Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever (2 page)

Unable to sit still, Frankie bounced her mint-green knee.
Zap!
Another spark singed a small hole in the polyurethane coating on the bench. She wrinkled her nose and tried to wave away the smell of burning plastic before anyone noticed.

“What’s with the light show?” he asked, scanning the gym for a possible cause.

“I’m fine,” Frankie assured him as she thumbed her keypad. “I just thought of something else for my summer to-do-or-die list, and I got excited.”

“It’s just called a to-do list.” Brett grinned. “You know that, right?”

“Not mine.” She quickly typed:
EXPERIMENT: TAN LEGS ONLY, SO IT LOOKS LIKE I’M WEARING DARK GREEN TIGHTS
. “To-dos are a snooze. Everything on my list is to
die
for,” Frankie insisted, defending her sixteen ideas. Because, really, they were more than just ideas. They were warm-weather adventures. At least, they were to her. Most of her friends had already tasted the salty Pacific Ocean or spent an entire day barefoot; caught a real firefly in a jar or tried a three-day solar-energy cleanse. But not Frankie. She may have been implanted with fifteen years’ worth of knowledge, but this was going to be her first summer of real life. And she was going to seize the season with every stitch in her body. She just had to make it through this last weekly diversity-training assembly without shorting out, and she’d be one hour closer.

Blue squeezed in beside Frankie on the bench. Once settled,
she wound her blond curls up in a knot and secured them with an aqua lacquered chopstick. Fanning the back of her neck, the Aussie sea creature sighed. “Man, I can’t wait to don the ol’ bathers and soak my scales in the fuzzy.”

“What time is your pedicure?” Frankie wondered, thinking she’d benefit from a little piggy polish herself.

“Nay, Sheila,” Blue said with her usual dolphin-y cackle. “That was Australian for ‘I need a swim.’ I’m as chapped as a mozzy in the Woop Woop.” Sunbeams shone through the gym’s skylight and onto her dry scales, casting iridescent crescent-shaped glimmers on the wall behind them.

“A swim sounds voltage!” Frankie beamed. “Let’s get a big group together. I’ll have Daddy turn down the turbines in our backyard, and we can jump in the falls.”

Blue clapped her pink-mesh-gloved hands for joy.

“What’s this I hear about a pool party?” Clawdeen asked, making her way up the steps. She plopped her red leather cross-body bag on the bench beside Blue and then pulled an orange chunk of foam from her right ear. The canine’s ears were too sensitive for assembly noise. But social plans and gossip? She never tuned those out. “Where and when?” she asked, removing the left earplug.

“My house after school,” Frankie announced.

“Works for me,” Clawdeen said, fluffing the auburn tuft around her neck and then jamming the plugs back in place. Even though the moon wasn’t close to full, Clawdeen’s arms and neck were covered in luxurious fur. She was in perpetual Hollywood glam mode since she had cut back on the waxing and upped the grooming. Normies in every grade were now adorning their
collars and sleeves with synthetic pelts in a multitude of textures and colors. Yet none could compete with the shine and fullness of Clawdeen’s. She DIYed herself a crystal brooch that said
FUR REAL
and wore it daily, just in case they tried.

Cleo squeezed in beside Clawdeen. Bodies parted Red Sea–style to let her through. She finger-combed her bangs and then surveyed the crowd. Her purple jersey minidress wrapped her caramel-colored curves like a birthday present; the gold linen strips around her wrists were the bows.

“Is skinny-dipping allowed at this pool party?” Billy asked from somewhere nearby.

“What was the point of all our shopping trips if you’re not going to wear your new clothes?” Frankie asked her invisible best friend.

“It’s hot out,” he said.

“Well, I hope your invisibooty isn’t on these benches,” Cleo said, sitting. The smell of amber and superiority surrounded her like a protective bubble. “My outfit hasn’t been Scotchgarded yet.”

“How about beeotch-guarded?” Billy snipped.

Everyone giggled except Cleo’s boyfriend, Deuce. He knew better than to laugh at anything that cast his royal girlfriend in an unflattering light. Instead, he began to squirm like the snakes under his beanie, and turned to greet his b-ball buddy Davis Dreyson in the row behind them. Deuce’s signature mirrored Ray-Bans reflected his friend’s easy smile.

“Why are we even here?” asked Blue. “We’re as diverse as a two-headed dingo.” She wrapped her arms around Irish Emmy—her new normie friend from the swim team—and then kissed her sloppily on the cheek. “See?”

“Aww, dry up, ya bird.” Irish Emmy giggled, wiping the slobber off her pale face. Her flat-ironed red hair undulated like sea grass.

Blue was right. They didn’t need lectures and tolerance exercises anymore. The diversity-training assemblies had done a mint job of teaching normies and RADs how to coexist peacefully. There hadn’t been a single issue in months. In fact, RAD (Regular Attribute Dodgers) were trending up this semester. Way up.

Frankie’s seams had inspired the latest henna tattoo craze: shoulder and wrist stitches. Cleo admirers wrapped their arms in linen. Deuce’s signature hat-and-sunglasses look had spread through the basketball team faster than athlete’s foot. Faux-fur tributes to Clawdeen rolled down the halls like tumbleweed. And Blue’s sleeves were advertised in the latest spring colors. Freak was finally chic. So why not call it a day? An early dismissal for a job well done? After their swim, they could rent a paddleboat and drift along the Willamette River. Breathe the grass-scented air. Sample each flavor of gelato—

“Everyone up!” shouted a frizzy-haired fortysomething as she walk-bounced toward the center of the basketball court. As if working the runway at O’Hare Airport, she waved the students to stand.

Mrs. Foose—the school’s “integration expert,” as Principal Weeks called her—had been hired to teach tolerance to the students at Merston High. “Maybe she can teach us how to tolerate her wardrobe,” Cleo had remarked at the first assembly. And as much as Frankie hated to judge, she could see Cleo’s point. Foose’s uniform—an oversize slogan tee (today’s said
LOVE THY
GAYBOR
), high-waisted Levi’s, and teeter-tottering purple-and-silver EasyTone Reeboks—was hard to condone.

“It’s our last assembly of the year, so sing it like you mean it.” Mrs. Foose pressed a button on her old-school boom box and stiffly lifted her left hand to her chest. A rather robust rendition of Merston High’s new anthem echoed through the gym. Frankie—always eager to make the best of a boring situation—stood in the bleachers and sang at the top of her lung space.

“Come one, come all, don’t hesitate!

At Merston High we tol-er-ate!

Class is cool; let’s go study.

High school rocks when a RAD’s your buddy!”

Frankie sang this line extra loud, and everyone applauded and jumped up on the bleachers. Mrs. Foose flashed a thumbs-up, reveling in the surge of teen spirit. Frankie flashed a thumbs-up back. Cleo rolled her topaz-colored eyes, probably wishing she could cut off Frankie’s thumb and jam it up her—

“Buuuut… normies are quite special too,

So mix and mingle—it’s not taboo!

Learn from each other, never smother.

Merston High: It’s like no other!”

Frankie led the school in a round of enthusiastic bleacher stomping while Mrs. Foose wiped tears of pride from her eyes.

“Don’t hate!” the teacher called, fist-pumping.

“Tol-er-ate!” the students responded.

Applause rang out as Mrs. Foose turned off the boom box and adjusted the microphone on her headset. “Seats, everyone!”

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.”