CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HEAD OVER HEELS
Standing outside the double gym doors, Frankie, Lala, Blue, Clawdeen, and Cleo locked hands like the Pussycat Dolls about to take their final curtain call. They’d worked up their nerve on the drive over. Perfected one another’s outfits in the parking lot. And declared this outing a small step for monster-kind. Now all they had to do was work up the courage to go inside before the dance was over.
“Okay, when I count to three.” Frankie rolled back her shoulders, which were semi-visible thanks to Grandma Frankenstein’s delicate lace wedding gown. “One… two…”
Suddenly the doors flew open. And like a vicious Red Rover opponent, someone tore through the girls’ arms and broke their bond.
“Deuce?” Cleo gasped, her gold chandelier earrings swinging underneath her straight black hair. Her body was wrapped head to toe in white linen and adorned in a lavish blend of turquoise and gold jewelry. Made of solid gold, her snake-shaped crown with the ruby eyes could double as a weapon, and she wasn’t afraid to use it on two-timing guys. Or so she had said in the car.
“Hey,” he stammered, adjusting his velvet top hat. “I was just running out to call you. I thought you were at home… boycotting?”
“More like boy-catching!”
“Nice one!” Clawdeen, dressed in a hair-apparent minidress, slapped her a furry high five.
“Wait.” Deuce took a step back. “What are you wearing?”
He scanned each of the girls, taking in Frankie’s white hair streaks and green skin, Lala’s fangs, Blue’s fins, Clawdeen’s exposed coat, and Cleo’s mummified body. “Are you crazy?” he whisper-snapped, pushing them back toward the stinky fog machine.
Beyoncé’s song “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)” began playing inside the gym. “They’re playing my song!” Cleo announced. She held out her hands, and the girls latched on.
“Cleo, you’re not single!” Deuce wedged his body between her and the door. “This whole Melody thing is a misunderstanding. I swear. I was just going to call you.”
“If you liked it, then you should’ve put a ring on it,” Cleo teased.
“Where?” Deuce lifted her bejeweled hand. “There’s no room. The lot’s full.”
“Then park somewhere else.” She waved him away, kicked open the gym door, and dragged the girls inside.
“Don’t do this!” he called.
But it was too late. Beyoncé’s fast-clapping beat lured the girls with the hypnotic power of a Siren’s song, straight to the dance floor. Protected by their sisterhood and propelled by her dedication to change, Frankie moved through the crowd with superstar confidence.
Heads turned as they passed. Compliments landed at their feet like roses. The Glitterati would have been proud. So would Viv and Vik.
As they approached the edge of the dance floor, Bekka and her mousy sidekick appeared. Without Brett! It was a great sign. She stepped out in front of Frankie, forcing her to release Lala’s icy hand.
“And who are you?” Bekka asked, obviously put out by the copycat costume.
Frankie considered revealing her true identity but quickly thought better of it. “I’m the Bride of Frankenstein,” she answered innocently.
Bekka pointed at Frankie’s bare feet. “Couldn’t afford shoes after you went dress shopping at the dollar store?”
“Actually, did you know that the real Bride of Frankenstein didn’t wear shoes at her wedding?”
“Did you know that the real Bride of Frankenstein had a groom?”
“I did,” Frankie said smugly. “In fact, he was—” She stopped herself again. It was one thing to play with fire. It was another to roll around in it. “You know, you look good green,” she said truthfully.
“You don’t,” Bekka countered. “Which is surprising, because green is your color.” Her little friend stood by her side, texting.
“Um, okay, but that makes no sense.” Frankie rolled her eyes.
The texter looked up from her screen. “Green is the color of jealousy.”
“And you’re obviously jealous of me and Brett.” Bekka put her hands on her hips and then quickly scanned the gym.
“Why would I be jealous of her?” Frankie pointed at the texter.
“I’m not Brett,” the girl insisted.
Frankie giggled, then waved good-bye. She was much too amped to take any of this personally, especially coming from a wannabe with wilted Marge Simpson hair and poorly placed streaks.
“That was hilarious,” a boy whispered in her ear.
Frankie turned around. A black rose was floating in the air in front of her face.
“Here.” The rose moved closer. “I swiped it off some Scary Fairy girl. It’s for you.”
“Billy?” Frankie giggled.
“Yeah,” said the invisible boy. “I think what you’re doing is really brave.”
He slid the rose behind her ear. “Don’t worry—I took off the thorns.”
“Thank you.” Frankie touched the flower gently, the way his gift had touched her.
“Awooooooooooo!” Clawdeen howled from the middle of the dance floor.
“Awooooooooooo!” everyone howled back.
Frankie squeezed through the sweaty crowd, anxious to join her friends. On her way, hands reached out and touched her skin.
“Awesome!”
“That green makeup looks so real.”
“Killer costume!”
“Are those neck piercings?”
“I know, me too.”
“She’s got better seams than my baseball.”
Frankie was thrilled but not at all surprised by everyone’s positive reactions. She knew they would feel this way. There was never any doubt. It was all about proving it. And her friends, dressed as themselves and dancing with normies, did just that. Frankie peeked at her phone to note the exact time history was made. It was 8:13 PM.
“Yayyyyyy!” Frankie shouted as she joined the girls.
“Frankieeeeee!” they shouted back.
“This is a ripper, mate,” Blue announced, dumping a bottle of water over her head. Her scaly skin glistened with a silver opalescence.
“Wooooooooo!” The normies cheered for what they assumed was reckless abandon.
Clawdeen’s fur was starting to curl with moisture. Cleo was crunking with a normie boy who was wearing her snake crown. And Lala was all smiles and fangs.
“Look.” She pointed at her pale forehead. “Perspiration!”
“You’re not cold?” Frankie beamed.
“I’m not cold!” Lala whipped her cashmere cape into the crowd.
Their combined elation was a rush Frankie had never known.
“Hey, beautiful bride,” a boy whispered in her ear.
“Billy?”
He turned her to face him. “Um, it’s Brett, actually. But I prefer Frankendaddy.”
VOL-TAGE!
Gripping her lace-covered shoulders, thumb-rubbing her skin, he stood before her in a dark suit. Mint-green skin, bolts, seams, and forward-combed bangs: He was the complete package. And he had come for her.
In her fantasy, they were hidden under the stairwell. And yet there they stood, in the middle of the party. Surrounded by normies and RADs. Openly touching. Looking into each other’s eyes. Not afraid.
He ran his hand over her streaked black hair. It tingled with electricity.
“I’m glad you decided to wear it down instead of in that big bouffie thing.” He smiled with his denim-blue eyes. “It’s much hotter.”
Frankie couldn’t reply. She couldn’t do anything but stare.
Is this how zombies feel?
With warm hands, he held her neck… pulled her face toward his… and first-kissed her. The way people kiss on soap operas. Only better.
Much better.
Frankie began to spark. Then she drifted off like a helium balloon liberated from a birthday bouquet. As her body floated higher, the world below got smaller and smaller. Sounds lost their meaning. Responsibilities were pointless. Consequences became unfathomable. Her entire existence was about this very moment. Nothing before. Nothing after.
Just now.
He thumb-rubbed her neck seams with increasing pressure, as their kiss intensified. Frankie floated higher. Pleased with herself for having washed and oiled her seams. Proud of how soft and malleable they must feel to him. Certain they would end up being one of the things he loved most about her.
He gripped her head. Moved it from side to side. As if leading them in a dance that he choreographed just for them. Hmmmm. She liked that idea. A dance just for—
SKRRRRITCH!
A sudden sharp pain sliced through Frankie’s neck. Her lips flash froze. Sparks flared in front of her eyes. Dizziness and disorientation overcame her. She was a teddy bear in a washing machine. Then it stopped. All she saw was black suit fabric. And all she heard was “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!”
Her head launched skyward with rocket force. She was face-to-face with Brett. His denim-blue eyes were fading. They rolled left. Right. Then back. His lids shut. He began to wobble. Frankie wobbled too. They were falling… falling…
They crashed onto the gym floor. Her body, limp as a rag doll, landed on his. Her head rolled toward the DJ booth.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!”
Screams, frantic footsteps, and widespread panic blended into a noisy, chaotic stew. A giant boot pulled back as if gearing up to kick her, but a gust of wind with hands swooped her up and carried her away.
“That head is floating!”
“It’s FLOATING!”
“FLOATING!”
“FLOATING HEAD!”
Nothing was clear. Fractured images shook all around her like vibrating puzzle pieces.
“MONSTER!” someone shouted. It might have been Bekka, but it was impossible to tell for sure.
“Floating monster head!” someone yelled.
“Grab her body,” a boy whispered. “Don’t let anyone see it. I’ll meet you by Claude’s car.”
“Billy? Is that you?” Frankie tried to ask. But the head jostling and searing neck pain made it impossible to speak.
Reeeeewoooooo reeeeewoooooo reeeeewoooooo…
The monster alarm sounded.
“Everyone on the tables!”
Reeeeewoooooo reeeeewoooooo reeeeewoooooo…
“Grab chairs!”
“Up! Up!”
“Hurry!”
Reeeeewoooooo reeeeewoooooo reeeeewoooooo…
“Now scream!”
“Arggggrgggrggggrgggrgggr!”
“Louder!”
A cloud of stinky fog enveloped Frankie. She squeezed her eyes shut, no longer able to endure the pain. Falling into darkness, she wondered what her world would be like the next time she opened her eyes.
Reeeeewoooooo reeeeewoooooo reeeeewoooooo…
Assuming that there would be a next time.