Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever (21 page)

A few girls began applauding when they saw her, Blue and Clawdeen among them, part of their ongoing efforts to remain T’eau Dally supportive to both sides. Cleo quickly raised her palm. “Not yet.” At least she wasn’t 100 percent sure she’d won. And then, “Wait for Deucey.” Cleo finger-combed her thick black bangs, pursed her glossed lips, and posed for a camera that wasn’t there.

Billy leaned forward and mumbled, “She should be on TV.”

“Why?” Frankie asked, aware of the jealousy in her voice.

“So I could turn her off.”

Brett snickered. Frankie wanted to but refused. Giggling would only make her seem threatened. Instead, she stared at the ink stains on her desk and tried not to look any more green than usual.

“Now you can clap,” Cleo announced when Deuce appeared by her side. She hooked her arm through his and led him toward the back of the class, as if oblivious to the fanfare. Her walk down the aisle—assured and steady—seemed more rehearsed than Kate Middleton’s. And Deuce’s outfit—a black cashmere beanie, gold Carreras, and crisp gray Diesels—was more studied than Prince William’s.

Frankie picked the lavender polish off her thumbnail. Because, really, who cared?

Mrs. Simon strode in, her thighs swishing like windshield wipers. She clapped briskly. “Seats.”

Cleo and Deuce picked up their pace, but only a little.

Frankie rested her head on her desk. Billy rubbed her back.

The white speaker above the chalkboard crackled to life. Cleo clutched the lucky bronze scarab hanging around her neck.

“Goooooooood mooooooorning, Merston High!” boomed Principal Weeks.

Losing was one thing, but did it have to be amplified? Couldn’t he send an e-mail?

“Happy Wednesday,” Weeks bellowed. “Remember, we only have three more days of school…”

Someone moaned. Ghoulia?

“… so let’s make them count. Speaking of count, that’s all I’ve been doing. I counted and counted and counted your votes.”

Frankie lifted her head. Smile. Project confidence. Gritting her teeth, she raised her chin and braced herself for the inevitable punch. Brett flashed her a supportive grin.
We tried.

Weeks cleared his throat into the PA. “Now, without further delay…”

“Get ready. This is it,” Billy said with a pat on her back. “And the Oscar goes to…”

“Stop,” Frankie hissed.

“Actually”—Weeks paused—“I’m going to have Lala make the announcement.”

Everyone moaned.

“Hey.” Lala giggled nervously. “The couple you chose to represent Merston High is…”

Cleo’s chair scraped along the floor.
Is she already standing?

“Brett Redding and Frankie Stein!”

What?

Frankie stared at Brett. He stared back. His eyes were wide. Her bolts were firing. Her ears began to ring. Were people clapping or booing? Was Cleo demanding a recount? Were Blue and Clawdeen still T’eau Dally supportive of both sides? Or had they
finally allowed their true feelings to show? Frankie was too shocked to tell.

The only thing she remembered before passing out was Billy tickling her ear with a warm whisper as he said, “Told you that you’d win, Stein. Told you.”

Thump.

A basketball landed an inch away from Jackson’s can of red paint. That’s all they needed—a gym floor that looked like a crime scene.

“Can’t you play somewhere else?” Lala shouted at Davis Dreyson.

“You mean somewhere other than the gym?” he asked, scooping up the ball with his orangutanish arm. The sneaker-squeaking quickly resumed. Lala’s headache intensified.
KEEP BOUNCING BALLS AWAY FROM PAINT CANS
was not on her to-do list. Neither was
FORCE TEAM TO WORK FASTER
, yet there she was, staring at a mostly blank canvas.

It was supposed to boast the new T’eau Dally logo. Instead, it looked more like a baboon butt in the middle of a giant diaper.

Lala lifted the brim of her BeDazzled
SUPERVISOR
visor (a punny gift from Clawdeen) and forced a patient smile. “Jackson, what’s taking so long? They’ll be here tomorrow. So far you just
have the—” Lala tilted her head. “What is that, anyway? And what about drying time? Have you factored that in?”

Jackson dabbed his brush in the paint can, scraped the excess off on the side, and mumbled, “It’ll be ready. Don’t worry.”

Typical artist.

Still, Lala tapped her iPad screen and added a check mark to the box beside
NEW LOGO
. So what if it wasn’t T’eau-Dally done? Jackson said it would be. And she needed to feel that they were making progress.

Bite by bite…

CATWALK
was next.

Clawd was in the far corner of the gym (
thanks, selfish basketball players!
) lifting a sheet of plywood toward the frame. Either his arms were trembling or he happened to be standing on an active fault line. He was swaying back and forth as though he was about to drop the board. Lala ran over to help.

She had once read about a mother whose baby was trapped under a car. Apparently, the power of love had filled the woman with enough strength to lift the car and rescue her child. Well, this contest was like her baby, so wouldn’t it make sense that she could just grab a corner of the plywood and lift?

“What are you doing?” Clawd grunted. He began to teeter.

“I’m saving you,” she grunted back. And then, “Owie!” A splinter lodged its way into the tip of her iPad finger. So much for checking boxes on her to-do list.

Lala let go and began fang-poking the affected area. (
Where’s a pin when you need one?
)

The sudden movement threw Clawd off balance, and the board came smashing down.

“Awoooo!” Clawd howled through clenched teeth. “What were you thinking?” he growled, rubbing his shoulder.

“Is it broken?” Lala asked.

Clawd rotated his arm in tiny circles. “Fractured, maybe. Or bruised. I should probably go see the—”

“Not you, the board!” Lala snapped. “Look, there’s a crack right down the middle. Can we replace it by tomorrow? Because that’s a liability. That thing could split when the models are walking on it.”

“Great point,” Clawd said. “Forget my football arm. I’m rabid concerned about the board. That board was, like, everything to me.”

Awww.
Lala lifted up on tippy-toes and kissed him on the cheek. Right there in the middle of everyone. Even though he hated that kind of thing, she wanted him to know how much she appreciated his putting her contest before his own body. “Don’t worry too much. Go ice. I’ll find someone else to replace it. I’ll let you know when the new one gets here.”

Beep.
Lala’s pink G-Shock rang. Twenty-four-point-two-five hours to go.

As long as nothing went wrong, by the time the T’eau Dally people walked through those double doors, she’d be as ready to impress as a bachelorette in the season finale. Two red items blinked from her iPad scheduler.

REVIEW CLAWDEEN’S T’EAU DALLY HIGH DIY ACTIVE WEAR.

ACCEPT DELIVERY OF SHOES.

Thank you, personal-assistant-slash-iPad. Where is Clawdeen? And where are those shoes?

Dickie Dally had promised two pairs for the It Couple. Which
is why Frankie and Brett were sitting on the bleachers, waiting to practice their walk. Which would now have to be done in socks and on the floor, thanks to that shoddy board.

Bite by bite…

Under the bleachers, Clawdeen and her sewing klatch were gathered like trolls.
At least someone is on track.
Maybe the sight of perfection would settle the bagel-storm brewing in her stomach. “Hey, Deenie,” Lala said, poking her head in. Her friend’s curls were frizzed like a “before” photo, and she was wearing her plaid sleepover pajamas. “You okay?”

“Take five,” Clawdeen told her crew. “Blue, stay with me.”

“Roger, Sheila,” she said, spritzing her scales with a squirt gun.

The girls filed out quickly. Rubbing their backs and squinting, they emerged into the light.

“Five means five,” Lala called after them. “Not a minute more.” And then, “So, how’s it going?”

Blue reached across the heap of material, thread tangles, and felt scraps. She rested a hand on Lala’s cashmere-covered arm. “La, ya have to promise ya won’t go all bonkers.”

Bonkers? Why would I go bonkers? You mean because your DIY looks like DI-crap?

“I promise,” Lala lied through her fangs.

Clawdeen reached behind her back. “So, I’ve never done iron-ons, right?”

Lala’s splinter began to throb, and it felt like someone was jabbing a stake behind her right eye. She fumbled for her iron pills and popped two.

“Well…” Clawdeen glanced at Blue. “My iron runs a little hot, so…” She held up a pair of gray athletic shorts. Across the
butt were wrinkled black letters that spelled… Lala looked more closely.

What did that spell?

The edges of the
T
and the
E
curled up and exposed the white lining underneath. Lala closed her eyes. She counted backward from thirteen and took a deep breath. Even though she felt like ripping the letters off with her fangs, she managed to control herself. “Okay. It’s going to be okay. We still have time.”

Clawdeen sighed. “Don’t worry, these will look perfect by tomorrow. Where there’s a Wolf, there’s a way, right?”

I hope so.

Lala glanced at her watch. Seven minutes left in first period. Seven minutes until Frankie and Blue were due in gym class and Brett had chem lab.

Where are the shoes?

On the off chance that they had been delivered to the office, Lala hurried down the hall. She passed signs for the
TOE DALLY
HIGH CAFETERIA,
the
TOE DALLY HIGH LIBRARY
, and the
TOE DALLY HIGH TEACHERS’ LOUNGE
.

“Seriously?” she shouted.

“Feeling a bit’a preshy, are we?” Blue asked, catching up.

Lala nodded. She wanted to cry. Or scream. Or DIY-die.
And where are those SHOES?

“If I mess this up, my dad’s going to say, ‘I told you so,’ and send us all to Radcliffe next year.” She hugged her iPad to her chest, wishing it were Count Fabulous.

Blue pulled a bottle of coconut oil out of her canvas tote and slathered her arms. “You’ll be all right. You still have a whole day to get ready.”

Lala kept moving. She needed those shoes. Something needed to go right.

“Did I ever tell you about my birthday walkabout?”

Lala shook her head.

“We were s’posed to have this bonzer barbie at the end, right? Only Pops got lost. So there we were, ten screaming sheilas in the middle of the bush. And everything’s goin’ wrong. We’re crossing this billabong, and the crocs are pulling out left and right. Mum forgets the eskie, so we don’t have any grub. Then we spot this reservoir and hop in to cool off. Only it’s snapping with bitin’ prawns. Even Pops was yellin’ like a kookaburra.”

Lala stopped and stared. What, exactly, was the point?

“Finally, this fat joey hops by and gets me thinking. Judging from the size of that bugger’s belly, he knows where the barbie is. So we followed him. And ended up at the Outback Golf Club, where it was meat pies and iced sammies for everyone.”

They passed a
TOE DALLY HIGH BAND
sign. If her entire future didn’t depend on winning this contest, Lala might have laughed.

“All I’m saying,” continued Blue, “is sometimes life shoots you a gutser. But if you keep your eyes on the joey, she’ll be all meat pies and sammies in the end.”

Lala giggled. “What happened to the joey?”

Blue smiled. “Ah, this part is ace! The next morning he showed up on our porch. Mum gave him Jazzy’s room when he went off to college. Been there for nine years.”

Nothing calmed Lala like an animal story with a happy ending. (At least she thought it was an animal story.) And so she entered the office with a smile.

“Anyone here named Lala?” asked a hefty guy in a brown button-down and wrinkle-resistant shorts. A box big enough for two pairs of shoes rested on his abdomen.