noble warrior by rejecting Ross, and she deserved some kindness. But that wouldn’t kick in until Cleo was absolutely sure “The Ghoul Next Door” was “The Ghoul No More.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Frankie asked, more shocked than bothered.
“I got your text about the movie.” Cleo sat. “And if it’s not too late, I want to be in it.”
“Ha!” said Frankie with her mouth closed. After that, there was nothing more she was willing to share. At least not until the others arrived. So they waited together in silence.
Before long the yard was buzzing with RADs. They greeted one another warmly, with hugs and energetic high fives. No longer a passive group bound solely by secrets, they saw themselves as a force—a proactive faction on a do-or-die mission to change the world. And their pride was palpable. All around Cleo, bubbles of conversation rose and popped, spr
inkling the yard with giddy enthusiasm.
“HBO is gonna be all over this. They love edgy dramas.”
“Really? I see it more as a comedy.”
“Or a Broadway musical.”
“Oh, and you know some author will try to turn it into a teen series.”
“You think Oprah would put it in her book club?”
“Of course. She’s a sucker for outcasts.”
“Funny, I thought you were the sucker.”
“Funny, I thought you were funny.”
“Have you seen Jackson’s sketches? He drew doll versions of all of us.”
“Imagine getting yourself in a Happy Meal?”
“Yum. I imagine it all the time. By the way, is it me or is someone grilling a tenderloin?”
Despite being ignored by her closest friends, Cleo felt surprisingly good. In fact, she felt regal. Like a stoic queen privy to the impending doom of her people, she accepted her solitude as a by-product of her wisdom, an it’s-lonely-at-the-top sort of thing. But she wouldn’t be lonely much longer. Frankie was calling the meeting to order, and in a matter of minutes, these conversation bubbles would burst. And the Teen Vogue shoot would be right there to sop up the mess.
“Thanks for coming,” Frankie said.
The applause was uproarious. Amid the fervor, Lala, Blue, and Clawdeen kept casting sidelong glances at Cleo, probably wondering why she was there. Deuce winked at her but chose to remain with his fellow cast members. Julia stared at Frankie expectantly, in her usual zombielike state. Claude and the other Wolf brothers howled triumphantly. Melody and Jackson were at the very front of the crowd, wearing smiles so wide that the corners of their mouths nearly fused. They had no clue what was coming.
Frankie stepped up onto the stony ledge, just as she’d done before. But this time she made no attempt to silence the booming falls. Viveka and Viktor stood at the back of the crowd, eyes low. They already knew.
“I’ll keep it short because most of us have a bio quiz tomorrow—”
“Yeah, thanks a lot, Jackson,” Claude shouted gruffly from the back of the crowd.
“What does it have to do with me?” Jackson blushed.
“Ms. J is your mom.”
“Well, she’s your teacher. And she said she’s gonna be your teacher again next year if you don’t pass this quiz.”
Everyone laughed at Jackson as if he were Chris Rock. It felt more like open-mike night at the Improv than a Monday after school.
“Hey!” Frankie sparked. Brett stood solemnly by her side. “Just stop talking for a second and listen, okay?”
The crowd quieted.
“We worked really hard on ‘The Ghoul Next Door’ and—”
Claude snickered.
“Dude!” Brett snapped. “This is serious. The movie isn’t happening. Channel Two isn’t going to air it.”
Frankie pouted big enough for all of them. A chorus of shouts came from the RADs.
“What?”
“Fur real?”
“You’re bloody joking, mate. Right?”
“Of course he’s joking. Why wouldn’t they air it?”
Cleo crossed her spray-tanned legs and closed her eyes. She felt as though she were sinking into that hot bath, but instead of water, justice washed over her. And instead of lavender, the bath-water was infused with the soothing aroma of you-should-have-stuck-with-me.
“The network people said they’d air the piece only if we showed your faces,” Brett explained.
“They can’t do that!”
“It would destroy us!”
“We refused,” Frankie assured them.
The yard was silent except for the sound of crashing water. For a second, Cleo actually felt sorry for her friends. Not for their loss of fame but for their failed attempt at freedom.
“Right on, Frank-ay!” someone shouted. Billy started to clap.
The applause was scant at first but began to mount until everyone in the yard was cheering for Frankie and her NUDI crush. Their support lingered, but their giddy enthusiasm was gone. The light had drained from their eyes. Their fire had smoldered to a thin ribbon of smoke.
Cleo stood with grace. Rolling back her glistening shoulders, she crossed the lawn. Weaving unnoticed through the crowd of bodies, she felt like a ghost on a quest to reclaim her lost soul.
Clawdeen saw her first. Her yellow-brown eyes, like two tiger-eye stones, bore right into Cleo. Once the inspiration for Cleo’s first jewelry collection, those eyes seemed hard and cold.
“Hey,” Cleo managed to stammer.
Clawdeen nudged Lala and Blue. All three girls were glaring now.
“What are you doing here?” Lala asked.
Red lipstick was smudged on her chin, but Cleo didn’t dare to comment. “I came to see if I could help with the movie, and then…”
“What about your precious modeling career?” Clawdeen barked.
“I canceled the shoot. You guys were right. This is more important.”
The girls exchanged validated grins. Cleo was about to elaborate on the fake “tongue-lashing from Anna Wintour, who had high hopes for the budding designer-slash-model,” when a distractingly warm breeze blew against her shoulder. It smelled like lemon Starburst. “Billy, stop spying!”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know this conversation was private.”
“If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to spray you with self-tanner. And then you’ll know exactly what private is.” Cleo wiggled her baby finger. “We all will.”
The girls couldn’t help giggling.
“Later, hater,” Billy groaned. The lemon-scented breeze was gone.
“So,” Blue said, her blue eyes back to bizzo. “You reckon you’ll be able to get the modeling shoot back? You know, now that the movie is bogged.”
“I dunno. I haven’t really thought about it.” Cleo sighed. “I guess I could try.”
Clawdeen twirled an auburn curl around her finger. Her long nails were painted with yellow and brown pinstripes. “You think they’d take us back too? Or did you already promise the job to your new best friends?”
Cleo knit her professionally arched brows in confusion.
“Bekka and Haylee,” Lala offered.
“No way! I would never ask them to model. Have you seen their bone structure? It’s so… normal.”
The other girls nodded in agreement.
“So, there’s a chance we can still do it?” Clawdeen asked.
“You know, if we practice our poses and do our squint-prevention exercises?”
“I guess,” Cleo said casually. “If you really want to.”
They nodded and squealed and told her they really, really, really, really did.
“Clawdeen, I was thinking,” said Cleo, leaning over to touch her friend’s curly hair. “You could wear the earrings on your birthday if you want—maybe for a glamorous Sweet Sixteen photo!”
“Really?” Clawdeen squealed. “That would be amazing!”
“Does this mean you forgive me for being so selfish?” Cleo asked.
“Do you forgive us for being so judgmental?” Lala countered.
“Only if you forgive me for telling you to wipe that lipstick off your chin.”
“Thanks a lot,” Lala snapped at Blue and Clawdeen. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We were too busy looking at your wonky eyeliner to notice.” Blue giggled.
They all busted out laughing. Deuce glanced over and gave Cleo a way-to-get-your-friends-back thumbs-up. Cleo winked back just as her friends pulled her into a group hug. She’d deal with Deuce later.
“Mummy’s home!” Lala exclaimed.
“Mummy’s home.” Cleo smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RAD RAGE
Bwoop. Bwoop.
Today, the bell was supposed to signify more than the last period of the day. It should have been a call to arms. A countdown to the millennial RADs’ inaugural television address. An invitation to an after-party in Brett’s she
d to celebrate their first sanctioned outing since the 1930s. But it might as well have been “Taps”—the solemn bugle composition played at military funerals—that Frankie was hearing. Because her dreams were dead.
Normies would never know how hard Claude Wolf was working for a sports scholarship. They’d never see Deuce’s impressive 381-piece sunglasses collection or hear about Blue’s hope of becoming a pro surfer. They’d never cry with Clawdeen while she relived the terror of being sprayed red by PETA activists or having to shower in the locker room after gym class. Never identify with Jackson’s embarrassing battle with sweat or sympathize with D.J.’s lack of control over his life. Lala’s refusal to smile would continue to fuel her reputation as shy, and Julia’s zombie stare would always be mistaken for stupidity. Heath would have to stay indoors during allergy season. Poor Billy would never be able to date a girl who didn’t want to be accused of talking to herself. Frankie would remain hidden under the Spackle of pore-clogging makeup and yurtlike garments. And Brett and Melody would be burdened with keeping their RAD friends’ secrets.
Even though their faces would have been blurred, and the movie would not have solved all their problems, it would have been a first step—one they were finally willing to take together. One that hadn’t been taken in eighty years. One that had gone nowhere. Sure, Frankie could try again. But she was fresh out of ideas. Besides, who would trust her now? Everything she touched turned to mold.
It was obvious by the unusual silence that the others heard “Taps” too. Clawdeen, Blue, and Lala were the only RADs who didn’t seem affected by the lost cause. How could they be, when they were about to be picked up by a shiny black limo with a window sign that said TEEN VOGUE? Holding hands, they ran through the halls with the subtlety of an old clunker trailing cans and a JUST MARRIED sign down an asphalt road. But instead of scratch marks on pavement, they left behind a sickly sweet trail of fruity lotion, floral perfume, and friends moving on.
Suddenly, Melody appeared at Frankie’s locker, panting. “You’re not going to believe it!” Her cheeks were flushed, her gray eyes wide, her black hair a wild mess. Her beauty was undeniable, and she didn’t have to wear a stitch of makeup. A pinch of envy kept Frankie from asking what was wrong. After all, how bad could it be? Melody’s life was perfect.
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