Monster High

by Lisi Harrison

  He crawled back onto his chair and locked eyes with Frankie, making her spark more. For an instant it felt as though his performance was just for her.

  Over the span of the next forty-five minutes, she managed to glean that Lala had a crush on D.J. That D.J. had a crush on his “Firecracker.” That Lala could have D.J. because, while he was cute, he didn’t have Brett’s mysterious edge. And that Melody’s RAD-ar must have been beeping because she could not stop staring at D.J., who would not stop trying to get rezapped. It took a tremendous amount of physical control—which felt like trying not to think, which felt like not being able to breathe, which felt like being dead—for Frankie not to light up like Vegas.

  When the bell bwooped, she bolted from her seat and raced to the girls’ bathroom. Lala and Blue called after her, but she ignored them. Frankie didn’t know if she had enough willpower to hold back any more sparks.

  She burst into the bathroom, locked herself in the first stall, and let it rip. She was thankful that the bathroom was empty, because energy—charged by making eye contact with Brett, being poked at by D.J., and being stared down by Melody—flew from her fingers in a powerful bout. She flushed the toilet several times to cover the sound.

  Relieved and drained, she opened the door with an exhausted sigh.

  “Sounds like Sheila’s got the thunder from down under,” Blue said, with a sympathetic smile. She rubbed her flat abs. “I know what that’s like, mate.”

  Lala giggled into her palm.

  “Yeah.” Frankie washed her hands. Better they think she had to go number three than something so odd that it didn’t even have a number.

  “You forgot this.” Lala waved the Fierce & Flawless makeup case like a flag.

  “Oh, thanks.” Frankie placed her hand where her heart would be. “I’d be lost without this.”

  “Why?” Blue twirled a wool-covered finger around one of her blond curls. “You’re so pretty. You don’t need all that makeup.”

  Lala nodded in agreement.

  “Thanks.” Frankie’s insides swelled. “So are you guys,” she said, meaning it. “It’s just that I kind of, uh, have bad skin.”

  “Same.” Blue turned on the faucet and splashed the back of her neck. “Severe dryness.”

  “You should see all her lotions,” Lala said with envy. “Her bedroom looks like Sephora.”

  “Well, yours looks like the Cashmere Kangaroo,” Blue countered, still soaking.

  “What’s the Cashmere Kangaroo?” Frankie asked.

  “I have no idea.” Lala giggled. “What is the Cashmere Kangaroo?”

  “I made it up.” Blue burst out laughing. “’Cause I couldn’t think of a store that only sold cashmere sweaters.”

  “She’s saying that ’cause I’m always cold.” Lala folded her arms over her sweater dress. “Which is why I have a lot of cashmere.”

  “Are you always cold too?” Frankie asked Blue. “Is that why you wear those gloves?”

  “Nah.” Blue waved away the notion. “Just dry.” She turned to Lala. “Hey, are we going to the spa this weekend?”

  “You mean, am I giving you another guest pass?” Lala fired back exuberantly.

  “C’mon, luv, that place is so dang exy, I can’t afford my own membership. And if I don’t get in for a soak soon, my skin will turn to cactus.”

  “Try a razor,” Lala suggested.

  “Only if you try a dingo muzzle.”

  Frankie giggled, tickled by the lyrical friskiness of their banter.

  “Hey, we should bring Frankie this week,” Lala suggested through tight lips. “I bet some time on the tanning bed would clear up your skin.”

  “Ace!” Blue exclaimed, scratching her arm. “That’ll give you the confidence to nab Brett away from his Sheila.”

  “What?” Frankie clenched her fists to keep from sparking.

  “Caught you staring,” Blue teased, opening the bathroom door.

  “Oops.” Frankie pretended to be embarrassed. But all she really felt was joy, to be inducted into their playful game of back-and-forth.

  “So, can you make it on Saturday?” Lala asked as they joined the foot traffic in the hall.

  “Sure.” Frankie nodded graciously. She had no idea what a tanning bed could do for her, but if that’s what normie girls did to attract boys like Brett, this Sheila was in.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “LIP BOMB”

  On Friday, Bekka greeted Melody with a celebratory high five. “You survived your first week of classes at Merston High.” Her freckled cheeks had the same rosy hue as her dusty pink boyfriend cardigan. Paired with dark skinny jeans and knee-high yellow Wellingtons, she was a welcome burst of color on a rainy afternoon.

  “I know.” Melody hooked a khaki army surplus backpack over her shoulder. “It actually kinda flew.”

  “You sound surprised,” Bekka noted, heading down the crowded corridor.

  Haylee followed behind, documenting the conversation. Her orange Sherpa-lined Crocs squeaked as she hurried to keep up the frenzied pace.

  “I am surprised.” Melody zipped her black hoodie as they got closer to the exit. “I was the victim of a kiss-and-run, and that can make for a slow week. But I actually had fun.” She smiled, recalling the food fight with Cleo, late-night e-mail marathons with Bekka, and the futile stakeouts during which she and Candace spied on Jackson’s house. There was no suspicious activity—or any activity at all.

  “Correction,” Haylee interrupted. “Technically, the victim would be Jackson, not you.”

  Melody had already learned to be patient with Haylee and at times even appreciated her passion for accuracy and order. But this was not one of those times.

  “How is he the victim?” Melody asked in a terse whisper, careful not to give the passing ninth graders another reason to gossip. It was all about lying low after what she and Bekka referred to as the Monday Melodrama, which had quickly morphed into the Monday Melodydrama. And so far she had done a great job. Because whipping an atlas at Jackson’s head while he was flirt-touching that Frankie girl in geography would have been very satisfying. And beating him with the Eiffel Tower snow globe while he kissed Cleo in French class would have been très cathartic. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d been egglike: a hard shell on the outside, and a runny mess on the inside. So the fact that Haylee could say he was the victim seemed more Ludacris than “Word of Mouf.”

  “Melly is right.” Bekka turned to face Haylee. “She’s the victim here.”

  Melody smiled her thanks to Bekka, not sure which felt better: having the support of a new friend or being called by her nickname.

  “Melody is not the victim,” Haylee insisted, her glasses fogging with certainty. “Jackson is.” She pointed at the double doors where a cluster of students had gathered to wait for a break in the rain. They chatted in the low hush of funeral directors, obviously deeply saddened by their inability to cross over into the free world. Only two people in the entire group seemed happy: Cleo and the tanned, muscular boy wearing dark sunglasses and a green-and-white-striped ski cap, because they were making out. “Look!”

  “No way!” Melody’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “See?” Haylee asked, feeling proud. “Jackson got kissed. Now Cleo is moving on. So he’s the victim of the kiss-and-run.”

  “She’s right,” Bekka admitted, sounding disappointed.

  “Want me to enter that in the notes?” Haylee asked, rocking back and forth on her tiptoes while tugging the bottom of her fuzzy fuchsia scarf.

  “Nah,” Bekka said dismissively.

  Haylee stopped rocking.

  “Who is that guy?” Melody stopped to fake a drink from the water fountain so she could get a better look.

  “His name is Deuce,” Bekka explained, faking a drink after Melody. “He spends the summers in Greece with his family. He just got back. He’s not as cute as Brett, but he’s still super cute.”

  “And super Cleo’s,” Haylee added. “They’re totally exclusive
when he’s in town.”

  “Looks like Jackson will be looking for a date to the dance,” Bekka noted, peeling masking tape off the September Semi mural that hung above their heads. She balled it up between her fingers and flicked it onto the floor.

  “Yeah, well, so will I.” Melody pouted, making her way toward the doors. She didn’t mind a little rain. At least no one would see her cry.

  “Hey!” Bekka lit up. “You should go drop a lip bomb on him, you know, to get back at Cleo for making out with Jackson.”

  “Ha!” Melody hollered at the absurdity. Everyone turned to look, Cleo and Deuce included. So much for lying low.

  “Do it,” Bekka whispered.

  “No way,” Melody whispered back. “You do it. You want to get back at her just as much as I do.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not committed to anyone. I am.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” Melody half-smiled.

  “Hey, Melodork.” Cleo inched closer, the corners of her overactive lips curling with delight. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Projecting Rihanna fabulousness in brown glitter kneesocks, a formfitting denim minidress, and gold wedges, Cleo had the attention of everyone around them. Even Bekka, who glared at her nemesis with a mix of disdain and envy.

  “Why?” Melody asked, with egglike composure, even though she felt as if she could crack at any moment.

  “I wanted to let you know”—Cleo spritzed her neck with amber-scented perfume, then leaned close and hissed—“you can have that nerdy guy back now. I’m through with him.”

  The words were spoken into Melody’s ear, but she felt them in her stomach.

  “Wait.” Cleo straightened up. Her blue eyes tracked something in the distance.

  Melody peered over her shoulder. It was Jackson. He was walking toward them carrying a fistful of ceramic flowers he must have made in art class. His glasses hid the expression in his eyes, but Melody could tell by his tentative gait that he was nervous.

  “I may be through with him”—Cleo licked her glossy lips—“but he’s obviously not through with me.” She pouted and sighed. “Poor guy. Look at those pathetic flowers. No girl is going to choose geek when she could have Greek.” Cleo mussed Melody’s black hair condescendingly. “Except you.” She laughed.

  Melody looked directly into Cleo’s eyes, her heart beating like a battle drum. But Cleo glared back, refusing to back down from whatever it was they were really fighting about. Territory? PT status? Grapes? Melody told herself that Cleo was a typical bully just testing the new girl. That she should fight her hate with love. Be the bigger person. Walk away. Stay out of trouble. Lie low. Check her ego at the door. Move past it. Get over it. Sleep on it.…

  And then Cleo winked at Jackson. Not because she liked him, but because she didn’t and Melody did.

  Crack.

  Without warning, Melody’s hard shell broke, and her insides were exposed. But instead of collapsing into a sticky mess, she pushed past Cleo, marched up to Deuce, and pulled him toward her. Somehow she found his lips and…

  A collective gasp was the only way Melody knew she was not imagining this. Then there was the part where Deuce’s pre-glossed lips softened and began kissing her back. And the part where she could smell his leather jacket. And the part where she opened her eyes for a second and saw her reflection in his sunglasses, along with the reflection of half the school standing behind her…

  She was really doing this!

  Melody pulled away. Instead of thinking about the high fives she would get from Haylee and Bekka, the respect she would get from her classmates, the wonderful humiliation she might have caused Cleo, or even the damage she might have done to herself, all she could think about was Jackson—and wonder whether he cared.

  “Woooo-hooooooooo!” Bekka and Haylee hollered. It was the first time anyone had cheered for her since she stopped singing.

  “Sorry,” Melody mumbled softly to Deuce.

  “I’m not,” he mumbled back with a grin.

  “Not bad.” Cleo applauded the impromptu performance with slow measured claps. “Next time try not to look so constipated.” She did her best to sound unaffected, but moist eyes gave her away.

  Melody didn’t respond. Instead, she searched Cleo’s hands for Jackson’s ceramic flowers. But the ring-clad fists held nothing except anger. Jackson was gone.

  “Are you okay?” Cleo asked Deuce as if he’d been attacked. Her expression was strained. She was fighting her bucking cool with the determination of a bull rider.

  “I-I don’t know.” Appearing dazed, Deuce rubbed his tanned forehead. “What happened?” he asked, leaning against the wall as though he might pass out.

  He could kiss, but he couldn’t act.

  “Can we have some room here?” Cleo seethed, forcing the onlookers to disperse and form subclusters.

  Melody pushed through the doors in desperate need of air. Instead of a refreshing slap on the cheeks, something that felt more like a damp towel greeted her. A cover of fog pressed down on the front parking lot. A row of headlights at student pickup colored the slick asphalt like a giant highlighter spill, and windshield wipers fought tirelessly against the relentless downpour. For Melody, however, wet clothes were a nonissue. She was already numb.

  “Wait up, superstar,” Bekka called, splashing down the steps in her yellow Wellingtons, with Haylee by her side.

  Melody stopped suddenly. Not because Bekka wanted her to, but because there was something in the puddle by her soaked black Converse. And it was worth stopping for.

  “Uh-oh.” Bekka groaned.

  Haylee gasped.

  Melody had no words.

  Everything that needed to be said was carved in narrow script on one of the petals in the smashed ceramic bouquet.

  FOR MELODY.

  CHAPTER TEN

  BOLTS AND ALL

  The rain continued into Saturday. Frankie popped open her Astrodome-size, AstroTurf-colored umbrella and hurried into the downpour. Despite her heavy application of Fierce & Flawless Aqua— the waterproof line—daylight shone through the chartreuse canopy and cast a green glow on her hand.

  Ha!

  She longed to share the irony with the girls in the black Escalade. But that was impossible. They had to believe she was a normie. And her parents, watching from the doorway, were silent reminders of that fact.

  She turned to wave. “Bye.”

  Viktor and Viveka waved back, the worry behind their eyes undermining the smiles on their faces.

  “Have fun at the library,” Viveka called over a boom of thunder as she tightened her black scarf.

  “Thanks,” Frankie answered, as a tiny spark of electricity escaped her fingers and scurried up the umbrella pole. It was her first lie. And it felt even worse than she had imagined. Dark. Heavy. Lonely. But if her parents knew she was going to a normie spa with Blue, Lala, and two voltage girls she had seen around school but hadn’t met, they would stress about skin exposure. And when Lala mentioned that kids have been lying to their parents for centuries, Frankie decided to give it a try. After all, Vik and Viv wanted her to fit in with the normies. So if this was what normies did…

  Blue poked her face out the front passenger-side window. Swirls of blond hair were piled high atop her head like butterscotch soft serve, and her angelic features had been scrubbed clean of makeup. “G’day, Mr. and Mrs. Stein.” She waved, revealing a long pair of purple leather gloves.

  “Hi, Blue,” they called back. They looked instantly relieved.

  Frankie grinned. Her parents seemed to know everyone on the street. And soon she would too.

  “How’re your aunt and uncle liking this rain?” Viktor asked with a trace of familiarity.

  “Lovin’ it.” She opened her mouth and lifted her face to the cloud-covered sky. Frankie envied her freedom and yearned for the day when she could feel a raindrop’s kiss on her bare cheek. But until then…

  She hurried inside the SUV to avoid a makeup smear, and strugg
led to close her umbrella without soaking the soft tan leather interior of what smelled like a very expensive amber-scented car.

  “Wow.” She laid her GREEN IS THE NEW BLACK tote by her feet. “This is one serious pimped-out ride.”

  “Thanks.” Lala smiled, her lips hugging her teeth.

  “They bought it off BeyonJay,” Blue teased.

  “Wouldn’t it be Jay-B?” said the dark-haired stranger beside her.

  “I like Jayoncé,” added the girl next to the window.

  They all giggled.

  “I’m Frankie.” She smiled, mindful not to shake their hands.

  “Cleo,” said the girl beside her. She had sad eyes that matched her electric-blue off-the-shoulder tee, and the most voltage gold streaks in her hair. Frankie wondered how such an exotic beauty could be so forlorn. How could anything be bad when you looked like her? Were her tiger-striped leggings too tight? “I didn’t know Mr. and Mrs. Stein had a daughter.”

  The girl seated on the other side of Cleo giggled.

  “You mean me?” Frankie shifted uncomfortably.

  Cleo raised her arched brows and nodded slowly in a who-else-would-I-be-referring-to? sort of way.

  “Yeah. I’ve been home schooled my whole life, you know…”

  “Hey, Frankie,” Blue interjected, “did you meet Claudine?”

  Claudine turned away from the window. “Hey,” she said, tearing open a bag of organic turkey jerky. Her looks—yellowish-brown eyes, a mess of auburn curls, long manicured fingernails painted bronze—were just as striking as Cleo’s but in a more wild, feral way. Her style, however, seemed tamer: all-American with a touch of old-world Hollywood glamour. The fitted black blazer, lilac hoodie, dark skinny jeans, and armful of white plastic bobble bracelets were so J.Crew catalog. However, the tan fur stole peeking out of the top of her blazer was so not. Frankie began sweating at the very sight of it. The heat in Lala’s car had been set to Planet Mercury.

  “It’s nice to meet you both.” She beamed, folding her arms over her embarrassing peach-colored turtleneck sweater dress. The hideous color matched her makeup, in case of smudges. The prim cut was designed to cover her skin. And the black leggings and over-the-knee flat boots were the result of an hour-long argument with Viveka that, fortunately, Frankie won. Did her mom really expect her to wear peach-colored tights too? Maybe if she was a toddler working the Easter pageant circuit, but this girl wanted friends.