Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever Read online

  Feedback pierced their restless murmurs. Clawdeen covered her ears.

  “Sorry about that, Wolfs!” Mrs. Foose said, assuming her serious stance—hands clasped behind her back, knees locked. “Today marks the final lecture in the Merston High Dive into Diversity program.”

  Everyone applauded.

  She waved them silent, her triceps flapping like sails on the open sea. “When we first met, Merston was divided. RADs”—Mrs. Foose punctuated this with enthusiastic air quotes—“lived in fear and secrecy. Normies”—she air-quoted again—“were dominant.”

  “Woo-hoo!” a male voice called.

  Mrs. Foose clapped sharply and held up her index finger. The student body was one now. “Thanks to your hard work,” she continued, “we’ve had an incredible semester here at Merston. Our swim team, led by Lagoona Blue, went to the state finals for the first time in twenty years.”

  “Rake!” Irish Emmy fist-bumped Blue.

  Frankie patted Blue on the back. Everyone cheered. Blue grinned and wound a stray curl around her forefinger. A bleached blond with eyeliner gills on her neck reached back for a high five.

  Mrs. Foose continued. “Coed track made it to the national meet in April thanks to the Wolf family.” Clawdeen and her brothers raised both arms above their heads. “And both our basketball and football teams are undefeated.” Deuce and Clawd stood and bowed. “This has been an unprecedented season for Merston High athletics thanks to our RADs and their extraordinary skills.”

  Applause echoed off the cinder-block walls.

  “I look out at you and see appreciation and acceptance,” Mrs. Foose went on. “Today I see tomorrow. And it looks like a rainbow, friends. One big, bold rainbow. And if you help me spread this colorful light, soon the whole world will be lit by our love. And you will always know that it started right here. With you. At Merston High!”

  Frankie jumped up on the bleachers and stomp-cheered. Once again, everyone followed. Everyone but Cleo. Instead of cheering, she stayed seated on the shaking bench, struggling to apply her gold-flecked lip gloss.

  True, she was never one for grand overtures. Normally, Cleo was catlike, expressing her approval with subtle gestures: a measured smile here, an eyelash bat there. But lately—ever since the combined total of Frankie’s Facebook and Twitter friends exceeded Cleo’s (on May 22, 7:04 PM, 607 versus 598)—she’d been more aloof. Vengeful, even. Frankie had considered cutting back on her tweets and posts. Maybe that way she would lose a few online friends and even the score. Anything to deflect Cleo’s snooty comments and unsettling eye rolls—they were the number one side effect of jealousy, her mother had explained. But Brett and Billy had joined forces to talk Frankie out of it. Why make your virtual friends suffer just because Cleo’s status is slipping? You’re all-around nicer. No wonder they like you more. What, no one else is allowed to be popular? She should be kissing your bolts, not the other way around. So Frankie tried to bolster Cleo’s royal ego with flattery that usually fell flat.

  “Hey, Cleo,” Frankie called. “If we’re in an earthquake, will you do my makeup?”

  “Yeah, that’ll be the first thing on my mind,” she snarled.

  Frankie’s heart space tightened. It was useless. Everything she did got Cleo’s linens in a bunch.

  “Ignore her,” whispered Spectra, Billy’s invisible girlfriend. “Fact: Her twin sister, Nefra, is moving to Alexandria for the summer. Cleo is heartbroken. They, like, sleep in the same sarcophagus and everything. She’s just taking it out on you.”

  “Good to know,” Frankie said politely, repressing the urge to roll her eyes. Everyone knew Nefra lived in Cairo and was three years older than Cleo. Can’t Spectra get anything right?

  “Hold your chatter!” Mrs. Foose shouted, silencing the students with another sharp clap. “Our work isn’t done yet. We’re riding the pendulum too far in the other direction. Normies have been benched during games. They’re hiding their natural beauty behind RAD-influenced makeup and accessories—”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Cleo muttered.

  Clawdeen giggled into her palm.

  “We need to strike a balance,” said Mrs. Foose. “Every color needs to shine before we call ourselves a rainbow.”

  “Can I get some nachos with that cheese?” whispered Brett. Frankie smile-nudged him, catching a whiff of the wax-scented balm that kept his black hair so perfectly spiked.

  “For our final exercise before school lets out for the summer…”

  Everyone moaned. Principal Weeks stepped forward and raised his hands for silence. The gym slowly quieted. He nodded for Mrs. Foose to continue.

  “I’d like for us to focus on balance. And to do that, each grade must form a Balance Board. It will be equally composed of RADs and normies. For the remainder of this year and into next, team members will be charged with addressing the needs of their fellow students. Social events, facility upgrades, even new classes and sports. Anything and everything that will bring balance to our rainbow.”

  Surprisingly, several students—especially those in the first few rows—applauded. Mrs. Foose and Principal Weeks exchanged a proud glance.

  Bwoop. Bwoop.

  Yes! The day had finally ended. It was time to swim! The bleachers began to creak as students gathered their bags.

  “If you’re interested in having a say in the future of your school, drop your name into the box by the gym doors,” Mrs. Foose shouted. “I’ll pick the names randomly, to keep it fair, and Principal Weeks will announce the board members tomorrow.”

  Brett hooked his backpack over his shoulder as he joined the surge of people pressing toward the double doors. “Are you gonna do it?” he asked, reaching for Frankie’s hand. Her bolts buzzed with joy. Would she ever get tired of his chipped black nail polish and skull ring?

  “Do what?” she asked.

  “The Balance Board. Are you going to put your name in?”

  Frankie giggled, appreciating his sense of humor almost as much as his willingness to accessorize. “It should be spelled like Balance B-O-R-E-D.”

  “I’m serious,” he said. “You’re always trying to get involved, so why not?”

  “That was before,” Frankie insisted, suddenly irritated. How many times did she have to remind him she was done with politics? She had fought and failed too many times. Besides, the fight was over. The RADs had won. It was time to partay! “If it’s not fun, I’m done,” she said. “I’m not wasting this weather sitting in after-school meetings.”

  “Looks like you’re alone on that one,” Brett said.

  The sign-up box was surrounded by at least half the student body. All of the name cards had been used. A normie boy in a blue baseball hat wrote his info on a gum wrapper. Jackson Jekyll scribbled his on a yellow Post-it. Even Cleo was searching for something to write on.

  “It’s nice to see her getting involved,” Frankie said, nodding toward Cleo. Maybe now she’ll be too busy to glare at me.

  “She’s probably stuffing the ballot box so she can win,” Billy said.

  “What do you have against her?” Frankie asked. “She hasn’t been mean to you.”

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Billy said with a hint of sarcasm. Frankie smiled. He was obviously making fun of her warnings about Spectra. But it was too sunny outside to care.

  “Good luck,” she said, smiling at Cleo as they walked out.

  Cleo smirked. “Yeah, you too.” Then she giggled.

  Frankie considered telling Cleo she wasn’t going to enter. But why bother? The sooner she got out of there, the faster she’d be hosting a pool party for her friends—which happened to be number seven on her to-do-or-die list. So she simply extended the invitation to Cleo and then bolted for the exit. One day closer to freedom!

  CHAPTER TWO

  VAMP OF APPROVAL

  In the parking lot, winks of yellow sunlight glinted off the cars. Lala shaded her sensitive eyes as newly licensed drivers screeched into the first heat wave of s
ummer. She shivered. Why couldn’t the weather warm her the way Clawd Wolf did?

  The Chic Freaks—Lala’s proud nickname for Cleo, Frankie, Clawdeen, Blue, and herself—charged across the gum-spotted asphalt, not the least bit tempted by the end-of-day gossip or senior flirt sessions. Instead, their sunglass-covered eyes were fixed on Lala’s Escalade. And she was running out of ways to stall them.

  “Quit walking like a bludger!” Blue called over her shoulder. “My scales are crisping.”

  “My bolts are burning.” (Frankie.)

  “My fur is singeing.” (Clawdeen.)

  “Tan lines!” Cleo said, shielding her exposed shoulders under Clawdeen’s thick auburn hair. “I need to get strapless before I turn all tic-tac-toe-y.”

  Lala slowed even more. “Do you need parasols?” she asked, twirling the pink stem of the one in her hand. “I have a bunch in my locker. How ’bout I run back and—”

  “Just put some go-go juice in your boots, will ya?” Clawdeen barked, doubling back to yank Lala forward. “Frankie’s pool. Remember?”

  Of course she remembered. They’d told her the instant they found her in the corner spooning with her space heater during the assembly. She wasn’t stupid; she was in love. And leaving school without a kiss from Clawd felt like losing a purse and not being allowed to look for it. But try explaining that to his I-still-can’t-believe-you-think-he’s-cute sister.

  Blue peeled back her sleeve and checked her pink G-Shock watch. “It hasn’t rained in two hundred eleven hours. This town is as dry as the outback,” she said. “If I get on the Balance Board, I’m gonna put pool lanes in the halls and swim to my classes.”

  Frankie whipped off her studded sunglasses. “You signed up for that?”

  Cleo snickered, as if remembering a joke.

  “So did I.” Clawdeen lifted her auburn curls off her fur-lined neck and fanned. “If I get on, I’m hiring a groomer.”

  “I’m going to cover the walls with mirrors,” Cleo announced.

  “What do mirrors have to do with being a mummy?” Frankie asked.

  “Nothing,” Cleo replied with a smirk. “I just like looking at myself.”

  The Chic Freaks cracked up as they teetered in their platforms toward the Escalade. A mint-green Vespa zipped by, and Frankie blew a kiss in its direction.

  “Want that!” she shouted over the buzzing motor. And then she turned to Lala. “Looks like we’re the only ones who didn’t sign up for that board thingy.”

  Cleo giggled again.

  “I signed up,” Lala said, aware of how odd that remark must sound coming from her. She was hardly one to shy away from activism, but animal rescue and preservation had always been her thing, and that cause kept her busy outside of school. “Plenty of people are looking out for us, but who’s looking out for them?” she liked to say when someone asked her to volunteer for something school-related. No one even bothered to ask anymore.

  “I thought rescue-animal makeovers were your latest obsession,” Clawdeen said.

  “Yeah, what happened to beastiesB4besties?” Cleo teased, recalling Lala’s old e-mail address.

  “I did this for a beast,” she explained. “Well, more like a bat.”

  “The old fella?” Blue asked, scratching her arms. Fine iridescent dust fell to the hot pavement.

  Lala nodded, knowing Blue was referring to the big D, Lala’s dad. “He thinks my leadership skills are suffering because I don’t participate in school activities.”

  “Why does a pet aesthetician need leadership skills?” Frankie asked.

  Lala lowered the pink ruffled parasol in front of her face. “He claims I won’t get into a good college unless I prove my devotion to Merston.”

  “Got it!” Blue said, raising her finger. “How ’bout we find you a lovable little bluey and name him Merston?”

  They burst out laughing again.

  “What?” Clawdeen called, glancing back at the school. Across the grassy lawn, out of earshot for non-canines, Clawd was saying something to her.

  “What?” she asked again, this time in annoyance. Then, with a sigh, “Fine, but hurry up.”

  He fist-bumped his buddies and shuffled toward the parking lot with the enthusiasm of someone going to the principal’s office. No waves, no smiles, no eye contact. No acknowledgment whatsoever that he even knew Lala. Clawd put the cool in school, at least when the boys were around. Still, her insides began to rev. Clawd always managed to kick up her cardio.

  “What did he say?” Lala asked.

  “Ask him,” Clawdeen huffed. “He’s coming to see you, not me.”

  “He said that?” Lala asked. “In front of the guys?”

  “ ’Course not,” Clawdeen answered. “He said he had to get his football stuff from the car. But we know what that really means.”

  Yay!

  Lala tossed her VEGAN PRINCESS key chain through the air to Clawdeen, who caught it like a bouquet. “Don’t even think of turning on the AC,” she shouted as the other girls ran for the Escalade.

  Finally alone and leaning against the hood of Clawd’s blue car, she grinned. One kiss, coming right up!

  “Whaddaya think of my new heater?” Lala asked, patting the sun-warmed hood as he strolled toward her.

  Clawd crinkled his thick brows as if offended. “Something wrong with the old one?”

  “You’re my furnace,” she said, ditching the car hood for the warmth of his chest.

  As usual, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching before he leaned in.

  “Am I that embarrassing?” Lala asked, pulling away from his rough football jersey. She lifted her dark eyes to meet his. More yellow than Clawdeen’s, they were like two burning embers.

  “ ’Course not,” he said, running a hand over his green mohawk.

  “Then why can’t you treat me in public the way you do when we’re alone?” she asked. “Melody Carver’s into the Jekyll-and-Hyde thing, not me. It’s time you let those guys know you care about more than throwing the chicken skin.”

  “Footballs are pigskin, not chicken skin.”

  “Could have fooled me, chicken,” she teased. “Anyway, why are they made of skin at all? Aren’t there any synthetic options?”

  He lifted his hand and pressed it against her lips. “Stop. I have practice in three minutes. Do you want to talk about footballs?”

  Lala poked him with her left fang. “No.”

  “Good. ’Cause I have something for you” he said, reaching into his backpack.

  “What is it? You didn’t need to get me anything….”

  He pulled out a rectangle wrapped in aluminum foil.

  Lala stepped back. “I’m not trying any more of your gross Top Chef experiments! That salty pudding thing was—”

  He cut her off. “Just open it.”

  She pulled off the foil and uncovered a framed photo of Clawd in a navy wingback chair by a roaring fire. He was leaning intently over a chessboard, hands on his knees. A white queen hovered six inches above the board.

  “That was nine months ago. At the Hideout Inn. Remember?” he asked bashfully.

  “That was my winning move.” Lala did a victorious booty roll. “I beat you like an egg.”

  “It was kind of like our first date,” Clawd said, ignoring the dig. He had a hard enough time losing to a football team. “I know you don’t show up in pictures, but I thought you might like it anyway. You can look at it during the full moon, when I’m not around.”

  Chirping birds flapped around the maples behind them. Lala rested her head against his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart. “It’s fang-tastic.”

  He craned his neck as if working out a kink and mumbled, “You make me rabid happy.”

  Lala hugged the photo and then him. He grinned and lifted her chin just as the sounds of Rihanna began pumping from her Escalade. She kissed him anyway. Warm at last.

  Honk! Honk!

  “Let’s go!” Clawdeen shouted, her head poking ou
t the passenger side window.

  “Heel!” Lala called.

  Clawd popped open his trunk and traded out his backpack for a black Adidas gym bag. “It’s okay. I’ve got practice anyway.”

  Lala smile-nodded. He quickly kissed her good-bye and then sprinted to the field.

  “Who’s ready to get ‘On the Floor’?” Lala called as she hopped into the driver’s seat and cranked J-Lo inside the SUV.

  “Wooooo-hoooo!” they shouted from the open windows.

  “Clawd’s been so much cooler since you guys started hanging out,” said Clawdeen.

  Lala beamed. “How?”

  Her friend smiled. “He’s never around.”

  Laughter exploded from the backseat. In spite of the gusting air-conditioning, warmth enveloped Lala like a cashmere throw.

  Just as she turned the Escalade onto Radcliffe Way, Lala’s iPhone chimed its weekly reminder.

  “Hold on tight!” she called, and then stomped on the gas pedal. Clawdeen slammed into Cleo’s seat. Blue fell into the center console, and Frankie’s green legs flew up, flashing the girls a glimpse of her striped boyshorts.

  Lala screeched to a stop under the canopy of wide-leafed maples in front of her house and hopped out to hurry toward the Victorian mansion, not needing to explain her abrupt exit. It was Wednesday at three forty-five, and her phone had sounded the alert. Her friends knew exactly where she was going.

  The hallway—velvet-covered walls and black marble floors lit by dim puddles of light—left visitors temporarily blind. But Lala’s eyes adjusted instantly as the smell of burning firewood welcomed her home.

  A familiar pata-pat-pat-pata-pat-pat sound, like a mouse scurrying in tap shoes, grew louder. And then, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

  “Count Fabulous!” Lala cooed, making a perch of her arm. The fist-sized bat relaxed his wings and glided to a stop on her stack of bracelets. He was still wearing the pink bow she’d tied behind his ears earlier that day. But he’d managed to flap off most of the gold wing dust. Typical male.

  “I know you’re hungry, but Daddy’s waiting,” Lala told her pet.