“Candace is home sick,” Melody continued.
“Bummer,” Frankie said, sensing the hollowness in her own voice. “I hope she feels better soon.” She closed her locker and hooked her silver-studded backpack over her shoulder.
“Please, she’s totally faking,” Melody went on. “But she was watching TV and saw a promo for ‘The Ghoul Next Door.’ Channel Two is airing it!”
Frankie began walking toward the exit. Melody ran alongside her like a puppy.
“It must be a mistake,” Frankie decided, refusing to hope. “I’m sure someone would have called us.”
“It’s not a mistake. Candace called the station. They’re airing it!”
“Are you sure?”
Melody nodded.
VOLTAGE!
Frankie stopped in the middle of the hall, ignoring the accidental elbow bumps from passing students, and texted Brett the news.
He appeared beside them within seconds. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Melody told him about Candace’s news.
“Why wouldn’t Ross call me?”
The girls shrugged.
“What made him change his mind about blurring everyone’s face?”
“Maybe he felt guilty,” Melody suggested.
“But I thought they wanted to show everyone watching the broadcast in the studio.”
“Just call him,” Frankie urged.
Brett tried Ross four times, his black-polished fingers dialing the number with uncontainable pep. But each time his call went straight to voice mail. “Oh, well,” he said, too excited to get discouraged. “Let’s have a screening party. Can you guys get everyone to the shed by five thirty? I’ll set up and order some pizza.”
They parted ways with renewed purpose. Frankie lifted her matronly, floor-dusting peasant skirt as she hurried down the school steps to spread the shocking good news.
In a little over an hour, Brett had transformed his monster museum into a cushy screening room. He’d hung a flat-screen TV, created four rows of mismatched seating, and set up a table stacked with pizza boxes, sodas, and bowls of candy. He left the doors open to keep Jackson from overheating. He had a fire extinguisher standing by for Heath, marked three of the Domino’s boxes MEAT LOVER’S for the Wolfs, and even had a space heater on hand in case Lala stopped by after the photo shoot. The vase of green tulips was for Frankie.
The room quickly filled with people buzzing about the twist of fate. And at least five of them told Frankie how lucky she was to be with Brett. Not Brett the normie. Not Brett the NUDI. Not Brett, Bekka’s ex. The qualifiers were gone. The lines had been blurred. He was no longer separate from them. He was just Brett. It was a good sign. If this group could come around, anyone could.
“Here we go,” he called, cranking up the volume.
The chewing and the chatter stopped. Everyone settled into chairs with squirmy anticipation. Brett stood by the screen, unable to contain his excitement. It reminded Frankie of herself only two weeks ago, standing with her nose practically pressed against the TV while she watched him in the hospital. The unpredictability of life made her smile. One minute her head was coming off, and the next her heart was on her sleeve. Frankie Stein was finally living!
Everyone cheered when Ross appeared on the screen. He was standing in front of the Merston High letter board. His boyish features were the perfect complement to a story about judgments based on looks. With his smooth skin, wide brown eyes, and dimple-studded smile, he seemed more likely to scoop ice cream than the news.
“Should he be showing our school?” asked Deuce.
No one answered. They were waiting breathlessly to see where this was going. Julia nervously pushed her glasses up her nose.
“It’s Spotlight on Oregon week here on Channel Two, and our slogan, “It’s all true on Two,” has never been more, well, true.” He snickered. “Two weeks ago, I received a red-hot tip that there were monsters—yes, monsters— living right here in Salem.” He strolled around to the other side of the board. There, the letters had been rearranged to say MONSTER HIGH. “It’s everyone’s worst nightmare come true… or is it?”
“Did he just say ‘nightmare’?” asked Claude, gnashing his teeth.
“Shhh,” everyone hissed.
“What you’re about to see are interviews I was able to gather from these monsters. Some will have you laughing. Some will have you crying. But all of them will tell you everything you need to know about ‘The Ghoul Next Door.’ ”
The show’s title, which bled red, spun onto the screen and throbbed to the theme music from the movie Psycho.
“What happened to my graphics?” Jackson called.
Puuuurp.
“Sorry,” Heath said as a band of fire shot out the back of his chair. “That sausage pizza was super spicy.”
Suddenly, the shed felt more like a sauna. But no one seemed to notice—because Bekka had appeared on the screen. Wearing a frilly white dress and too much blush, she was seated in what looked like a church pew. Everyone gasped.
“What’s she doing there?” Brett asked the TV.
Melody leaned over and whispered, “What’s happening?”
Frankie tugged her neck seams. “I have no idea.”
The camera pushed in tight on Bekka’s freckly face as she began to speak. “Hi. I’m Bekka Madden. My boyfriend, Brett, made the following film, but it was made under duress. The creatures you are about to see have possessed him. They have turned him into their propaganda zombie, forcing him to shoot these scenes to gain your trust. Once they have it, they’ll steal your souls and suck your minds. But this is not a time for panic. It’s a time for action. Stop them before they stop you. And, Brett, if you’re watching, I love you. You can come back now. I’ll keep you safe.”
How did this happen? Why did it happen? Who let it happen?
The show began immediately with an unblurred interview with Jackson.
Melody gasped.
“Brett, what are they doing?” Jackson shouted.
“I have no idea!”
“We were tricked!” Claude howled, whipping a slice of meat lover’s pizza at the TV screen. It stuck and slid, landing with a thonk on the floor.
“Everyone will know where we live!”
“We’ll never be allowed back in school!”
“What about my scholarship?”
“Where are we going to hide now?”
“How will we even get there?”
“My parents are going to kill me.”
“I’m already dead, and mine are still going to kill me.”
“I’ll never get to play Juliet now.”
“I was supposed to take my road test tomorrow!”
“There’s a geek living inside of me!” D.J. shouted, his face covered in sweat. “Why didn’t my mother tell me? Why didn’t any of you tell me?” He pushed through the cramped rows of chairs and ran out of the shed.
“D.J., wait!” Deuce called. But it was too late. He was gone.
“My bad,” Heath said, blushing.
“D.J. is right. We should get outta here!”
“Omigod, how do we stop this?” Melody asked amid the growing chaos.
“I have no idea,” Frankie said, trembling.
Her cell rang. She answered on speaker, to avoid shorting the phone with her spraying bolts.
“Is this fur real?” Clawdeen barked.
Frankie opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“Cleo must have known about this,” Clawdeen continued. “She’s been BFFs with Bekka for the last two weeks. She had to be involved.”
“Why would she do this to us?” Lala shouted in the background.
“What are you so worried about?” Blue cried. “At least no one can see your face.”
Frankie’s insides churned. “Are you at the shoot?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.
“In the limo. We were on our way to the shoot, but we saw the whole thing on the TV in the car. I don’t want to see Cleo o
r another camera for the rest of my life! We’re turning around and coming home. That is, if our driver doesn’t kill us first. He keeps checking his rearview mirror and asking why he can’t see Lala. He thinks we’re playing monster mind tricks on him. I swear he’s driving at least a hundred and forty right now. We were crazy to trust Cleo. I hope a camel takes a steaming hot… SLOW DOWN!” she shouted. “We’re not going to hurt you, okay? Frankie, you should watch out for Brett and Melody. They probably masterminded this whole thing with Bekka.”
Melody gasped. “That is so not true!” she shouted into the speaker.
“Oh, really? Because we were doing fine until you showed up.”
“Clawdeen, I would never—”
“Don’t listen to her, Frankie. Just get out of there as fast as you can. We’ll be home soon. Unless this maniac kills us. I said SLOW DOWN!”
The line went dead.
Frankie didn’t know where to turn. Was Clawdeen onto something? Her theory did made sense. Brett and Bekka… dating forever. He’s a budding filmmaker looking for a break… and he stumbles on the story of the century. They mastermind a plan… send Brett and Melody to work from the inside… to build her trust and win her heart. His shed was a set piece… the posters of Grandpa Stein were props… a complex scheme with a single goal in mind… to go viral… global… Hollywood.
“How could you do this to us?” Frankie shouted at Melody.
“Seriously, Frankie, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Her weak response didn’t deserve another minute of Frankie’s attention. Melody was nothing more than a pretty face that had been used (like the rest of them) to further Brett and Bekka’s quest for immortality. Ironically, immortality was something so many RADs came by naturally. But Brett and Bekka had to go for it the normie way—by selling their souls for fame.
“You lied to me!” Frankie shouted. But her words got lost in the barrage of insults, threats, and finger foods being hurled at Brett. Still, she kept right on screaming. Brett just stood by the TV, motionless, silently accepting his flogging.
“Run!” Deuce called. “He won’t stay stoned forever.”
En masse, the RADs bolted from the shed and fanned out into the street in a complete free-for-all. All sense of unity was gone. They were running for their lives once again. Frankie didn’t know whether to chase after them, topple Brett to the ground, or call her parents and urge them to start packing.
So she ran.
She ran and ran and ran with no destination in mind. Sparking and sobbing her way down Baker Street, Frankie couldn’t help thinking that maybe Cleo had been right. Maybe Viktor should take her apart.
Because if he didn’t, someone else would.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SIREN SAYS
“D.J.?” Melody called as she turned onto Piper Lane. “Jack-sonnn?”
No one answered. So she kept running and calling. Tree-lined street after tree-lined street, she called and ran, avoiding cars and interrupting games of street soccer.
“D.J.? Jackson?” she called on Dewey Crescent.
“D.J.? Jackson?” she called on Willow Way.
“D.J.? Jackson?” she called on Narrow Pine Road.
Still no one answered.
Thirty minutes after the mass exodus from the shed, she was still running and calling. And never once did she have to stop for a blast from her inhaler. In fact, she could have kept going if she’d thought it would do any good. That was the silver lining on this horribly cloudy evening.
It sickened her to the point of nausea when she thought about Brett and Bekka’s ploy. How much it had set the RADs back— not to mention her place among them—and for what? Bekka’s pride? Brett’s career? A rush?
Melody slowed to a walk. All this running wasn’t getting her anywhere. The bigger question was, What now? Keep searching for D.J. and Jackson? Convince Frankie she had nothing to do with the TV show? Hide the RADs in her house? Have her father carve them into normies? Find Bekka and Brett, slather them in steak sauce, and leave them on the Wolfs’ doorstep? Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes!
Or she could confront the one person no one wanted to talk to. The one who probably had the answers. The one who needed Melody as much as much as Melody needed her, whether she knew it yet or not.
Sitting on a curb, she dialed Candace. The red J Jackson had written on the rubber toe of her black Converse had smudged and started to fade. Is it a sign? Does he need me? Am I making the right choice? What if—
“Ah-choo!” Sniff. “Hullo? Mel?” Candace answered. “Obighod, did you see that show? Dis can’t be good, right? Ah-choo!”
Melody rolled her eyes. “I know you’re faking, Can. You can talk normally.”
“Fine, what do you want?”
“You have to report for NUDI duty. I need a ride.”
Melody bit her lip, dreading the shrill sound of Candace’s you-gotta-be-kidding-me laugh.
“Where? When? Wardrobe?”
“Really?” Melody asked, shocked that Candace had agreed so easily. “Um, corner of Forest and Cliff. Now. Formfitting. Oh, and bring something for me too. I’m kinda sweaty. Hurry!”
“Candace out!”
While Melody waited, she dialed Jackson’s number, but her call went straight to his voice mail each time. The same thing happened when she tried to reach Frankie. Melody got up, stretched her legs as she leaned against the side of a tree, and called again. And again. And again. What if their phones have been confiscated? What if they’re in the back of a paddy wagon heading for Alcatraz? What if…
Weeeoooo weeeoooo weeooooo.
The sound of an approaching police siren froze Melody’s thoughts to fear-cicles. The roundup had begun.
Weeeoooo weeeoooo weeooooo.
She stood.
Weeeoooo weeeoooo weeooooo.
Her stomach was now in her throat. Her arms were shaking with fright; her legs were twitching with flight.
Weeeoooo weeeoooo weeooooo.
A forest-green BMW SUV screeched as it rounded the corner onto Cliff. The sirens got louder, but the paddy wagon was nowhere in sight.
“Hey!” Candace shouted over the siren blaring in her car. Thin braids appeared randomly throughout her mess of blond curls. She wore a strapless yellow silk-chiffon minidress, a peacock-feather necklace, and strappy turquoise booties. Her body had been dusted in shimmering bronze powder and spritzed with enough Black Orchid perfume to blow a second hole in the ozone layer. “Hop in!”
“What is that?” Melody shouted back, covering her ears.
“A police car sound effect. I downloaded it. As the NUDI driver, I thought I might need it someday. Don’t worry about the ninety-nine cents. It’s a tax write-off.”
“Well, can you turn it down?” Melody asked, hopping into the passenger seat. “I have enough noise in my head right now.”
“Fine.” Candace shrugged. “Siren out.”
And off they went.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SAVED BY THE MEL
Seated on a foldout throne made of black canvas and wood, Cleo gazed out of the white holding tent, feeling every part the Egyptian queen. Frantic worker bees buzzed all around her, running wires, cleaning camera lenses, and attempting to roll wardrobe racks through the sand.
Like the regal women who had come before her, she gazed out at the golden dunes, marveling at the amber-scented breeze and how it shaped and shifted the terrain with the delicate strokes of an artist’s brush. It was as if Ra had commissioned the wind to create beauty just for her.
In the old days, moments like this would have been preserved on dusty walls, portrayed by crude drawings of vultures, disembodied legs, and zigzags. Thankfully, times had changed. As soon as her friends arrived, Cleo would be photographed by Kolin VanVerbeentengarden, lit by Tumas, and featured in Teen Vogue. If only the magazine could find its way to the afterlife. Aunt Nefertiti would be blown away.
After three hours of wardrobe and jewelry fittings,
two hours of hair and makeup, a luxurious Dead Sea salt foot scrub, and a mani-pedi, Cleo was ready for her close-up. She was also ready for her medium shot, her sultry shot, her action shot, her regal shot, her I’m-too-sexy-for-this-camel shot, and her shot at making a name for herself in the highly competitive world of jewelry design. Her sketches and samples were locked away in the safe of Manu’s Bentley, patiently waiting for their turn in the spotlight. And they would get it, as soon as she had impressed the editors with her professionalism and her well-rehearsed repertoire of poses.
An emaciated intern pulled up to the holding tent in an ATV. “Any word yet?” she asked. Her hair was tied back with a Pucci scarf and reinforced with a pair of white-framed Guccis. A sheer lime-green tank billowed over her pore-clogging skinny jeans.
Um, who is the model here?
“Jaydra doesn’t want to wait any longer. We’re losing light.”
Where are they?
Cleo lowered her head and checked her phone again. She had service and plenty of battery left. But no new text messages. The beads on her gold headdress clinked together for what was bound to be the last time if Clawdeen, Blue, and Lala didn’t show up.
“They should have been here two hours ago. I don’t understand,” she managed to croak, despite what felt like a giant hair-ball stuck in her throat. “What if there was an accident?”
“Then you have three minutes to scrape them off the roadway, or this shoot is canceled,” the intern snapped, slamming her YSL cork wedge on the gas and rumbling off.
Cleo could send another message, but what was the point? She had already sent eleven, in varying tones, and had yet to get a single response. Normally Cleo might have wondered if her friends were mad. But not today. They had texted all through last period, counting down the seconds until they could join her on the set.
Cleo checked the Saran that had been wrapped around her feet to preserve her pedi. Then she heel-waddled toward her bald savior.
“Manu,” she whined, choking back tears that would land her right back in the makeup trailer. “Have you found them yet?”
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