Monster High 4: Back and Deader Than Ever (8 page)

Melody froze.
Did he really just say that?

“Sorry… it’s great news. It really is,” he said, snickering.

Icicles formed inside Melody where warm syrupy love had flowed only moments earlier. She dumped the brownies into the trash. “Way to rock block.”

“Not the brownies!” Jackson screeched.

“You’re next if you don’t watch it,” she said, only half-joking.

“I just can’t get over the name. It’s so… dorky.”

“You would know,” she said, pointing at his misbuttoned shirt.

“I’m just kidding,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m really happy for you. Maybe now I’ll get to see you perform.” Jackson cranked his fan up to high. He held it in front of his face with one hand and squeezed her bare calf with the other.

Melody lowered the fan so she could see his eyes. “Does this mean you’ll come to the audition?”

“Depends.”

Melody waited.

“I want a new batch of brownies by sundown.”

“Deal,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Deal,” he said, shaking it. “When is the audition?”

She reread the text. “Thursday at three thirty.”

“Uh-oh.”

Another rock block.

“Our camp interviews are at five.”

Melody tucked a dandelion behind Jackson’s ear. “That gives us an hour and a half. We’ll be fine.”

He looked down at the grass. Melody squeezed his hand, using all of her willpower not to use her voice on him. Because how easy would that be?
Jackson, listen up. You’re going to support me on all things music-related. And you’re gonna love it.

To which he would reply,
Yes, Melly. Whatever you say, Melly. Can I carry you onstage, Melly?

To which she would reply,
Blech!

Because honestly, if she wanted a robo-boyfriend, Mr. Stein could probably stitch one up for her by Monday. She needed to know that Jackson’s support came of his own free will. Without that, she’d never know if—

“I’m in!”

“Perfect!” Melody jammed her phone into the back pocket of her cutoff jean shorts and grabbed her canvas purse. “Come on. I have to start practicing!”

Jackson tossed the remaining plastic containers into the basket and hooked his backpack over his shoulder.

“I guess the picnic’s over.”

Clawd speared a piece of teriyaki tofurkey, reached
across the teak table, and fed a bite to Lala.

“Mmmmm…” She licked her lips, savoring the flavor of salty meat substitute. “Now you,” she said, feeding a bite to Clawd.

He chewed. “Rabid good! So much better than the real thing.”

The undulating sea rocked their yacht like a newborn’s cradle. Mr. D popped the cork on a bottle of Martinelli’s as Lala leaned back in her deck chair, offering herself to the sun. Her black-and-silver bikini was still damp from their swim with the dolphins. Clawd knelt before her, holding a robin’s-egg blue box and wearing a loving grin. Her father stood above them with a camera. Mr. D took off his Carrera sunglasses, allowing a tear of joy to roll freely down his cheek. It was the first time Lala had ever seen him hold a camera, let alone cry with joy. Just as Lala was about to open the blue box, the wind picked up. Clouds rolled in and covered the sun. The sails creaked in protest as the gentle rocking became more of an impatient shake….

“… I
said
, time for uppies. You’re late.” Uncle Vlad’s blue-and-white-checked shirt was covered by a navy apron.

Lala sat up and pulled off her black satin sleep mask. “Huh?” The menagerie of stray animals jumped down to the rug.

Vlad was hunched over her coffin-canopy bed, shaking the frame.

She rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock by her bed. It was blinking 12:00. “What happened?” she groaned as her balding mouse, Smoked Buddha, darted under the bed before she let the bat in. “What time is it? Why didn’t my alarm go off?”

“Your father’s tanning bed blew a fuse. Again. All the power went out. Again.”

It was hard to believe he would greet her at the breakfast table like a normal father. Hard to believe he had slept in his coffin last night. Hard to believe they would be looking at each other in the flesh and not in high-def. Unless…
What if I dreamed him too?

“Vite, vite!”
Vlad opened the heart-shaped windows and let Count Fabulous in. The bat, dressed in miniature flight goggles and pink glitter-specked faux-fur wing covers, flapped to his perch and assumed his upside-down position. Lala removed his night gear, slipped a tiny satin sleep mask over his eyes, kissed him good day, and then flopped back down. “Ugh! I was having the best dream.”

“Well, now you can have the best time getting dressed. Make like
DWTS
and get a move on,” he said on his way out the door.

Lala kicked off her pink-and-black satin duvet. Her father had been home for four days, and her pets were still acting as if he were going to eat them for lunch. The day before, she had to carry Teeny Turner down the stairs and force her outside. Apparently the pooch preferred to wee on the carpet rather than risk
running into Mr. D… as if he’d actually suck the blood of a
stray
. If only they knew who they were dealing with. “Your father feeds on only the finest breeds,” he loved to say.

He also loved to pressure her about the future, but so far he hadn’t said a word. What if the strays were right? Maybe he had finally lowered his standards. Maybe he was ready to act like a bat and just hang.

Lala wiggled into a red cashmere pullover, black leggings, and knee-high boots. All the other girls were wearing tank tops and summer dresses, but when she’d tried a plum cotton cardigan, she’d spent the entire day shivering. She brushed her fangs and applied a quick spray of lily-of-the-valley perfume. A swipe of clear lip gloss and a coat of mascara, and this vamp was ready for an old-fashioned family breakfast.

Pungent beef smells filled the lower level of the house and were now making their way upstairs. Still, nose to perfumed wrist, Lala managed to push through. Probably some weird blood sausage or kidney pie thing her dad had imported from Europe. The thought made her empty stomach churn. Still, dry heaves were a small price to pay for having him back in her life.

“Morning, Daddy!” Lala called, entering the black-and-white kitchen. Uncle Vlad insisted on a checkerboard floor and bright marble countertops to avoid chopping his fingers off—an inevitability if he were forced to slice and dice in the dark. Mr. D eventually gave in. When it came to cuisine, Vlad called the shots. A reasonable compromise for gourmet, her father said. Lala plugged her nose. How much for a giant fan to suck out the meat smell?

“I don’t want excuses; I want results,” her father said, rising from the leather office chair he had obviously relocated to the
breakfast table. He always looked like a Hugo Boss model: dark, gelled, and dressed in a fitted suit at places to which others wore sweats. “If he can’t raise the funds by Monday, I’m going to—” He glanced at Lala and then switched to Romanian.

“Hi, Daddy,” Lala tried again. As she reached for his cold hand, he held up a finger and continued his high-decibel conversation while beating the keys of his laptop. Embarrassed, she grinned at Musclavada, the dark-suited bodyguard standing nearby. Muscles (as Lala and Vlad secretly called him) nodded in reply.

“What’s going on?” she asked Vlad, who was seated at the table. The Belgian waffles were covered with documents. The muffin basket had been shoved aside to make room for a portable fax machine. And three international cell phones rested on Lala’s empty plate.

“Whatever could you mean?” asked her uncle in mock shock, obviously annoyed. “We always toss office equipment onto our breakfast.” He scraped almond butter onto Lala’s cinnamon raisin bagel as if trying to spark a flame.

“Not so hard, it’s gonna—” Just then the bagel slipped from his angry grip and landed facedown on a black marble square.

“Looks like you’re Os,” Lala joked, trying to lighten the mood. “My turn.” She made an X out of two tofu sausages and placed them on a white floor tile.

Vlad threw his hands in the air. “Fabulous! Just fabulous!”

The Count, thinking he had been summoned for a meal, swooped in, scooped up the bagel, and flew back upstairs. Vlad knocked his head against the juicer while Lala tried her hardest not to laugh.

“It’s okay,” she said, reaching past her uncle for her white mug. “A soy latte is all I wanted, anyway.”

“I hope you like it cold,” Vlad mumbled from the side of his mouth. “Thanks to my brother—the tan-pire—there is a state-of-the-art tanning bed in my meditation room, and it blew half the fuses in this house.” He handed Lala a twenty-dollar bill. “Hit the drive-through Starbucks.”

Lala tucked the money in the side of her boot as her father paced the kitchen, his guttural Romanian becoming louder and angrier. “Isn’t this great?”

Vlad pressed a finger on his twitching eyelid. “What?”

“We’re like a real family.”

“Gresit!”
Mr. D charged out of the kitchen. His voice boomed down the hallway toward the foyer. Muscles slipped out behind him.

Vlad rolled his eyes. “Would it kill them to clear their plates?” Pushing the laptop to the far end of the table, he jabbed at the power button on the remote, muted the flat screen, and then pulled the plastic off a brand-new issue of
Architectural Digest
. He flipped through the first few pages of furniture ads and then looked up. “The tanning bed. The moisturizers. The staff. The luggage. The heat lamps… He hung a satin robe over the Whitmore!”

Lala gasped. She knew what that mirror meant to him. According to the book he’d written—
Fang Shui: Decorating Tips for Vampires in Need of Positive Qi
—the mirror was located where the heart corner and the wealth corner merged. Meaning it was supposed to help Uncle Vlad attract a wealthy lover. Unless it was covered. Which meant he would die poor and alone.

“He’s probably not going to stay very long, anyway. He never does,” Lala offered. The realization brought a hopeful grin to Vlad’s face. And turned Lala’s blood to stone. Would she ever be good enough to stay put for?

“I’d better go,” she said, desperate to hit Starbucks before first period.

A chirping sound came from her microfiber bag. Lala and Vlad exchanged a glance. “Probably someone needing a ride.” She shrugged.

Blocked.

Vlad sighed and then returned to his magazine.

She blew a good-bye kiss to Vlad and answered her phone. “Hullo?”

“Ahhhh.
Oui
. Ehhh, Lala?” It was a heavily accented female voice. Probably another one of her father’s foreign girlfriends trying to get in good with the daughter, a story older than she was.

Lala pushed through the saloon doors. “Um-hmm?” Whoever it was would have to talk to her on her way to school.

“
Je m’appelle
Brigitte T’eau from—”

“And Dickie Dally here. Dally Sports Apparel.”

Clawd?
Lala stopped, wondering who could be punking her.
He doesn’t even know about the T’eau Dally—

The woman with the accent cut back in.

“Votre
e-mail
était rempli de passion et
—
”

“A real home run, Slugger. You’re one of our three T’eau Dally finalists. Well, really, you’re our favorite, but we’re not allowed to say that or the suits will get pissed. Ha!” he boomed, and then cough-cleared his throat. “I’m thinkin’ Frenchie and I will swing
by and see you first…. Let’s see… maybe… Thursday the twenty-third? Hey, B, is Thursday
bueno
for
vous
?”

“
Mais oui
,” answered the woman, her silken cashmere voice a welcome change from his rough poly blend. “Please, uh, Dickie, call me Brigitte.”

“Super! Okay, huddle up. Here’s the game plan: We’ll scope out the school, make sure it’s not haunted—ha!—and acquaint ourselves with the freaks that are gonna rep our new shoe. The sicker the better. Ugly’ll work too. Ha! Blame that
Jersey Shore
show—gritty’s the new glossy.” He coughed and then spit. “I mean, who ever would have thought that Dickie Dally would merge with some uptight European broad? Ha!”

Okay, Clawd would never say “broad.” One time he called her “babe” in front of his football buddies, and she popped his pigskin with her fangs. This was dead real! Lala felt floaty and heavy at the same time, like an anchor being pulled through choppy waters. She waved frantically, trying to get Uncle Vlad’s attention.

He tossed his magazine.
What?
he mouthed. “Tell me! Who is it?”

Lala waved again, this time urging him to be quiet. But that only made him mouth
what?
even more.

“Lala?” She heard a different male voice on the line.

“Uh, yes?”

“I’m Red, Mr. Dally’s assistant. He had to jump onto another call. And it seems as though we’ve lost Ms. T’eau to a bad connection. Anyhoo, congratulations on being a finalist!” He sounded Midwestern, like Dickie, but in a less coarse, more cottony way.

A giant smile spread across Lala’s face. “Thanks.” She giggled shyly. And then to Vlad she mouthed,
T’eau Dally!