Jackson really wanted to assure Frankie, but he just didn't really know how to, on one hand, she was the first ghoul to accept him without hesitation, on the other hand, he didn't want to embarrass her further by making a scene—something Holt would've done without a second thought.
As if summoned by the mere thought, Holt's voice echoed in his skull: *"Oh, come on, Jackie-boy! Throw her a compliment! Something about her bolts looking extra sparkly today—ghouls eat that right up!*
Yeah,ignoring the fact that it was during class, he would never have the confidence to do that in a hundred years, Jackson shot Frankie a quick thumbs-up—and immediately regretted it when she smiled as sweetly as she did. The way her bolts flickered pink sent Holt's voice ricocheting through his skull again: *"Ohhhh, that's a sign, Jackie. You're doomed."*
The rest of Ghoulgebra dragged like a zombie through molasses. Jackson doodled equations in his notebook in his famously terrible handwriting when the bell rang.
Time for the Creepeteria.
He always switched places with Holt in the middle so he could also socialize before he began his turn in his classes.
Jackson Jekyll had perfected the art of slipping into the Creepeteria unnoticed—shoulders hunched, tray clutched tight, eyes darting for the emptiest corner. Today's special? Brain freeze chili and swamp juice. He grimaced as a glob of something gelatinous slid off his fork.
"Hey Jackson, my favorite Cuz!" Heath Burns' voice cut through the Creepeteria chatter like a flamethrower through dry paper. Jackson flinched—bad idea. His swamp juice sloshed over the tray, narrowly missing his sweater vest.
Again.
"Come on, the rest of the gang is waiting man!" Heath grinned, slinging an arm around Jackson's shoulders—which was basically like hugging a live wire. Jackson could already feel the sweat pricking at his temples. Bad. Very bad. Heat was one of Holt's triggers, and his cousin was practically a walking furnace.
"Uh, yeah. Just—give me a sec," Jackson muttered, twisting away to adjust his glasses like they'd suddenly fogged up. The cafeteria's fluorescent swamp lights flickered overhead, casting Heath's shadow long and jagged across the tile.
But he managed to walk over to the usual table with the gang:
- Frankie Stein
- Draculaura
- Clawdeen Wolf
- Clawd Wolf
- Cleo de Nile
- Deuce Gorgon
- Ghoulia Yelps
- Lagoona Blue
- Gillington Webber
All of them already there as always, already chatting away, but Jackson couldn't help noticing Frankie's quick glance up at him—those neon green eyes flickering with something that made his stomach do a backflip worthy of a zombie gymnast.
"Yo Jackie, you gonna sit or what?" Deuce nudged the empty chair next to him with his snakes, one of which was already stealing a meatball from Cleo's plate as Heath sat on the other side of the table.
"Yep, yep, yep, yep, just got a bit lost in though again." He halfway lied.
I mean, if you had to have someone else in tour head at all times wouldn't you be 'lost in though' a lot too?
The meatball thief—Deuce's third snake from the left—had barely slithered back into position when Cleo flicked her golden bracelets with deliberate clatter. "Enough about stolen appetizers. The Blood Moon Ball is in *exactly* thirty nights, darlings," she announced, as if decreeing a royal edict.
"And unlike *some* pharaohs, I intend to make this year's Blood Moon Ball legendary." The table erupted into overlapping chatter, drowned out only when Heath accidentally inhaled a marshmallow and coughed up a puff of smoke.
Jackson's fingers twitched against his tray as Cleo's proclamation about the Blood Moon Ball sent the table into chaos. He mentally calculated the minutes until the halfway point of lunch—12 minutes and 42 seconds until he could safely bolt for the library without arousing suspicion.
Too early, and Deuce would drag him into another casketball debate; too late, and he risked Holt's spontaneous combustion via Heath's flaming marshmallow breath.
"Leg-end-ary," Heath coughed between marshmallow induced smoke rings, slinging an arm around Jackson's shoulders—a move that instantly spiked Jackson's internal temperature gauge by approximately *way too many degrees.* "Which means *no normie-approved slow dances,* Jackie. We're talking pyrotechnics, glow-in-the-dark fangs, and—"
"*And* a dress code that doesn't involve accidentally setting people on fire," Clawdeen cut in, side-eyeing Heath's smoldering sleeves.
Jackson's grip on his tray tightened as the cafeteria speakers crackled with the opening chords of *Spine-Tinglers' Greatest Hits.* Exactly 7.3 decibels below Holt's transformation threshold—Jackson knew, because he'd measured it.
Twice.
"Ooooh, it's going to be souch fun!"
"Exactly, you already know me and my dear Deucey are going to be the stars of the show!" Cleo declared, tossing her braids with a clatter of golden beads—one of which bonked Heath directly between the eyes. Jackson's knee bounced under the table as he watched the clock's second hand lurch forward like a zombie on tranquilizers. Eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds until library asylum.
And the barely used bathroom in there so he could change into Holt.
Frankie's fingers sparked absently against her fork as she leaned in. "So what's the ghoul drill for decor? Glow-in-the-dark spiderwebs or *actual* spiderwebs?" The table erupted in overlapping suggestions—Lagoona's aquatic bioluminescence pitch drowned out by Heath's enthusiastic proposal involving flamethrowers and a tiki bar.
Jackson's knee bounced under the table, his internal clock synced to the cafeteria's flickering swamp-light fluorescents. Twelve minutes. Eleven. Ten. He'd timed this routine perfectly last week—slip out at 12:37 PM sharp, duck into the library's mildew-scented bathroom, and let Holt take the afternoon shift before anyone noticed anything.
Cleo snapped her fingers—an actual golden *click*—halting the debate. "The *only* acceptable theme is 'Pharaoh's Curse Chic.' Cobra-shaped strobe lights, cursed amulets as party favors, and *absolutely no*"—she glared at Heath—"flammable décor." Jackson's knee-jerk nod nearly sent his glasses sliding off his nose.
Nine minutes left.
His internal thermometer ticked up another degree when Heath's elbow nudged his ribs—hard. "C'mon, Jackie, you in or what?" Jackson blinked down at his swamp juice, watching the bubbles rise like tiny green ghosts escaping a failed exorcism. Eight minutes. Seven.
"Come on, some ghoul or Manster has to have caught your eye at this point," Heath pressed, squeezing Jackson's shoulder with enough force to make his glasses fog up from nervous sweat.
Six minutes.
Jackson swallowed hard, watching the cafeteria's ancient pendulum clock swing like a hypnotist's pocket watch. Five minutes. Four. The chatter about corsages and cursed punch bowls blurred into static as he calculated—if he left *now*, he could take the long route past the swamp exhibits and still make it to the library before Heath's body heat or Cleo's impromptu DJ plans triggered Holt's emergence.
"Jackie, you're sweating like a gargoyle in a tanning bed," Deuce remarked, sliding a napkin across the table. Jackson wiped his forehead, praying the overhead speakers wouldn't burst into some cursed pop anthem. Across the table, Frankie absently twisted a loose bolt on her wrist—*click-click-click*—the sound syncing with his racing pulse.
Three minutes.
"O-oh really I hadn't noticed, I'll go check on it in the bathroom," Jackson stammered, already sliding out of the bench with the grace of a startled zombie. The cafeteria's fluorescent swamp-lights flickered ominously as he wove between tables—past Manny Taur's impromptu arm-wrestling match, around Abbey Bominable's ice sculpture centerpiece melting into Lagoona's lap. Every burst of laughter from the normie exchange students sounded like a potential bass drop waiting to wreck his secret identity.
The library bathroom's "Out of Order (Literally—Poltergeist Incident 10/3)" sign swung under its own power as Jackson barricaded himself inside. He yanked off his glasses, pressing his forehead against the cracked mirror. "Okay. Okay. Just need to—" His fingers trembled against the ancient iPod nano duct-taped behind the toilet paper dispenser. One press of play on his "Holt Hyde Emergency Transformation Mix" (Track 1: "High Voltage" by AC/DC) and—
Blackout.
------
Holt Hyde blinked awake—not with the groggy disorientation of sleep, but with the electric clarity of a switchblade flicking open. The bathroom tiles smelled like industrial cleaner and someone's failed attempt at summoning a poltergeist (note to self: check the Ouija board graffiti later). His reflection grinned back at him, all sharp edges and smudged eyeliner where Jackson's fretting had been seconds ago. "Classic Jackie," Holt muttered, rolling his shoulders until his vertebrae popped like bubble wrap.
But he was hungry, and the Creepeteria was still open so Holt Hyde didn't waste time lingering in the bathroom—not when there were ghouls to charm and marshmallows to steal. He shoved the emergency iBrick back into its hiding spot and kicked open the stall door with enough force to rattle the poltergeist graffiti.
Holt Hyde strolled through the hallways of Monster High like he owned the place—which, in his mind, he kind of did. The fluorescent swamp-lights flickered in time with his footsteps, casting long shadows that slithered ahead of him like eager groupies.
Holt Hyde swaggered into the Creepeteria like a rockstar entering a sold-out venue—which, given the way heads turned and whispers hissed through fangs and forked tongues, might as well have been true. The fluorescent swamp-lights pulsed in time with his steps, casting his shadow long and jagged against the cobweb-chandeliers.
"DJ Hyde! My flame frome another name!" Ah, Heath, his and Jackson's cousin (not that he knew Holt was also his cousin. Which, thinking about it now, how did he not know? Sure he only moved here to New Salem a little over a month ago but still, no body in their family told him?) from the table Jackson eas just at.
Holt grinned, sliding into the seat Jackson had just vacated like he owned it—which, technically, he sort of did.
Shared body and all that.
"Hey everybody!" Holt Hyde's louder tone and personality pierced through the Creepeteria's chatter, causing several heads to turn. Heath's grin widened—Jackson had been so subdued earlier.
Holt leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs like a dare. "So, what'd I miss?"
As if he didn't already know.