Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever (9 page)

He began jumping up and down, his hands clasped together in thanksgiving. “My fang shui worked! It worked! I moved the laptop into your success corner, and it worked.”

“Shhhhhhh,” Lala hissed, still smiling.

“Okay, now jot this down,” said Red.

Lala grabbed her deep purple lip liner and rolled up her sleeve. “Ready…”

1 of 3 finalists… Thurs
@
12ish… I must pik couple 2 present to DD and BT… if win will get national ad camp… If we win, renamed toe-dally high… 1 mill bucks
 
 
 
 
 

“Got it. Okay. Thanks. See you Thursday.” Lala disconnected the call and tossed her phone onto the cracked-leather ottoman. “I’m a finalist! They like me the best! I did it!”

She shouted loud enough for her father to hear. But the only one who rushed to her side was Uncle Vlad. He pulled her into a sandalwood-scented hug and took her with him on his invisible trampoline. She couldn’t wait to tell her father. If winning a contest and getting a million-dollar donation for her school didn’t prove her worthy of a future, nothing would.

“Me and Clawd are going to represent the T’eau Dally merger in a national ad campaign!” she announced while jumping.

“Eeeeeee!” squealed Uncle Vlad.

“I know!” she squealed back, delighting in the perfection of it all.

A werewolf and a vampire. Did it get more merge-y than that? They were T’eau-Dal opposites. Furry and freezing. Meaty and lean. Pack man and lone girl. She imagined the shoot….
A limousine pulls up to a studio in midtown Manhattan. The driver jumps out to open the door. Her pale, stockinged leg emerges. Lala steps out wearing a violet wrap and Harry Winston diamonds. Mr. D is waiting on the sidewalk as a sunglassed and mohawked Clawd emerges. In the studio, makeup artists decide their job is pointless—Lala’s so beautiful already. Stylists agree that her own clothes are better than anything they could have pulled. Mr. D turns off his phone and unclips his earpiece, not wanting to miss a second of this experience. He sips Perrier as he watches his daughter, in awe of her fabulousness. Lala and Clawd pose against a soft gray backdrop. The camera clicks. They’re naturals. They take five to look at the proofs… but only Clawd is there….

Lala stopped jumping. Vampires don’t show up in photographs—hence the blank box above Lala’s name every year in the Merston High yearbook and the W
here were you on photo day
? caption below it. Oh, well. Her father wouldn’t let a simple thing like that get in the way, and so neither would she. She’d just have to find someone else.

Muscles entered the drawing room, followed by Mr. D, who shouted a final few Romanian words into the cell phone before jabbing his finger at it to end the call.

“Dad! You’re never going to believe who just called!” she chirped the instant he hung up.

He began texting. “Hmmm?”

She blocked his path. “Guess!”

He stopped just before crashing into her and finally met her dark eyes. Lala raised her eyebrows and flashed him a full-fanged smile.

“Draculaura, I don’t have time for games. What is it?”

Lala’s smile faded. But only for a second. He was going to be so proud…. “I won this contest, for Merston, and—”

His BlackBerry beeped. “I have a call. Later, okay?”

Uncle Vlad gasped.

“But—”

Mr. D glared at Muscles, who stepped forward and lifted Lala out of the way. The duo then hurried by and entered the kitchen.

Lala rolled down her sleeve and slid on her sunglasses. There was no fanging way she’d let her dad see her cry.

Ping.

TO:
Lala

June 8, 8:11 AM

FRANKIE:
WHERE R U? WE R LATE!

Lala kissed Uncle Vlad on the cheek, grabbed her car keys, and let the door slam shut behind her. She’d rather tell Frankie the good news, anyway. She might spark. But she’d never bite.

Frankie’s outfit was no accident. One look at her yellow
tennis skirt and white warm-up jacket, and the Balance Board members would assume she had a match after school. And, in the name of consideration, might hurry things along (unlike the board’s first meeting, which had lasted two hours and nine minutes). But so far, not so good. Frankie had been in the school’s chemical-scented bio lab—
like I don’t smell that enough at home!
—for fifteen minutes, and the meeting hadn’t even started. So much for subliminal dressing. The only one who noticed her outfit was Ghoulia, and that’s because Frankie had left the price tags on.

“Order! I bring this meeting to order!” called Haylee Barron-Mendelwitz, slamming a gold-plated gavel (a gift to her father from his law firm).

Frankie was one minute closer to freedom. All she had to do was announce Lala’s great news and then—

“Before we get down to business,” said Haylee, reaching
behind her floral jumper and pulling out a plastic container, “let’s make sure our blood sugar is up. Some homemade flaxseed-and-cranberry-oat bars?” Haylee began handing out the brown blocky things with the urgency of a Red Cross volunteer.

Ever since Bekka (Haylee’s former social overlord/Brett’s vengeful ex-girlfriend) transferred to Whitmore High, Haylee had come out of her shell like a molting crab. No longer forced to live in the shadows, she sought the spotlight. But not the fun kind that comes with wardrobe stylists and hair and makeup teams. More like the bossy spotlight, which tended to be fluorescent and not very flattering.

Heath Burns, her fire-burping boyfriend, took two bars and then passed the plate to Jackson, who passed it to Brett, who passed it to Frankie. Frankie took the smallest bar, just to be polite, and handed it to Ghoulia. The zombie eyed the selection. “Mmmmmmm…” she moaned, but didn’t take one. She was clearly too smart to bite.

“I’d like to make an announcement,” Frankie said.

“Not before we recap.” Haylee popped open her green faux-crocodile case and pulled out a legal pad. “First item on the agenda…” She glanced at Heath over her beige glasses. He stood and faced the room. The sleeves on his blue-and-white plaid button-down were too short. His pale wrist bones stuck out like bolts.

“Uh… number one: We agreed that Haylee is chair—”

Frankie giggled.
How can she be a chair?

Heath continued. “I’m the reporter—”

“It’s called a secretary,” Haylee corrected.

“That’s a girlie title,” he insisted. “I like reporter.”

Brett snickered. He made a finger gun and pointed it at Heath.
Pow
, he mouthed.

Heath whipped his napkin at Brett. It landed on Brett’s desk with a curious thud. He peeled it open to find a half-chewed oat bar. Brett whipped it back, and the two broke into hysterics.

“Order!” Haylee called, slamming her gavel. “Proceed.”

It took Heath a few seconds to stop laughing before he could continue. “Frankie is social coordinator, Jackson is creative coordinator, and Brett is the liaison of cool.” The guys high-fived in honor of Brett’s hard-won title. Frankie beamed. She and her guy had the coolest jobs.

“Ceeee… eeeee… ohhh,” moaned Ghoulia.