Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever (19 page)

The gentle squeak of the hamster’s wheel was the only
sound in Lala’s bedroom. Count Fabulous would be out hunting until dawn, and the other animals had been asleep for hours. Normally, Lala would be snoozing right along with them. But tonight she had skipped her nightly dose of melatonin. Something, her eye-watering yawns reminded her, that would not happen again for at least another millennium.

Exhaustion ached like the flu. The temptation to power down and wing it the next morning was presenting itself with every keystroke. But failing would be much more agonizing than the combined throb of 206 bones. She had to plan every last detail of the T’eau Dally presentation perfectly so that it would all go off without a hitch. The two fashion designers would be judging her school, and she had to make sure the entire experience was a fashion do.

Ping!

Lala glimpsed the iPhone in the shadowy corner of her black lacquer desk.

TO:
Lala

June 20, 11:42 PM

CLEO:
DID YOU TRY TEXTING? I WAS IN THE SHOWER. SORRY IF I MISSED U. I’M UP THO.

Nice try, Cleo.
Lala switched her phone to vibrate. It obviously didn’t matter how many times she explained that Weeks wasn’t going to call her in the middle of the night with the results of the vote. The royal wouldn’t let up.

Ever since Frankie unintentionally outfriended her, Cleo had been intent on winning back her status. Lala tried to figure out which couple the sponsors would respond to more. It was nearly impossible to decide between the two. Both were charming and great-looking. Both were likable and popular. Both represented two worlds coming together in their own ways. But if Cleo won, she’d stop being so competitive with Frankie. So Lala had secretly voted for her and Deuce.

Lala groaned and rested her head in her hands. What did Vlad always say when she felt overwhelmed?
Bite by bite…

If only she could focus on what needed to get done instead of freak out about what was going to go wrong…. Focus. Focus. Focus….

Bzzzzzzz.

TO:
Lala

June 20, 11:47 PM

CLEO:
YOU UP?

Aaarrgghhhhh! Lala tossed her phone onto the bed. Teeny Turner lifted her head and blinked. Lala thought,
I’m sorry
, but
was too tired to speak. Instead, she threw her uneaten sesame bar into the trash and turned back to her laptop.
Bite by bite…

“Tofu?”

“Aaaah!” Lala jumped. “You scared me!”

Vlad stood beside her holding a silver tray. “I knocked, but—”

“It’s okay.” She smiled softly.

“Thought you might be hungry.” He held the tray in front of her face. The earthy smell of his tofu lettuce-wraps brought turbulence to her empty stomach.

“I’m full,” she lied.

“Honey, you’re Nicole Kidman–pale,” he said. “At least take these.”

Lala swallowed her iron pills and washed them down with the dregs of her tepid soy latte.

Vlad settled on the edge of Lala’s bed, idly petting Teeny on the head. “So I’m working on the proposal for my cookbook—you know, the one where I use only red ingredients—and I’m finally on a roll when…”

Lala poked her fang into her bottom lip. Her uncle was doing the whole
I’m-going-to-hang-around-and-chitchat-until-you-tell-me-what’s-on-your-mind
thing. But now the only thing on her mind was the fact that Vlad was in her room chitchatting when she had work to do.

“… your father cruises by and tosses his black coat over the west-facing couch. It was like he was trying to suck my creativity.” Vlad pulled off his tortoiseshell glasses and rubbed his gray temples. “Then he drops his briefcase on the loveseat—like work and love are even the slightest bit compatible—and as he’s
rushing around, he stubs his toe on the cactus, nudging the prickly thing right into my harmony path….”

Lala tapped her pen on the notebook. She wanted to be supportive and all, but…

“I’m okay, you know,” she finally said. “Just busy with the contest.”

“That’s a relief.” Vlad stood and kissed the top of her head. “Then I guess I’ll make like the ends of your hair and split.”

“Is that a hint?” Lala asked with a giggle.

“It’s time,” he said, scissoring his fingers. “Just saying.”

“As soon as this is over,” Lala said, desperate for a day of beauty and—

The animals began to stir. Hackles went up; tails stiffened; squeaks, slithers, taps, and tweets formed a cyclone of nervous energy that spun around the room.

“What’s going on in here?” Mr. D asked from the dim hallway, his trim figure shadowlike and menacing.

“It’s okay,” Lala said, trying to soothe the mosh pit of creatures. Trying to soothe herself.

“Don’t believe her,” Vlad whispered, and then slipped past his brother to leave father and daughter alone.

Dressed in a red satin robe and navy cashmere slippers, Mr. D could have passed for a normal dad coming to wish his daughter sweet dreams. If only…

He stepped into the room tentatively. The animals played dead while he surveyed the jumble of crates and bags of birdseed as if seeing them for the first time.
Maybe he is.
Lala couldn’t remember a single time he’d come up to her room.

“Nice to see you’re back on meat,” he finally said, as if she were planning to eat them. “Maybe we’ll get some color back in those cheeks.” Another round of turbulence rocked Lala’s core. “What are you still doing up?” He looked genuinely confused. He was right too. This vamp was big on beauty sleep.

“I’m finalizing my rehearsal schedule for the T’eau Dally visit.”

He knit his brows in confusion.
Did he forget?
He tapped a cold hand on her head, duck-duck-goose–style. “Oh yeah, that. When is this rehearsal?”

“Tomorrow,” Lala said proudly. “The sponsors come on Thursday.”

“Might as well give it your all, I suppose.”

Lala turned back to her screen and gripped the mouse to keep from shaking. The words she’d spent hours perfecting began to blur.

“Good luck,” he said in a singsongy way that made it impossible to know whether he was serious or skeptical. By the time Lala found the courage to look her father in the eye and maybe even ask if he’d meant it, he was gone.

Billy was grateful for Spectra’s intoxicating lilac-scented
sweat, Candace’s signature Black Orchid perfume, and Jackson’s whirring hand fan. Without which, the smell of teen spirit inside the Underground—a sour blend of chives and oily scalp—could have awoken Kurt Cobain.

The place was packed and pulsating. Fans were jumping like a box of grasshoppers. Leadfeather was playing “Come As You Are” to a sold-out crowd, and the band’s passion was infectious.

A satiny-soft peck grazed his cheek. Billy found Spectra and kissed her back.

“Owww!” A stone-faced lug with motorcycle boots had stomped on Billy’s foot. “Watch where you’re going,” he snapped, reaching for his toe.

The stranger looked around for the owner of the foot (and the voice) but quickly gave up and continued pushing toward the stage.

“That guy is so getting laced!” Spectra shouted over Melody’s amplified voice.

“It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t see Billy,” Candace insisted. It was so like her to take the side of the hot stranger.

“I say lace him anyway,” Jackson said.

They all glared at him in shock. When had he become a fighter, not a lover?

“What?” Jackson asked shyly. “I don’t trust that guy, okay?”

“Looks like Jack is a little jellie,” Candace teased.

“What are you talking about?” he snapped, eyes fixed on his feather-clad girlfriend.

“That’s Granite, Leadfeather’s roadie, and Melody’s new—” She stopped herself.

“New what?” Jackson asked, vigorously fanning.

Before Candace could answer, her college boyfriend reached for her arm and pulled her away.

“Don’t listen to her. She’s just being Candace,” Billy said. He knew how gut-wrenching it had felt when he lost Frankie to Brett. He also knew how possible it was to recover. Not that Jackson was going to lose Melody; they were indestructible. Even if she kept watching Granite while she sang. But that was only because she couldn’t see Jackson all the way in the back, right?

“Let’s move closer to the stage,” Billy suggested with a forceful tug.

Jackson fought him off, but invisibles were almost impossible to thwart without looking like a fly-swatting spaz. So he eventually gave in and—“Oof!” Jackson was knocked to the ground by Granite.

“What are you doing?” Billy shouted at the flailing roadie lying on top of his friend.

“I laced him,” Spectra tittered in her fairylike voice.

“But how?” Billy asked, remembering a glimpse of the biker’s laceless boots.

“Broken guitar string,” she said proudly.

Billy accidentally high-fived her shoulder. She accidentally high-fived his jaw in return. They laughed.

Struggling to free Jackson, they untwisted the wire from Granite’s boot and pulled him up to standing.

“My fan!” called Jackson, searching the sticky floor. “I can’t find my—”

Crunch.

Granite kicked shards of blue-and-white plastic out from under his heel. “Sorry, man,” he said, meaning it.

“What did you do?” Jackson yelled, rolling up the sleeves on his plaid button-down.

Billy dashed to his side, just in case a fight broke out. Not that Jackson wasn’t strong. He just wasn’t as strong as Granite.

“I heard you crying loud, all the way across town…”
Melody’s clear voice soared over the crowd.

Granite turned toward the stage. “I love Green Day.”

“Same,” Jackson shouted. “Let’s dance!”

That’s better.

Familiar faces flashed Melody a thumbs-up as she
squeezed through the meandering crowd. Each one triggered a flashback from the show she’d just performed: the girl who knew the words to “No Rain” …the guy who shouted, “I love you,” after she sang “Creep” …three girls in the front row with feathers… but where was Jackson? She had seen him dancing during the second half of the show and couldn’t wait to thank him for his sudden show of support. He said he believed that her trip to Portland with Granite was platonic. He said he had no problem with girls and guys being friends. He said he wasn’t mad that she’d missed the T’eau Dally vote. But he hadn’t really acted that way until now.

“Melly Belly! Over here!” Glory was waving like a paparazzo. As if her Jimi Hendrix belly shirt, turquoise skinnys, braided leather forehead band, and mother-daughter feather extensions weren’t mortifying enough, Beau, in his Clark Kent business suit, was also flagging her over.

“Told you she was our daughter,” Glory said to the bartender. He raised his brows, trying to look impressed.

“Ugh, so embarrassing!” Melody giggled. “When will parents realize no one else cares about their kids’ accomplishments?”