Monster High: A New Start (Male Reader)

Silver Scream

Bwoop. Bwoop.

Today, the bell was supposed to signify more than the last period of the day. It should have been a call to arms. A countdown to the millennial monsters’ inaugural television address. An invitation to an after-party in the shed to celebrate their first sanctioned outing since the 1930s. But it might as well have been “Taps”, the solemn bugle composition played at military funerals, that you were hearing. Because your dreams were dead.

Normies would never know how hard Claude Wolf was working for a sports scholarship. They’d never see Deuce’s impressive 381-piece sunglasses collection or hear about Lagoona’s hope of becoming a pro surfer. They’d never cry with Clawdeen while she relived the terror of being sprayed red by PETA activists.

Never identify with Jackson’s embarrassing battle with sweat and music or sympathize with D.J.’s lack of control over his life. Draculaura’s refusal to smile would continue to fuel her reputation as shy, and Ghoulia’s zombie stare would always be mistaken for stupidity.

Heath would have to stay indoors during allergy season. Poor Billy would never be able to date a girl who didn’t want to be accused of talking to herself. Frankie would remain hidden under the Spackle of pore-clogging makeup and yurtlike garments if she wanted to go to a human place.

Even though their faces would have been blurred, and the movie would not have solved all their problems, it would have been a first step, one they were finally willing to take together. One that hadn’t been taken in eighty years. One that had gone nowhere. Sure, you could try again. But you were fresh out of ideas. Besides, who would trust you now? Everything you touched turned to mold.

It was obvious by the unusual silence that the others heard “Taps” too. Clawdeen, Lagoona, and Draculaura were the only monsters who didn’t seem affected by the lost cause. How could they be, when they were about to be picked up by a shiny black limo with a window sign that said TEEN MORGUE? Holding hands, they ran through the halls with the subtlety of an old clunker trailing cans and a JUST MARRIED sign down an asphalt road.

But instead of scratch marks on pavement, they left behind a sickly sweet trail of fruity lotion, floral perfume, and friends moving on.

Suddenly, Frankie appeared at your locker, panting.

Frankie: You’re not going to believe it!

Her green cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide, her black and white hair a wild mess. Her beauty was undeniable, and she didn’t have to wear a stitch of makeup.

Y/N: What happened?

Frankie: So, I was bored in Mr. Hackington's class and was watching TV and saw a promo for ‘The Ghoul Next Door.’ Channel 58 is airing it!

You began walking toward the exit. Frankie ran alongside you like a puppy.

Y/N: It must be a mistake. I’m sure someone would have called us

Frankie: It’s not a mistake. I called the station. They’re airing it!

Y/N: Are you sure?

Frankie nodded.

VOLTAGE!

Y/N: What made him change his mind about blurring everyone’s face?

Frankie: Maybe he felt guilty.

Y/N: But I thought they wanted to show everyone watching the broadcast in the studio.

Frankie: Just call him.

You tried Ross four times, your freshly black-polished fingers dialing the number with uncontainable pep. But each time your call went straight to voice mail.