Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever (17 page)

What if she got voted in and the T’eau Dally people didn’t like her? Then whose fault would it be if they had to switch schools? Frankie sparked.

“No more RADs at Merston would mean the end of our championship sports teams, and a significant cut in state funding.” More boos.

In a show of empathy, Frankie reached behind Brett and placed her arm on the metal back of Lala’s chair. “No one blames you,” she whispered.

Lala nodded appreciatively until her black hair began to rise. Strand by strand, it floated to the top of her head until it resembled Clawd’s mohawk.

“Frankie!” she hissed.

Principal Weeks glared at them.

“Whoops!” Frankie pulled her arm off the chair. The static electricity faded, and Lala’s hair returned to its normal glossy state.

“Before we get too down in the dumps, I’d like to introduce
the student who single-handedly brought T’eau Dally to Merston. The girl on whom our hope now rests: Lala!” Principal Weeks gestured grandly while everyone cheered.

Lala’s fully exposed fangs symbolized her newfound pride as she stepped up to the podium. “Hey,” she said shyly. Her voice was aftershock shaky, but she stood up straight and looked directly at the crowd. “In three days, Brigitte T’eau and Dickie Dally—”

“She said Dickie!” someone whispered.

Lala busted out laughing along with everyone else. Principal Weeks scanned the rows.

“Continue, please,” he said.

“Our job is to pick the couple the T’eau Dally representatives will like best, not the ones we like best, so vote with your heads, not with your hearts. The future of RADs at Merston depends on it. So let’s get started with Frankie Stein and Brett Redding!” Lala stepped off to the side like a presenter at the Oscars.

Mindful of not slipping or sparking, Frankie blocked out the cheers and recited the alphabet while mounting the stage—a relaxation technique her mother had picked up during her early days of teaching.

By the time Frankie got to
T
, she was all set up at the podium. No slips, no sparks. Just an auditorium full of expectant faces, eager to judge.

Yellow bolts crackled from her fingertips. “Ooops. Sorry!” She giggled.
Start confident.
“Hi. I’m, um, Frankie. And my boyfriend, Brett, and I are the best couple to represent Merston in the T’eau Dally contest because, like the shoes, we are two different things that have come together as one. For starters, he’s got stage fright and I don’t.” She giggled again. The expectant faces didn’t
even crack a smile. “But, um, more importantly”—she sparked again—“he’s a normie. I’m, obviously, a RAD, as you can see by the sparks that are melting my manicure.” More silence. “And speaking of electricity, uh, he has bolts and I have nuts—”

Laughter.

Brett buried his face in his hands.

“Wait, I mean, I have bolts and he has nuts! Wait, no…” Murmurs and snickers built all around her. She was losing them. Even Principal Weeks was checking his BlackBerry. “And that’s kind of how Brett and I are….” Frankie’s heart space seized. Her gut space churned. Her brain space asked for one more chance. “Because we’re so different, we’re kind of like a male and female socket, you know? How one goes into the other?”

“Yeah, baby!” hooted Candace Carver.

“Wooo-hooo,” echoed Candace’s friends.

Blue and Clawdeen buried their faces in their hands.

Frankie abandoned her notes. “Basically, you guys know me, right? And you know Brett.” Scattered applause. “You know we’re super fun. We’re super nice. And we’re obviously super stylish.” She twirled in her glitter dress. Her supporters
woot-woot
ed. Voltage! She was winning them back. “And if you vote for us, we promise to show T’eau Dally that we are just as perfectly mismatched as their sneakers and pumps. If we were food, we’d be a Big Mac and a Diet Coke. A spring trend? We’d be florals and plaids. A haircut? We’d be a mullet. A—”

Bzzzzzzz.

Lala approached the podium and hip-nudged Frankie aside. “Time’s up. Thank you very much, Frankie and Brett.”

“Woooo-hoooooo!” Billy and Spectra shouted from somewhere.
Others eventually joined in, until the applause had spread like a current. Frankie grinned and curtsied.

“Up next, Haylee and Heath,” Lala announced.

Cleo and Deuce approached the podium. Her three-inch T’eau heels clomped across the plywood. Deuce’s Dally high-tops squeaked dutifully behind.
Nice touch.

Lala looked just as confused as everyone else, and Haylee just pushed her beige glasses up her oily T-zone and slumped down in her seat.

Cleo unhooked the microphone as if she were on the last stop of her worldwide tour. “Unfortunately, Heath and Haylee are out of the race. They thank you for considering them and ask that you respect their privacy during this time.”

Several students in the second row leaned forward to ask the couple if Cleo’s announcement was true. Frankie glanced at Haylee, who mouthed back,
I’m sorry
. Sorry for what? Heath simply looked at Brett and shrugged as though he had no idea what was going on, nor did he care.

“What part of ‘respect their privacy’ don’t you get?” Cleo snapped.

The first two rows faced forward, and the murmurs stopped.
Why would Haylee quit? And why did she confide in Cleo? No offense, Glitterati, but I smell a rat.

Cleo banged her yellow stack of index cards on the podium and rolled back her bronzed shoulders.

“Index cards?” Billy whispered as he sat on the floor and leaned against Frankie’s legs.

“I heard she hired Bill Clinton’s former speechwriter,” Spectra added, sitting beside him.

“My name is Cleo de Nile, and I’m running with my long-term boyfriend, Deuce Gorgon.” Her voice was unwavering. Her bangs glistening. Her coral dress revealing.

“And if you vote for us, we’ll win for you. It’s that simple. T’eau Dally is looking for a golden couple to represent the merger of function and style.” She gestured to Deuce in his black beanie, white Wayfarers, and sloppy jeans. “As you can see, he’s function.” She gestured to the braided gold band across her black bangs. “And I’m style.”

Applause.

“When it comes to high performance, well, D is the king of b-ball, and I’m queen bee.” She glanced down at the cards.

Applause.

“But we’re more than just great-looking faces.” She paused to bat her fake lashes at Frankie. “We’re environmentally best-friendly, which appeals to T’eau Dally’s green ethic—”

Billy nudged Frankie on the shin. “Look,” he whispered, eyeing Haylee.

Are her lips moving in time with Cleo’s?

“No flyers or unrecyclable bolts in our campaign!” Cleo continued. Haylee mouthed along.

Holy shock! Cleo is reading Haylee’s speech!

“And when we win, we’ll take that idea even further by adding skylights to the cafeteria, solar-powered heating—”

Lala clapped. Frankie picked her seams.

“Organic food made by Harriet Wolf—”

Clawdeen and her brothers clapped.

“A spa in the nurse’s office, because stress is the number one cause of illness.” Haylee mouthed along.

Deuce leaned into the mike. “Video-game consoles in the locker rooms.”

His teammates stood and cheered, “Deuce! Deuce! Deuce!”

Frankie picked another seam.

Cleo grabbed the mike. “Swim lanes in the halls.”

“Ace!” Blue shouted.

“Rake!” called Irish Emmy.

“Solid, concrete things that T’eau Dally and Merston can be proud—”

Bzzzzzz.

Deuce leaned forward and flashed a peace sign. “Gorgon and de Nile will make you smile.” He pulled Cleo in for a kiss.

“Give them a hand!” Lala shouted over roars of approval.

In a show of good sportsmanship, Frankie did. And then that hand slid off its seams and landed with a suicidal thud.

Brett quickly bent down to get it. “I don’t think she was being serious.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Frankie said, sniffling.

A gold linen strip floated down from the stage and landed on her shoulder. “Wrap it in that until you get home.”

“Thanks,” Frankie mumbled without looking up.

“Consider it a consolation prize,” purred Cleo as three hundred–plus students lined up to vote. “Thanks for playing. It’s been golden.”

Melody bounded up the school steps, the soles of her
Converse slapping the pavement in a loud-enough-to-get-busted sort of way. She’d skipped the assembly for a quick photo shoot with the band, and if she hurried, she could slip in unnoticed before the voting was over. At least that was what she had thought before catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors: feather-fringed hair, metallic eye shadow, smudged liner, Cici’s shiny gray jeggings, Sage’s neon-yellow off-the-shoulder tee. She was way too Saturday night for a Monday afternoon. Principal Weeks would notice her from the NASA space shuttle. And then there was Jackson….

Melody had spent the weekend convincing him that the ride from Granite was just a ride, and they’d finally agreed not to let the band come between them. Things were back to normal. Plans for Camp Crescendo were under way…

… and then Sage had called.

New posters were their final attempt to drum up summer gigs before resorting to “real job” hunts. And attendance at the photo shoot by their new lead Goddess was mandatory. What would happen to the Camp Crescendo plan if the band got summer gigs? Melody shook the thought from her mind. She’d jump off that bridge when she came to it.

The shoot was speedy, as promised. It was just the whole
let’s-rethink-the-name-of-the-band-now-that-Davina-is-gone
conversation that went into overtime. And it was still going when Melody dashed into the hallway.

STYLE DOLLS? (Cici.)

SUPERSONIC SCANDAL? (Sage.)

SONIC DIVA? (Cici.)

FOOTLOOSE AND FINGER-FREE? (Nine-Point-Five.)

ROCK GLITZ? (Sage.)

Melody’s phone was
ping
ing like iTunes. She should have switched it to silent mode. Should have snapped back into school mode. Should have slipped inside the auditorium. But she couldn’t move. She felt like a caged bird, wanting to fly but forced to stay grounded.

LEADFEATHER, she texted. It was the perfect way to describe the feeling.

Her bandmates responded immediately with a HELLZ YEAH!

Problem solved. No more excuses. The voting booths were waiting. What was it they were voting for, again?

Ping!

She dug for her phone. Probably Jackson wondering where she was…

TO:
Melody

June 20, 1:16 PM

GRANITE:
OUTSIDE UR SCHOOL. MEET ME. WANNA SHOW U SOMETHING.

Another minute won’t hurt. Will it?

Granite, in his usual leather jacket, worn jeans, and scuffed boots, was leaning against his motorcycle as if posing for a movie poster. His light gray eyes faced the bright sun, and yet the glare didn’t seem to bother him. Nothing did.

“Hop on,” he said, offering his helmet.

Melody glanced back at the mustard-colored building. Fourth period was still a half hour away. She slipped on the helmet. Like strong hands during a make-out, it gripped the sides of her face and blocked out the universe.

“Where are we going?” she asked as they merged onto I-5 north.
Definitely longer than a minute…

Melody tried to be irritated when he didn’t answer. But the sun was on her back, the wind was in her face, and Granite’s abs were as taut as guitar strings. Not that Jackson’s weren’t. They were… just in a thinner sort of way. It was time to head back to school. To Jackson. To reality. All she had to do was lean a little closer to Granite’s pointy ear and, in her best Siren voice, tell him to turn around. Instead, she held on tight and enjoyed the ride.

An hour later they were driving over a bridge that put them in downtown Portland. They zoomed past a Chinese garden, a cool record shop on Second Avenue, and tons of vintage stores that Candace would have loved. But Granite didn’t slow down until
they came to a squared-off pile of rubble on a busy corner of Third Avenue.

“What is this place?”

“The future site of a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf,” he said, kicking a brick.

“This was your old home?” Melody asked as the pile of rubble took on new meaning.

Granite nodded. “This was Venue.” He pulled her past the caution tape and onto what used to be the beer-soaked stage. Hills of poster-covered walls lay at their feet like unwanted cookie crumbs at the bottom of the bag. He bent down and handed her a diamond-shaped rock with the word
JAM
on it.

“I remember when Eddie Vedder dropped off that poster,” Granite said. “No one had even heard of Pearl Jam yet. He pulled his van right up to the doors and blasted the demo during a staff meeting. Vic, the owner, booked the band that night.”

“Really?” Melody asked, gripping the concrete diamond as if it were the Hope.

“I dunno if it’s cuz I was watching from up high or what, but that Vedder is one short dude,” Granite said. He ran a finger down the cracked wood bar, raising a cloud of dust that frolicked in the sun.