Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever (6 page)

“Wallpaper!” Uncle Vlad chimed in.

“And central heat,” Lala added. “Plus, they want a couple from the school to star in their national ad campaign.”

“You and Clawd would be ace!” Blue said, leaning against the foot of the coffin bed. The Worminator, a trembling yellow budgie, stuck his nose out from under the bed and pecked the carpet for errant seeds. Blue pinched some orange cheese off her quesadilla and waved it in front of his beak.

“Stop!” Lala shouted, grabbing the cheese. “He’s lactose-intolerant. Try the escarole.”

Uncle Vlad gestured toward the untouched crudités platter he’d dropped off earlier. “Glad someone’s enjoying it,” he mumbled.

“What about a new arts-and-crafts studio? With sewing machines and jewelry making…” Clawdeen was using purple and black nontoxic mascaras to paint hearts on a white bunny.

A bat-cave-sized pit opened in Lala’s stomach.
Wait!
she wanted to scream.
I have to win first!
She twirled a piece of hair around her left fang as if she were five again.

Vlad put his icy hand on her shoulder.

She forced herself to breathe slowly.
In through the nose, out through the mouth…
Her dark eyes scanned the words on her computer screen. The thing with writing was that it was never done. Sentences could always be better. Words more lyrical. Grammar more good.

Blue fed another bite of escarole to the Worminator. “Let’s have a Captain Cook. We’ll tell ya if its bodgy.”

“Yeah, hurry up and read it to us,” Clawdeen said, smoothing the miniature orange-and-fuchsia sequined tulle skirt she’d made for Fuego’s sister, Caliente.

Lala turned down the music and cleared her throat. “Don’t laugh, okay?”

“Game up and read it already, will ya?” Irish Emmy said.

Lala sighed. “Okay, here goes….” She began to read the message aloud.

“Brava!” Vlad dabbed his eyes with his ascot.

“Deadly fierce!” Irish Emmy cheered.

“Mad corker!” Blue shouted.

Clawdeen clapped her hands. “Perfect!” Lala wasn’t sure if Clawdeen was clapping because the letter was good or just because now they could focus on her video blog. “I knew it would be great, La! Send it.”

Lala read through the letter one more time. Her lips moved silently as her dark eyes tracked across the glowing screen. She glanced at Vlad. He winked. She sighed and kissed her fingertips, pressing them to the screen. “Okay, here goes…”
This is for you, Dad
. She hit Send and instantly felt like she could breathe again.
You can’t say I didn’t try.
Then she jumped up and grabbed some ribbons. “You guys start on the intro while Blue, Vlad, and I put the final touches on the models.”

Irish Emmy switched on her video camera and started pressing buttons on the side.

Clawdeen pulled out a compact and fluffed up her curls. She checked her teeth for berry-colored lip stain and then tossed the mirror into her red bag. Standing in front of the camera, she put a hand on her hip. “How do I look?”

Irish Emmy peered through the viewfinder. “Cracker. All we need’r lights.”

“Roger Dodger.” Blue adjusted a chrome task lamp and pointed the 150-watt bulb directly at Clawdeen’s face. Lala and Vlad squinted.

“Clawdeen in three… two…” Irish Emmy held up a single finger and then pointed at the host.

“Welcome to another episode of Where There’s a Wolf, There’s a Way. I’m Clawdeen Wolf and—” Teeny Turner barked.

“Still rolling,” Irish Emmy said. “I can edit that on my lappy. Carry on.”

Clawdeen stopped abruptly and froze, as if listening to a far-off sound.

Irish Emmy kept her camera cocked. “Keep firing away, lass.”

Clawdeen shook her head. “Sorry. I thought I heard—”

The desk lamp flickered.

Blue held Kale in her left hand and a paintbrush in her right. “What’s going on?” she asked as the turtle’s head drew back into his shell.

Squeaks came from a wire cage. Rat-a-tat screeched mournfully, his midnight-blue tail batting against the bars.

Clawdeen continued. “Teeny Turner was discovered wandering a road in Salem, Oregon. Her coat was dull and her claws were jagged until—”

“Cut!”
Irish Emmy’s head popped up. “Lala, can you do something about that noise?” The animals were starting to mewl, whine, growl, and hiss.

Lala raced to soothe her cagey pets.

“Cheers. Okay, rolling in three… two…” The room went coffin-dark. Irish Emmy’s scream chilled the humid air. The desk lamp flickered. Clawdeen and Blue giggled nervously.

“Phooey on your energy-saving bulbs, Lala,” Vlad huffed. “They save energy because they’re never on.”

“It’s not the bulbs,” Lala mumbled, wondering whether the
power was out in the T’eau Dally offices too. As long as her letter made it before the deadline—

The lights flashed back on.

“Right, then.” Irish Emmy’s voice was unsteady. “Still rolling.”

Clawdeen stood uncertainly in front of the camera, took a deep breath, and continued. “Tonight, Teeny Turner is wearing L’Oreal’s all-natural hair dye in russet red. An orange knit scarf, the same color as her paw polish and—”

Teeny whined and then shook off the scarf. It trailed behind her like toilet paper on a shoe as she squeezed under the bed.

Another thunder boom rolled across the house.

“Try the turtles,” Lala whispered.

Clawdeen faced the camera. “These red-eared turtles were left in an Oregon pond to freeze by someone who didn’t want to take care of them any longer….” Her voice was trembling.

“Ouch!” Blue dropped Kale back in his terrarium, where he promptly crawled into a plastic hollow log. “He bit me!”

“What’s going on?” Lala asked no one in particular. “They’ve never freaked out like this before.”

Teeny yelped from under the bed.

Clawdeen’s ears tensed. “Lala,” she began. “I think—”

“Daaaaad-dy’s home,” Vlad said.

The energy in the courtyard of the Salem Hills shopping
center was electrifying. Frankie wanted to run through the pretzel-scented air screaming about the joy of living freely. She wanted to booty roll in the window of Forever 21—right between the green ribbed tank dress and the studded black mini—and show the passing shoppers her Lady Gaga “Starstruck” routine. She wanted the kids eating soft-serve on the fountain stairs and the lab-coated aestheticians straw-sucking Diet Cokes on their breaks to join in. She wanted to lead a flash mob of liberated dancers
Glee
-style.

Instead, she was strolling hand in hand with Brett past the three-tiered fountain, eating a passion fruit Pinkberry. Which was perfectly voltage; it just didn’t require much energy, and Frankie had kilowatts to burn.

Maybe it was just the eighty-five-degree sun warming her shoulders. Or the leisurely way Brett’s ripped jeans crinkled as he strolled, as if he had nowhere else to be but exactly where he was.
It could have been the window displays popping with bright summer separates like an all-you-can-afford buffet. But it was probably just the continued thrill of being in public in her birthday skin, without that pore-clogging makeup she used to wear. No bolt-hiding turtlenecks. No fear. Even though it was her twenty-seventh trip to this particular mall since she came out of hiding, it still felt too mint to be true.

A couple of college girls sharing an extra-large fro-yo dripping Cocoa Puffs and gummy bears smile-nodded as Frankie passed.

“Cute shoes,” one of them said.

“Thanks!” Beaming, Frankie grinned down at her cork wedges. She always got compliments when she wore them with her periwinkle floral romper. They made her legs look extra long.

“How crazy is that?” Brett tossed the waxed paper from his pretzel into the trash.

“Why? My shoes are cute.”

Brett snickered. “No. It’s crazy that people don’t even notice the color of your skin anymore. They just see… you.”

Just then a boy with a pierced nose and tattoo sleeves whizzed by on his skateboard. He turned and glanced back at Frankie.

“Spoke too soon.” She giggled. “I think he’s a little freaked,” she said, stopping to check the silver peep-toe combat boots in the window of the Steve Madden store.

Brett put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Ummm… I think he just thinks you’re hot.” He squeezed tighter, as if claiming her for himself. Just in case there was ever any doubt. Which there wasn’t.

She squeezed him back. “Awwww… that is so sweet!” He leaned in and kissed her.

Frankie sparked until the moment he pulled away. The skateboarder had been staring. Frankie tried to console him with her friendliest wave, but he rolled away disappointed.
Did he really just see me for me?
Had they come that far? Was it—?

“Look!” she said, yanking Brett toward a pink-and-black awning. “There’s a sale at Betsey Johnson!”

“What’s up, Franks?” asked a glam-goth salesgirl. Her black-lined lips lifted in a welcoming smile.

“Just browsing.”

“Ten percent off on anything in the store,” the goth offered, tugging on her black lace scarf—one of six dangling around her neck.

“You having a sale?” Brett asked, obviously trying to show he could hold his own in a shopping situation.

“It’s a Stein special.”

“Awwwww.” Frankie hugged her. She smelled like cherry perfume.

“You’re a celebrity here,” he said, as they wandered toward the accessories rack. Bolt earrings and leather cuffs with stitches sewn in were available in an array of unapologetic colors.

“It’s not just me,” she said, trying on an auburn faux-fur hair band. “It’s all the RADs.”

Outside, a crowd was gathering around a street performer. A mime was sweating off his makeup as he tossed three oranges in the air. Frankie pulled Brett toward the spectacle.

But Brett stopped under a shorn fig tree, desperate to keep his distance.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, hating to miss a second of the show.

He pointed to his T-shirt: It was emblazoned with a cartoon of
a mime tied to a train track and inches away from being crushed by a speeding locomotive.