Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever (22 page)

“That’s me!” She felt like hugging the man but decided a heart drawn next to her signature would suffice.

She ripped off the tape, grabbed hold of a fake leather strap, and yanked it free. Styrofoam chunks flurried to the floor.

“Call me a dill, but what are those?” Blue asked.

“Packing peanuts,” Lala explained. “They’re used in America to keep stuff in boxes from bumping around.” She lowered her voice. “Terrible for the environment.”

Blue’s blue eyes were wide, and her blond brows arched in confusion. “No, those!” She pointed at the boot in Lala’s hand.

Lala giggled. The highly anticipated hybrid was unlike anything they’d ever seen before. The foot slid into an ankle-high tube-shaped area. In front of which was a wide pouch. A chocolate-brown strap that held a matching change purse wrapped
around the center like a ribbon cinched around a paper bag. Grayish brown and soft as a teddy bear, it looked more like an open satchel than a shoe. The female version had rubber treads and a two-inch heel that curved at the bottom like a tail. The male’s was flat and wide, similar to a skater sneaker.

“I reckon I could keep my hand cream in there,” Blue said, examining the pouch.

Lala giggled. Blue was right. Who needed a tote when she had a T’eau Dally? These shoes were bound to revolutionize women’s fashion. But men’s? More like feminize. She had a hard time imagining Clawd wearing something so… European. Or any athlete, for that matter. Any American male. But Dally was the number one sports-apparel brand for a reason. If Dickie—a chiseled sports wunderkind—put his name on something, it didn’t matter what the item looked like. Plaid soccer shorts, knee-high basketball shoes, clear baseball bats—no one asked questions. The unconventional gear outperformed anything they had used in the past, and that’s all they needed to know.

By the time Lala found Frankie, she and Brett were racing to their next class.

“Voltage!” Frankie said, hugging the shoes to her chest.

“Try them on,” Lala urged. “Make sure they fit.”

“I will, after this period. But don’t worry. I can walk in anything.” She pointed the toe of her striped platform Mary Janes. “See?”

Lala gave the other pair to Brett. He pinched them between his fingers and held them up to the fluorescent lights. “What are these?”

“He’s not much of a jock,” Frankie said, justifying the confusion. “We’ll practice walking in them tonight.”

Lala squeeze-thanked Frankie so tight that she almost popped a bolt. Finally, someone she could count on.

Bite by bite…

As the halls cleared, Lala tapped her iPad to life and got started on a new to-do list.

The more she typed, the more Lala realized that Blue was right. Everything could be fixed. There was still time. Meat pies and iced sammies were still in her future….

And then,
slam!
She bashed straight into two grown-ups. Scalding coffee from their venti to-go cups splattered all over their clothing. Lala’s iPad crashed to the floor.

“Ahhhh!” the couple screamed. And then they began cursing, he in English and she in… French!

Oh no. Oh no no no no no….

The brown stained
VISITOR
stickers on their shirts immediately confirmed Lala’s fear: Her guests had arrived twenty-one hours and fourteen minutes early.

Time of social death: 9:46
AM
.

As it turned out, gym class was the perfect solution to
Frankie’s PDA problem. A public display of axhilaration—or was it spelled
exhilaration
?—would be like rubbing her victory in Cleo’s face. And that was not the Stein way. But suppressing the desire to scream “IwonIwonIwon” was like stifling a finger spark—a force too mighty to control.

Fencing, however, offered the ideal compromise. When Frankie lifted her mask for some fresh air, she tried to appear blasé, as if becoming the T’eau Dally High It Couple just meant more responsibility, less fun. Once behind the mask, she smiled and squealed like the new American Idol. The shock of winning still hadn’t worn off. It was almost as if she could feel it snapping and zapping inside her white jacket. Had she and Brett really gotten more votes? Than Cleo and Deuce? In a popularity contest? What next? Outscoring Kourtney Kardashian 96 percent to 4 percent in the “Who Wore It Best?” section of
Us Weekly
?

At least Cleo hadn’t been in math class when Mr. Beeder gave
Frankie a tray of doughnuts from the teachers’ lounge. And Cleo hadn’t been in music class when Ms. Andrews taught “We Are the Champions” in Frankie’s honor. In fact, Cleo had skipped most of the morning, claiming she had a meeting at
Teen Vogue
. But she was there now. Taking five from her duel to reapply her gloss. Grinning as if she had a secret too delicious to share. Viveka said that was to be expected. It was called “saving face.” From where Frankie was lunging, it looked more like “gas face.”

In the locker room, Frankie peeled off her white suit and wrapped herself in a heather gray robe.

“Are those the shoes?” Clawdeen asked, a stuck comb dangling from her hair.

Six towel-wrapped girls crowded around the open locker for a better view. Cleo rolled her eyes and squirted more oil onto her legs.

“They’re ace!” Blue called, even though she’d already seen them.

“Have you tried them on?”

“Are they hard to walk in?”

“What are you going to wear with them?”

“They totally suit you.”

“I knew they would. That’s why I voted for you.”

“I voted for you too.”

“I didn’t, but I’m still glad you won.”

Cleo was three lockers down, pretending to read funny texts from very important people. Her endless attempts to “save face” tugged at Frankie’s heart space. If the princess felt half as humiliated as Frankie did when she thought she had lost…

“Can we talk about it later?” Frankie asked, closing her locker. “Today’s gym class kinda drained me, so…”

All the girls returned to their hair-drying stations.

“How much do you love?” Spectra whispered in Frankie’s ear.

“They’re pretty mint,” Frankie said, peeking at the gray-brown booties.

“Not those,” she hissed. And then she tilted her head toward Cleo, who was wrapping her wrists in linen, no one by her side but a heap of wet towels. “That?”

“Huh?” Frankie asked the lilac-scented air.

“We finally gave her what she deserved.” Spectra giggled, her chains rattling.

“I have no idea what you’re—”

“Don’t worry,” Spectra whispered. “No one can hear us over those hair dryers. And Billy hasn’t told anyone.”

“Told anyone what?” Frankie asked, circling her neck bolt with a Q-tip.

Spectra giggled. “That Billy and I switched the ballot boxes so you’d win.”

Tzzzz.
The Q-tip caught fire. Frankie blew it out and waved away the scent of burned cotton. Still, something smelled off.

“You did what?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

Frankie twisted her matted hair into a knot. It now matched the one in her stomach. The vote was fixed? She hadn’t actually won? She slammed her locker shut. Served her right to think she’d ever beat Cleo. To think that she’d ever beat anyone. Salty shame drops spilled down her cheeks.
I failed. Again.

Warm, lilac-scented arms enveloped her like a bubble bath.

“I’m going to go tell Cleo,” Frankie said.

Spectra’s surprisingly strong hand grabbed her bare arm. “You
can’t, Frankie! We’ll get in so much trouble. Besides, she’ll just gloat. Who wants to see that?”

Clawdeen finished grooming her fur to a glossy shine and clicked off the dryer just as Spectra was completing her thought, leaving the ghoul’s words dangling like participles. “Who wants to see what?”

“Um, the rash between my toes,” blurted Spectra.

Clawdeen winced. “Pass.”

Frankie pulled the T’eau Dally shoes out of her locker. She stroked the supple material one last time, kissed them good-bye, and then crossed the aisle. Cleo—now wrapped, oiled, kohled, and glossed—was packing up for third period.

“Here,” Frankie said, thrusting the boots toward her. “I’m out.”

Cleo narrowed her eyes.

“It’s true,” Frankie said. “I’m resigning.” Spectra’s words rang in her head like a smoke alarm.

“Why?” Cleo asked, backing away. “What’s wrong with them?” She peered into the pouch with an upturned lip. “Ew, wait. Did Spectra try those on? They’re all rashy, aren’t they?”

Frankie finger-drew an invisible X across her robe. “Cross my bolts and hope to fry.”

Bwoop. Bwoop.

Hair dryers stopped. Lockers slammed shut. But no one left. One by one, they began to stall, lurking in the background, waiting to see who would end up with the coveted shoes.

Bwoop. Bwoop.

Cleo slung her bag over her oiled shoulder. “Well, something must be wrong with them.”

“Nothing is wrong with them. I swear. Brett’s not that into it.
And I’ve got a lot of family stuff going on.” Frankie took a deep breath. “You and Deuce have been here longer than I have. If anyone should represent Merston—”

“Ka!”
Cleo turned on the toe of her three-inch wooden platform. “I don’t want your charity.” And then she made like a Stein and bolted.

“Cleo, wait!” Still in her robe, Frankie stuffed her clothes into a bag. Her hair was matted. Her neck smelled like burned cotton. Her makeup had been smudged to black-eye proportions. Still, she took to the crowded halls with the confidence of someone who didn’t look like a mug shot.

“It’s not charity. You deserve this,” Frankie shouted at the glossy black hair escaping into the crowd.

“Frankie, stop it,” insisted Spectra, lingering like lilac-scented air freshener. “You deserve this too.”

“If I deserved it, I would have won,” Frankie snapped. She took off at a sprint. “They’re yours. Take them,” she called out after Cleo.

Cleo stopped outside her English class. Her topaz eyes bore into Frankie’s. No longer alive and glinting, they had become two hard marbles. “I. Don’t. Want. Them.”

Frankie shoved them into Cleo’s tote. “Just take them.”

“I told you, I don’t want your rashy charity shoes.” Cleo whipped them back at her.

“Heads!” someone called as the shoes sailed through the air.

“Ahhhh!”

Students scattered.

The shoes thumped to the linoleum, just like Frankie’s ego space. Why would Billy fix the results? Had she really given him the impression that it was better to cheat than lose?

Frankie thought back on her behavior since the contest started. She had altered her style, given away her father’s bolts, and drained her energy to charge a bunch of soulless electronics. For what? A career as a spokesmodel? The chance to show Cleo she was worthy of 607 virtual friends? The ability to say she’d finally won?

What was so great about winning, anyway? Frankie was a plays-well-with-others kind of girl. And so far, being number one just meant hiding her true feelings underwater. It meant others felt like losers when she was around. It meant more separation, when all she’d ever wanted was to fit in.

She nudged the shoes toward Cleo, jutted her chin in the air, and marched back to the locker room, confident that this time, losing was a win-win.

Summer was descending on Merston. Windows were
propped open, as if daring them to escape. And like a Siren’s song, the sun-scented breeze had a call few could resist.

Melody was one of the few who resisted. What was the point? Skipping merrily in the sun was for lovers and giddy best friends, not the recently dumped or the girl whose parents had just been called to the principal’s office.

She violently yanked her free weight of a history textbook from her almost empty locker, as if it were responsible for her standoff with Jackson. She’d spent all weekend hoping he’d realize how selfish he’d been and apologize. But a ticking clock had been the only action her iPhone had seen for days. If stubbornness were a race, she and Jackson would be tied for first. The only thing keeping her going was the vanilla latte with whip she’d guzzled at lunch, and dreaming about the upcoming tour. Three more days and then
Melody out
!