Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever (11 page)

“Cinderella!” bellowed the girl who had pulled her up onstage at Corrigan’s.

Cinderella?

Sage was sitting on the stained gray carpet leaning against a stained mustard-yellow futon, strumming her guitar. Her blue-black hair was stuffed into a floppy green beanie, and her gray mesh shirt hung off one shoulder, revealing the strap of her hot-pink bra. She reached into the mini fridge next to the sofa on which the other two girls were perched. “We would have called you to audition, but you left so fast after the gig at Corrigan’s that we didn’t even get your name, and you’re not in the college directory.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Melody.” She waved stiffly and then instantly regretted her dorky awkwardness.

The boxy room had obviously been cleared of beds and dressers to make room for the drum kit, amp, and mini air-hockey table that was piled high with pizza boxes, vending-machine candy wrappers, and soda cans. The stale air smelled like burned microwave popcorn. Melody’s pores opened like a fish mouth. It was a good thing Jackson had chosen to wait in the hall. A wind machine would have been his only hope.

The blond stretched out on the futon was elbow deep in a bag of Doritos. Melody recognized the drummer, and not just from the custom sticks in her back pocket. She had a red hibiscus stuck behind one ear, bright blue eyes, and a half shirt that might have been whole on someone who had more ab than flab.

“I’m Nine-Point-Five,” the girl said, lifting her hand out of the bag and wiggling her pinkie. The thimble-sized stub was adorned
with a thin stack of silver rings. “I’m missing half a finger,” she proudly announced. “That’s why I’m not a ten.”

Melody giggled.

“I’m Cici,” said the bass player, sitting on the arm of the sofa and drinking chocolate milk. She wore a tiara in her bleached blond hair and an ivory silk slip dress. Very Courtney L.

“You’re making me nervous. Sit down. Relax. We won’t bite,” Sage said, and then winked at Cici. “At least, I won’t.”

Melody laughed a little too hard as she sat in a rust-colored armchair. Beside her, an artificial Christmas tree was hung with pairs of broken sunglasses, frayed shoelaces, and scarves. This was like hanging out with the cool version of the popular girls in school—something Melody had yet to experience. There had always been someone to hang out with, but a group? Like this? Never.

Nine-Point-Five sat up. The unapologetic belly bulge that slumped over her jean shorts looked like it had just as much right to be there as the rest of them. It was the first time Melody had ever seen a girl this comfortable in her own skin.

“Those feathers are awesome,” Nine said. “Put one on the tree before you leave, will ya? All our friends leave something.”

Friends?

Melody plucked out a couple of strays and rested them on the tree branches. “You can have as many as you want.”

Sage cracked open a can of grape soda. “So, Melody, what’s your deal? You in school? You work? Play guitar?”

Melody stiffened. The interview had begun. She considered using her powers to land the lead, maybe even bestie status. But cutting a line and crossing a line were two totally different things
when it came to destiny. If she cheated, it wouldn’t feel rewarding. At least, that’s what her mother said about people who chose liposuction over exercise for weight loss.

Melody chose her next words carefully. “I’m still in school. I go to…” She hesitated. What if Jackson was right, and they thought she was too young? Melody swallowed. She had to earn this. And that meant being honest. “I’m a sophomore at Merston High. I just turned sixteen.” She clenched her abs, preparing for the punch.

Cici adjusted her banana-yellow bra strap. “That’s cool. Nine-Point-Five just turned seventeen.”

“You’re in high school too?” Melody asked.

“No, I go here. I’m really smart”—she laughed—“or really stupid.”

They all laughed.

“So you like grunge, right?” asked Sage.

That was it? No “We don’t hang with high school girls, so get out”? Melody replayed the conversation in her mind.
I didn’t say anything Siren-y, did I?

“I love grunge,” she said. “I was listening to Nirvana and Hole back in middle school. The first CD I bought with my own money was
Pretty on the Inside
.” She paused, allowing the swell of emotion to wash through her. “I went to Beverly Hills High, and I didn’t really fit in. I ate a lot of lunches with my iPod.”

Hand in the air, Nine rushed to Melody’s side. “I’ll high-four-point-five to that, sistah!” She smacked Melody’s palm.

Sage nodded. “Same story for all of us. But Davina, our last singer, was a total fit-wit.”

Huh?

“Obsessed with fitting in.”

“Not with us, though,” explained Cici. “With the quote un-quote popular crowd.”

Melody could have talked to these girls forever. But Jackson was waiting, and she wanted to be fair. “So, who wants to Smucker?”

The trio exchanged puzzled glances.

OMG, what was I thinking? It wasn’t even clever when Overalls said it!
Melody wanted to charge for the rectangular window and test out her feathers.

“Wait, do you mean
jam
?” asked Sage.

Mortified, Melody nodded. “It’s an old roadie term from the seventies,” she lied.

“I love it!” said Cici.

“Me too,” said Nine-Point-Five, twirling her sticks. “Let’s Smucker. One, two, one two three four!”

Melody recognized the cover instantly. It was a reggae-slash-punk-infused version of “Everlong” by the Foo Fighters.

“Join in whenever,” Sage called over the music.

Melody stood and closed her eyes. She tapped her thigh to the offbeat and then began.

“Come down and waste away with me…”

She sang quietly at first, blending, not showcasing. But when the sunny beat cooled, Melody fused with the song. The music rose up through the floor, into her high-tops, up her legs, through her stomach, and out her mouth like a hot spring.

The redhead poked her head in and began swaying. Behind her, wannabes craned for a glimpse inside. Melody saw them as if in a dream. Gauzy and distant. There but indistinguishable.

“If anything could ever feel this real forever, if anything could ever be this good again…”

The final line hung in the air like Candace’s Black Orchid perfume. The acoustic bass and guitar chords quieted. Everything went silent. The redhead closed the door with a soft click.

“Woooo-hooooo!” howled Nine-Point-Five, waving her sticks in the air.

Cici tossed up her tiara and shouted, “That rocked!”

Melody burst into laughter.

“So, what are your summer plans?” asked Sage, unplugging.

Melody checked to see that the door was closed all the way. “Um, no plans yet,” she muttered. “Why?”

“We’re trying to line up gigs so we don’t have to get jobs.”

Thoughts of warm summer nights and stage-hopping gave Melody roller-coaster stomach.
What could be better?

An urgent knock interrupted. Jackson entered.

“Who’s the accountant?” Nine whisper-asked Cici.

The fuzzy love screen that had covered Melody’s eyes whenever she looked at her boyfriend lifted, and she saw Jackson the way the Goddesses must have seen him. His freshly ironed short-sleeved plaid button-down was tucked too neatly into his pleated khakis. His soft brown bangs were gelled and combed across his forehead, and his black glasses were definitely more geek than chic. It was the first time she’d ever looked at him like this.

“Uh, sorry, Carl, the tax club only meets on Saturday,” said Sage.

Jackson glared at Melody.

“Um… everyone, this is my, uh, Jackson.”

Sage, Cici, and Nine-Point-Five stared at her. Nine-Point-Five glanced at Jackson and then back at Melody as if to say,
For real?

Jackson looked at Melody. Hurt carved an invisible path between them. Was she that insecure?

“Sorry to interrupt, but it’s four fifteen and—”

Melody widened her eyes.
Five more minutes?

Jackson widened back.
You promised.

Nine-Point-Five broke the heavy silence. “Hey, I know you! You’re that guy from the ‘Ghoul’ show!” She tapped Sage’s shoulder with her sticks. “Remember him?”

Sage nodded, recognition spreading across her face. “Yeah!”

Melody stood reluctantly and joined Jackson at the door.

Nine-Point-Five followed her. “I loved you in that show! Can you actually turn into that fun guy, or was that whole thing faked?”

Melody exhaled.

Jackson smiled gratefully. It wasn’t often that his alter ego inspired such admiration. “It’s all real,” he said, flashing his hand fan.

“That’s hot!” Nine-Point-Five said. “We were calling you Brad Pitt-Stain because you were all sweaty.”

Jackson managed a smile. Melody blushed on his behalf.

“It was nice meeting you. Your band is really good.” Jackson flashed them an earnest thumbs-up. And then to Melody, “Come on, we have to go.”

She turned and looked back into the room. Sage smiled a disappointed half smile. “Hey, if you’ve got somewhere better to go…”

Melody shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just—”

“Actually, we’ve got summer job interviews at a performing-
arts camp,” he explained, the way someone might brag about walking the red carpet.

The room was silent. Cici and Nine burst out laughing.

“So you do have summer plans,” Sage noted, confused.

“Not really,” Melody said, avoiding Jackson’s eyes. “I mean—”

“No problem,” Sage said, looking away.

Melody swallowed. “Okay, well thanks so much. That was awesome. Talk to you later, I guess?”

Jackson led her into the elevator like a petulant preschooler.

Maybe not telling them she was a Siren had been a mistake. Maybe it was her destiny to use her voice, not to hide it. Maybe…

Bing.

The door closed behind them.

“Going down?” asked a chipper girl with an eager-to-please smile.

Jackson nodded.

Melody sighed.
Going down, indeed.

The cafeteria, which smelled like wet wool beanies and
tuna casserole, crackled with cutthroat competition. It was the first time Lala had been responsible for anything cutthroat in her entire life, and it felt surprisingly good.

An unfamiliar warm feeling—was it pride?—filled her like soft serve in a cone. It tickled her insides and made her hold her head up high and flash her fangs at everyone who passed. Both RADs and normies were excited about the possibility of being sponsored by two of the biggest footwear brands on the planet. And her dad would be, too, if he ever hung up his headset long enough to hear about the contest.

A red plastic tray of cheeseburgers floated by, followed closely by a lavender raincoat belted with a delicate silver chain.

“Hey, Spectra!”

The ghost obviously hadn’t heard her over the lunchtime playlist’s latest Jack Johnson selection, because the cheeseburgers kept moving. “Spectra!”

A girl in a denim jacket appeared in Lala’s path. “Who are you voting for? Cleo or Frankie? Maybe just give us the first initials or something if you don’t want to take sides.”

Lala opened her mouth to respond, but a cool lilac breeze blew in her ear. She shivered.

“You called?”

Lala turned toward Spectra’s sweet, ethereal voice—and found herself facing a vintage Pac-Man tee and khaki cargo shorts. “Billy? I just saw Spectra. Is she okay?”

“It’s me. Spectra.”

Lala paused, confused.

“Billy and I decided to switch clothes today. That way I could take his English test, and he could take my bio quiz.”

“Must be nice,” Lala mumbled.

The girl in the denim jacket had turned back to her friends. “I’m telling you, Cleo might dress the best, but Frankie’s so authentic.”

Lala said she was undecided and then headed toward her usual table.

Haylee and Heath took up one corner, flipping back and forth between the
SENIOR LUNCHEON
and
T’EAU DALLY
sections of her Balance Board binder. Haylee’s mousy bangs looked greasy, and she had bags under her eyes. Clearly, campaigning for T’eau Dally while planning the senior graduation luncheon was more than her looks could handle.

Frankie, Blue, and Clawdeen were hovering over a magazine, looking for vote-day outfits. Lala grinned and slid onto the bench next to Clawd, who was too engrossed in Deuce’s update on last night’s winning basket to notice.

Cleo took advantage of the lull in the sports recap to wave
papyrus samples in front of Deuce’s nose. Were they planning a campaign or a wedding? He shrugged and pointed to the middle one, though his mirrored Ray-Bans made it impossible to know if he was even looking. Lala couldn’t help wondering how much he needed his glasses versus how much he hid behind them. Yes, without something covering his eyes, everything Deuce looked at would turn to stone. But contact lenses could be coated with the same solution that kept his shades from transforming onlookers. Contacts just wouldn’t conceal his intolerance for girlie stuff.