Monster High 01 - Monster High Read online

  “Melody?” she heard him whisper. Or was it the wind?

  “Jackson?”

  “Up here,” he said softly before jumping down.

  “Are you okay?” Melody asked. She was wearing the ThermaFoil like a cape around her neck, superhero-style. She tried to look past his lenses to see his eyes, but it was too dark. “You didn’t have a blackout or anything, did you?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head with little-boy cuteness. “But it’s nice to know you care.” He leaned against the tree behind him and folded his arms across his zippered knit cardigan.

  “Of course I care.” She stepped a little closer. “So, why did you leave?”

  He shrugged as though it should have been obvious. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

  Melody sank deeper into that warm bath. And even though he didn’t say anything, she could tell that Jackson was sinking too. It was the safest she had ever felt around anyone who wasn’t family. If only she could take this moment, and the feelings that came with it, and seal it off from the rest of the world. So that it could always stay exactly as it was.

  Stepping even closer, Melody lifted the ThermaFoil above their heads and let it fall over them, sealing them off for real. And there, surrounded by darkness and heat, rustling leaves and distant howling coyotes, tropical perfume and pastel-scented hands, they kissed… and kissed… and kissed.…

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  KISSASTER

  … and kissed… and kissed… and kissed.

  Sweat glazed their cheeks like doughnuts and salted their lips like pretzels. If it hadn’t been for the lack of oxygen, plus Melody’s constricting bronchi, she could have stayed in the curdy cocoon with Jackson until graduation. But it was getting harder to breathe, and Melody didn’t have her inhaler.

  “Air!” she gasped, throwing off the ThermaFoil and giggling at their mutually disheveled states.

  “What… happened to… your… glasses?” she panted.

  His face was dripping with sweat, and his hazel eyes searched her hungrily. He leaned forward to kiss her again.

  “Wait.” Melody laughed, pressing her hand against his thumping chest. “I need to catch my breath.”

  “Here.” He leaned closer. “Have mine.” His voice sounded lower, more in control.

  “What?” Melody giggled. “Where’dja hear that line? Sounds a little Chuck-ish.”

  “Who’s Chuck?” He pulled away, offended.

  “From Gossip Girl.”

  “Oh.” He dismissed the reference with a wave of his hand. Then he studied her face. “Actually, who are you?”

  “What?” She giggled again, but something about his expression told her he wasn’t joking.

  “Seriously, are we in a class together?”

  “Jackson!” she blurted, despite the tightness in her lungs. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Who’s Jackson?” His expression soured, and he paused. Then his pinched look morphed into a mischievous grin. “Oh, I get it. You’re into role-playing.”

  “Jackson, stop it.” Melody took a step away from him. “You’re freaking me out.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.” He gently pulled her close.

  Wanting to trust him, Melody found her breath and inhaled deeply. He smelled different, like vitamins. Or was that the stench of reality after the love had gone?

  “So if I’m Jackson, who are you?”

  “Ew!” She pushed him away. “Enough!”

  “Wait.” He took a step back. “I don’t get it. Are you into this or not? ’Cause I’m up for anything. I just want to know.”

  Melody’s stomach roiled. Was this another one of Brett’s jokes? Was Jackson part of his crew? Had Bekka set her up and lured her into their twisted circle so they could capture a realistic heartbreak scene? She quickly searched the bushes for a hidden camera.

  “I bet some music would help,” Jackson said. “Maybe we should head back to your place.” He offered his hand. The pastel stains were gone.

  “No, thanks,” Melody said with a sniff. She grabbed her ThermaFoil off the wet ground and wrapped it around her like a sympathetic hug.

  “So it’s like that, huh?” He pulled back his hand and ran it through his sweaty hair. “It’s okay. I’m kind of stuck on someone else, anyway. And she’s a real firecracker!”

  Melody opened her mouth. But nothing came out. Even her voice was lost.

  “Bye,” she managed, then hurried for home, her trembling body desperate to release the hurricane of tears gaining force behind her eyes. But she fought the surge, refusing to give Jackson any more of whatever was left inside her to give.

  As she darted across Radcliffe Way, the first few drops eked their way out and rolled down her cheeks—the calm before the storm. Still, Melody managed to text Bekka a word of advice before her vision blurred completely.

  MELODY: If Brett wants to find real monsters he should date guys.

  She hit SEND.

  And the dam broke.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “PUT THE BOY IN

  BOYCOTT ”

  “Frankie, dear, pass the asparagus to our guests, please,” Viveka asked, with a hint of Madonna’s fake English accent. But Frankie wasn’t surprised. Everything about her parents’ little dinner party had been contrived. Right down to the relaxed smiles on their faces.

  The truth was, if she had a horse, Viveka would have ridden through the kitchen that morning shouting, “The normies are coming! The normies are coming!” Instead, she triple-checked everyone’s makeup, wrapped their turtlenecks with scarves and closed the door to the Fab.

  “Tonight is very important for our family,” she had warned earlier, as Frankie helped her set five places at a table that usually sat three. “The new dean may give your father a lot of research money, so we need to make a good impression.”

  First Ms. J, and now her mother; Frankie was tired of being told how to behave around normies. “Should I set places for the Glitterati?” she asked, unable to squelch her frustration.

  Viveka set the last plate down with an audible clink. “Excuse me?”

  “Won’t they be the ones affected if Daddy gets this money?” Frankie folded a steel-gray cloth napkin and set it in place. “You know, since he’ll be experimenting on them.”

  “Actually, it’s wounded veterans and people in hospitals waiting for organ transplants who will be affected by Dean Mathis’s money.”

  “You mean normies in hospitals, right?” Frankie pressed.

  “Everyone,” insisted Viveka. She lowered her violet eyes. “Eventually.”

  The timer went off in the kitchen.

  Viveka hurried to remove the roast from the oven. “Finally!” She sighed, pulling her dark hair to one side and examining the sizzling beef. “Perfect. Third one’s a charm.”

  “You know”—Viveka returned to the table with two more crystal glasses and a new spring in her stride—“if this goes according to plan, one day your dad won’t need seams to put people back together. His artificial body parts will attach to the patients’ existing tissue and regenerate.”

  “Because seams are ugly, right?” Frankie’s eyes pooled.

  “No, Frankie, that’s not what I’m saying.” Viveka hurried to her daughter’s side.

  “Well, that’s what you said!” Frankie ran into the Fab and slammed the door behind her. The sudden breeze blew Justin Bieber’s face right off the skeleton—just another normie who couldn’t stand to look at her.

  “Frankie, the asparagus, please,” Viveka called from the head of the table, this time a little louder, bringing Frankie back to the present.

  “Oh, sorry.” Frankie leaned forward to grab the white ceramic dish, and passed it across the table to Mrs. Mathis. But the plump woman with Hillary Clinton’s hairstyle in Bill Clinton’s hair color was too taken with Viktor’s theory—on electromagnetic energy and how it could possibly give life to inanimate objects—to notice.

  Mrs. Mathis tittered. “Did you hear that,
Charles?” She slapped her sun-spotted chest. “Maybe you’ll be able to marry that flat-screen TV after all.”

  “That’s why we love this mad scientist.” Dean Mathis reached behind his wife and squeezed Viktor’s shoulder. “One day he’s going to invent something that will change the way we live forever.”

  If only he had the electromagnetic courage to tell Dean Mathis that the “something” had already been invented and was passing his wife a plate of asparagus.

  “He already did,” Frankie announced, lowering the dish.

  “Is that so?” The dean sat back on the brushed-aluminum chair and stroked the sides of his salt-and-pepper beard. “And what might that be?”

  “Me.” Frankie beamed with all the charm of a modern-day Shirley Temple.

  The dean and his wife burst out laughing. Viktor and Viveka did not.

  “Asparagus, anyone?”

  “None for me, Viv, thanks.” Mrs. Mathis waved it away.

  “Cora can’t stand vegetables,” the dean explained.

  “Now, Charles.” She turned to look at him directly. “You know that’s not true. Just the green ones. There’s something about that color.… It’s not very appetizing. Am I right?”

  Frankie sparked.

  Viktor cleared his throat.

  “Anyone for seconds?” Viveka asked.

  “What’s that?” Mrs. Mathis asked.

  Frankie found it hard to believe that plump Mrs. Mathis wasn’t familiar with seconds. Then she noticed that the woman’s ruby-ringed finger was pointing at the front door, where a red chenille glove was poking a piece of paper through the mail slot.

  “What in the world…?” Viktor got up and threw open the door.

  The two girls on the other side screamed.

  Blue and Lala.

  “Hey!” Frankie jumped up, eager to escape the dinner table. There was something about the color white that Frankie found so unappetizing.

  “What’s going on, girls?” Viktor asked, bending down to pick up the paper.

  They exchanged a nervous look. “We, um, just wanted to drop off something for Frankie,” Blue explained, her blond curls tied into low pigtails.

  Frankie grabbed the paper from her father’s hand. “A petition?”

  “We’re going to boycott the September Semi unless they change the Monster Mash theme,” Lala explained, shivering inside her bubblegum-pink cashmere cowl-necked sweater. “But don’t worry,” she whispered to Viktor. “We’re saying we don’t like the theme because it’s too scary, not because it’s offensive.” She obviously didn’t care about breaking the no-talking-about-RAD-business-even-in-RADs-only-conversations rule.

  “I don’t want to boycott,” Frankie insisted, thinking of Brett and the dinner cruise they could win. “I want to go. I wanna put the boy in boycott,” she said, dancing.

  “What about the theme?” Blue asked, ignoring Frankie’s boycott dance. “Doesn’t it make you mad as a cut snake?”

  A gust of wind blew leaves and other suburban tumbleweed around the cul-de-sac.

  “Wanna come in?” Frankie offered.

  “Um, that’s not the best idea.” Viktor gripped the door handle. “We have company.”

  “We can go in my room,” Frankie suggested.

  “Another time.” Viktor squinted a grave warning in response. “Good night, girls.”

  He shut the door in their faces without giving them the chance to say good-bye.

  “What are you doing?” Frankie pulled the suffocating turtleneck-scarf combo away from her neck.

  “Viktor,” Viveka’s raised voice called from the dining room. “What’s the name of that crazy roommate you had in college? The one who removed his own appendix?”

  “Tommy Lassman,” Viktor called back, still squinting.

  “Oh, that’s right!” Viveka laughed and then continued telling her story.

  “Why have you been testing us lately?” Viktor whispered.

  “I’m not testing you.” Frankie felt her edge soften for the first time all night. “I’m just frustrated.”

  “We understand how you feel, but acting out isn’t the way to express it.”

  “Well, what is?” Frankie leaned against the cool concrete wall and folded her arms across her chest. “Signing a petition for the wrong cause? Acting like you’re trying to invent things you already invented? Trying to get research money for a normie cause when your own people are—”

  “That’s enough!” Viktor clapped his hands together.

  Frankie jumped at the thunderous sound.

  “Is that another storm I hear?” Mrs. Mathis asked. “This rain has been relentless.”

  Normally, Frankie and her father would have cracked up at the woman’s misconception. But they both knew this situation was far from funny.

  “You may as well sign that petition, because you’re not going to the dance.”

  “What?” Frankie stomped her Pour La Victoire knee-high boot on the spotless white floor. “What does the dance have to do with—”

  “You need to learn discretion. And until you do, I can’t trust you.”

  “I’ll be discreet, I promise,” Frankie said sincerely. “Trust me.”

  “I’m sorry, Frankie, but it’s too late.”

  Is he really doing this?

  “What was the point of giving me life if you’re not going to let me live it?” she cried.

  “That’s enough,” he mumbled.

  “No, I’m serious,” Frankie insisted, fed up with being silenced. “Why didn’t you just make me a normie?”

  Viktor sighed. “Because that’s not who we are. We’re special. And I’m very proud of that. You should be too.”

  “Proud?” Frankie spat out the word as if it had been soaked in nail polish remover. “How can I be proud when everyone is telling me to hide?”

  “I’m telling you to hide so you’ll be safe. But you can still feel proud of who you are,” he explained, like it was really that simple. “Pride has to come from within you and stay with you, no matter what people say.”

  Huh?

  Frankie crossed her arms and looked away.

  “I built your brain and body. Strength and confidence have to come from you,” Viktor explained, as if sensing her confusion.

  “How do I get it?” Frankie asked.

  “You had it the morning we took you to Mount Hood High,” he reminded her. “Before you let those cheerleaders take it away.”

  “How do I get it back?” Frankie wondered aloud.

  “It might take a while,” he said, his squinty eyes peering over her shoulder to check on his guests. “But when you find it, hold on to it with all your might. And don’t let anyone take it away, no matter how hard they try. Understand?”

  Frankie nodded, even though she didn’t.

  “Good.” Viktor winked.

  The confusing lesson whipped Frankie’s anger into something she had never felt before. It was like an emotional meringue—the airy feeling of loneliness topped with the hard crisp of injustice. Yet its taste was far from sweet.

  Viktor strolled back into the dining room, arms swinging casually at his sides. “Who’s ready for dessert?”

  Frankie hurried for her bedroom, not caring who saw or what they thought of her. Not caring about caring at all. The instant her hand gripped the door handle, she began sobbing. She slid her back down the wall, sat on the cold floor, and buried her face in her hands. Thinking of the only person she knew who saw the beauty in monsters.

  The September Semi was her big opportunity to mingle with Brett—and to help him get to know the real Frankie.

  Which he would, shortly after she gave him a makeup remover pad…

  “Go ahead,” she would say, once they convened under the stairwell. Thumping music would bleed from the gym into the empty hallway and attempt to entice them back onto the dance floor. But they would resist, opting for the a cappella rhythm of their beating hearts instead. “Wipe my cheek,” she would say.

&n
bsp; He would rub his black-polished fingers across the coarse pad and deem it too abrasive for her tender flesh. But she would insist. And so he would comply.

  His loving touch would bring a tear to her eye.

  The discovery of her mint-green skin would bring a tear to his.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he would ask.

  She would lower her eyes in shame. “Are you mad?”

  “Yes.”

  Another tear.

  After wiping it away, he would lift her chin with his finger and say, “I’m mad about you.”

  A passionate life-changing kiss would follow. Then they would enter the gym for one more dance, and exit with the prize for best couple’s costume. Their love would blossom on the dinner cruise. And soon he would be wearing her face on his T-shirts. Her natural mint beauty would appeal to millions—even Mrs. Mathis. By Christmas there would be a clothing line called Frankie.… Toy companies would make Frankie dolls.… M&M’s would only come in green.…

  Frankie stopped, no longer satisfied with daydreams and promises of a better tomorrow. Maybe her father was right not to trust her. Maybe she wasn’t Daddy’s perfect little girl anymore. Because Daddy’s perfect little girl would do what she was told. She would skip the September Semi and practice discretion.

  But Frankie didn’t see the point in doing that.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TOO HOT TO HANDLE

  Haylee followed Bekka down the “Till Death Do You Part” aisle of the Costume Castle like a dutiful maid of honor. Melody followed Haylee like a jealous bridesmaid.

  “What about this one?” Haylee lifted a sleek wedding dress off the rack.

  “Too shiny,” Bekka said.

  Haylee held up another one.

  “Too lacy.”

  “This?”

  “Too poufy.”

  “This?”

  “Too white.”

  “Maybe you should go as Bridezilla instead,” Melody grumbled.

  “Maybe you should go as the Sulk Ness Monster,” Bekka countered.