CHAPTER FOUR

MINT CONDITION

Frankie jumped to her bare feet and began dancing to the Lady Gaga beats lingering inside her head.

“So you’re okay with going to school?” Viveka’s spidery black lashes fluttered with disbelief.

“Completely!” Frankie swung her hands above her head and snap-twirled. “I get to make friends! I get to meet boys! I get to sit in a cafeteria! I get to go outside and—”

“Hold on a minute,” Viktor interrupted, serious as science. “It’s not that simple.”

“You’re right!” Frankie bolted toward her sky-blue wardrobe; the one tagged SKIRTS AND DRESSES in fuchsia spray paint. “What am I going to wear?”

“This.” Viktor leaned forward, placed the leather duffel at her feet, and then quickly backed away, as if offering a side salad to a hungry lion.

Instantly, Frankie changed course and headed toward the bag. It was so like her parents to get her a first-day-of-school outfit. Is it the pleated bebe mini with the black cashmere tank? Oh, please make it the pleated bebe mini with the black cashmere tank. Ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease!

She unzipped the bag and reached inside, feeling around for the soft straps and cute oversize pin that held the kilt closed.

“Ouch!” She pulled her hand out of the bag as though it had teeth. “What was that?” she asked, still reeling from brushing up against the coarse object inside.

“It’s a sharp wool pantsuit.” Viveka gathered her hair and flung it over one shoulder.

“Sharp is right!” Frankie countered. “It feels like a cheese grater.”

“It’s darling,” Viveka pressed. “Try it on.”

Frankie turned the bag upside down to avoid touching the abrasive garment. A large chocolate-brown makeup case plopped onto the rug. “What’s that?”

“Makeup,” Viktor declared.

“From Sephora?” Frankie asked hopefully, giving her parents the chance to redeem themselves.

“No.” Viktor ran a hand over the comb tracks in his slicked-back hair. “From New York City. It’s a wonderful line of stage makeup called Fierce & Flawless, meant to hold up under the brightest theater lights on Broadway. Yet, it’s not too heavy.” Viktor pulled a soap-filled pad from the bag and scrubbed his forearm. A pinkish-yellow smudge was on the pad. A green streak was on his arm.

Frankie gasped. “You have mint skin too?”

“So do I.” Viveka scrubbed a similar streak across her cheek.

“What?” Frankie’s hands sparked. “Have you always been mint?”

They nodded proudly.

“Then why do you cover it up?”

“Because”—Viktor wiped his finger on the leg of his tracksuit—“we live in a world of normies. And many of them are afraid of people who look different.”

“Different from what?” Frankie wondered aloud.

Viktor looked down. “Different from them.”

“We are part of a very special group descended from what normies call monsters,” Viveka explained. “But we like to refer to ourselves as RADs.”

“Regular Attribute Dodgers,” Viktor clarified.

Frankie reached for her neck stitches.

“Don’t pull!” her parents said together.

Frankie lowered her hand and sighed. “Has it always been like this?”

“Not always.” Viktor stood. He began to pace. “Unfortunately, our history, like that of so many others, is full of periods of persecution. But we had finally moved beyond the Middle Ages and were living openly among the normies. We worked together, socialized together, and fell in love with each other. But in the 1920s and ’30s, all that changed.”

“Why?” Frankie crawled onto the couch and snuggled up to Viveka. The smell of her mother’s gardenia body oil comforted her.

“Horror movies took off. RADs were being cast to star in all kinds of films, like Dracula, Phantom of the Opera, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. And the ones who couldn’t act—”

“Like your grandpa Vic,” Viveka teased.

“Yes, like dear old Victor Frankenstein.” He chuckled, recalling a memory. “He had a problem memorizing his lines and, truth be told, he was quite stiff. So he was portrayed by a normie actor named Boris Karloff.”

“Sounds fun.” Frankie twirled her finger around the silky tie on her robe, wishing she had been alive back then.

“It was.” Viktor stopped pacing and looked straight at her, his grin fading like dusk. “Until the movies were released.”

“Why?” Frankie asked.

“They portrayed us as horrifying, evil, bloodsucking enemies of the people.” Viktor paced again. “Normie children screamed in terror when they saw us. Their parents stopped inviting us into their homes. And no one would do business with us. We became outcasts overnight. RADs experienced violence and vandalism. Our life as we knew it was over.”

“Didn’t anyone fight back?” Frankie asked, recalling the many historical battles waged for similar reasons.

“We tried.” Viktor shook his head, mourning the failed attempt. “Protests were pointless. They turned into frenzied autograph sessions for fearless horror fans. And any action stronger than a protest would have made us look like the angry beasts the normies feared we were.”

“So what did everyone do?” Frankie curled up closer to her mother.

“A secret alert was sent out to all the RADs urging them to leave their homes and businesses and meet up in Salem, where the witches lived. The hope was that the witches would identify with our struggles and take us in. Together we could form a new community and start fresh.”

“But didn’t the Salem witch trials get rid of all the witches, in like, 1692? And wasn’t this the 1930s?” Frankie asked.

Viktor clapped his hands once and then pointed at his daughter like an effusive game show host. “That’s right!” he gushed, taking pride in his daughter’s implanted book smarts.

Viveka kissed Frankie’s head. “Too bad the brainless zombie who sent the alert wasn’t as smart as you.”

“Yeah.” Viktor smoothed his hair. “Not only were the witches long gone, but he got the wrong Salem. He was thinking of Salem, Massachusetts, but he gave the coordinates for Salem, Oregon. All the RADs realized his mistake, but there was no time to change course. They had to get out before they were rounded up and thrown in jail.

“When they arrived in Oregon, they decided to just make the best of it. They pooled their money, disguised themselves as normies, built Radcliffe Way, and vowed to protect one another. The hope is that someday we’ll be able to live openly again, but until that time comes, it’s crucial that we blend in. Being discovered would force us into exile again. Our homes, careers, and lifestyles would be destroyed.”

“That’s why it’s important that you cover your skin and hide your bolts and seams,” Viveka explained.

“Where are yours?” Frankie asked.

Viveka lifted her black scarf and winked. Two shiny bolts winked back.

Viktor unzipped the high collar on his track jacket, revealing his hardware.

“Vol-tage,” Frankie whispered, awestruck.

“I’m going to get breakfast started.” Viveka stood and smoothed the wrinkles in her dress. “The makeup comes with an instructional DVD,” she explained. “You should start practicing now.”

Her parents each kissed her on the forehead and then started to close the door behind them.

Viveka peeked back in. “Remember,” she said, “you want to have this down by the time school starts.” Then she gently shut the door.

“Okay.” Frankie smiled, remembering that this downer of a conversation had begun on a total high. She was going to school!

Frankie flexed her toes and kicked away an unsightly pile of wool clothing as if it were a dead squirrel. No one was wearing wool pantsuits this season, she thought, as the itchy offenders skittered out of her line of vision.

Just to be certain, she consulted Teen Vogue’s back-to-school issue. As she had suspected, this year was all about light fabrics, jewel tones, and animal prints. Scarves and chunky jewelry were the must-have accessories. Wool was so out, it didn’t even make the “out” list.

The articles were extremely eye-opening. Not just in Teen Vogue but in Seventeen and CosmoGirl as well. They all were about being yourself, staying natural, loving your body as is, and going green! The messages were the exact opposite of Vik and Viv’s.

Hmmmm.

Frankie turned to face the full-length mirror that was propped up against the yellow wardrobe. She opened her robe and examined her body. Fit, muscular, and exquisitely proportioned, she agreed with the magazines. So what if her skin was mint? Or her limbs were attached with seams? According to the magazines, which were—no offense!—way more in touch with the times than her parents were, she was supposed to love her body just the way it was. And she did! Therefore, if the normies read magazines (which obviously they did, because they were in them), then they would love her too. Natural was in.

Besides, she was Daddy’s perfect little girl. And who didn’t love perfect?