Oh, wait, one more thing about me…For those of you who have been waiting weeks (okay months) for a letter back from me you’re in luck. I have been sending out responses by the hundreds.  See that joy? It comes from reading your glittery letters, looking at your photos, and hearing how much you love to read.

Which is why I am pleased to announce that MY LITTLE PHONY arrives on Tuesday, August 3rd, but you can get a sneak peek by visiting the Clique blog at www.jointheclique.com. They’ve already posted the first 20 pages! And this Friday, 7/30, they’ll be sharing a final snippet that takes you . . . (ehmagawd!) all the way to page 27! Check out the Clique blog at www.jointheclique.com/cliqueblog every Tuesday and Friday for ah-mazing Clique stuff you’ll luh-v, like The Clique Word of the Day, The State of the Union, and musings on book themes, fashion, and the Pretty Committee (ah-bviously).

I’m off to get a fro-yo.

SHOUT OUT TO: Marilynn for taking this jubilant photo of me and for all her help with the mail. And SHOUT OUT to ME because it’s my birthday tomorrow. Oh, wait, did I already mention that?

TTYW,

Lisi XXXX

The Clique find of they day – The PC tweets links to the latest Massie-approved fashions.

The *cuhyute Clique item of the day – Kuh-laire posts links to her fave pics of ah-dorable puppies and more.

RT the look for less – Fans post links to ah-mazing deals on Massie ah-pproved fashion finds (RT the look for less for Kristen!)

Hawt or Nawt? – The Clique tweets the latest trends, and you decide if their hawt or nawt!

Follow @TheClique on Twitter at www.twitter.com/theclique for all of the above, plus the latest Clique news, and more! Tah-weet! Tah-weet!

Sign up and cheer up. It works.

SHOUT OUT TO: Kenna!  To answer your question: If I could wear anything to a concert (assuming I am not on stage) it would be super comfy shoes (sneakers only!) skinny jeans to avoid dragging my boot cuts through someone’s spilled soda, a tee shirt, a hoodie, and gloss. I would stuff my pockets to avoid bringing a purse. When I’m at a concert I want to feel free and comfortable. Heels be dammed. Have fun at the Justin Bieber concert tonight.

TTYW,

Lisi XXXXX

SHOUT OUT to Mimi who asked if I could post earlier so she doesn’t get there after midnight. This early (ish) post is for you.

SHOUT OUT to the sun. After seven depressing, overcast, gloomy weeks you finally returned. Summer has officially begun in Laguna Beach.

And now for the fourth and final chapter in my Sharing is Scaring series…. If I spill any more my publisher will start calling me BP.

In this installment: Melody is about to meet the hot boy across the street…he seems perfect from a distance. But most things do, don’t they?

CHAPTER THREE

YOU’VE GOT MALE
“We’re here!” Beau announced, beeping his horn repeatedly.
“Wakey, wakey!”
Melody peeled her ear off the cool window and opened her
eyes. At fi rst glance, the neighborhood seemed to be covered in
cotton. But her vision sharpened like a developing Polaroid as her
eyes adjusted to the hazy morning light.
The two moving trucks blocked access to their circular
driveway and obstructed the view of the house. All Melody could
make out was half of a wraparound porch and its requisite swing,
both of which appeared to be made of life-size Lincoln Logs.
It was an image Melody would never forget. Or was it the emo-
tions the image conjured — hope, excitement, and fear of the
unknown, all three tightly braided together, creating a fourth
emotion that was impossible to defi ne. She was getting a second
chance at
happiness, and it tickled like swallowing fifty fuzzy
caterpillars.

Beepbeepbeepbeep!
A husky mountain man wearing baggy jeans and a brown
puffy Carhartt vest nodded hello as he pulled the Carvers’
eggplant-colored Calvin Klein sectional from the truck.
“That’s enough honking, dear. It’s early!” Glory swatted her
husband playfully. “The neighbors are going to think we’re
lunatics.”
The smell of coffee breath and cardboard to-go cups made
Melody’s empty stomach lurch.
“Yeah, Dad,  stawp ,” Candace moaned, her head still resting
on her metallic Tory Burch bag. “You’re wakey-waking the only
cool person in Salem.”
Beau unclipped his seat belt and turned to face his daughter.
“And who might that be?”
“Meeee.” Candace stretched, her chest rising and then sinking
inside her light blue tank like a buoy on a choppy sea. She must
have fallen asleep on her angry, balled-up fi st, because her cheek
was imprinted with the heart from her new ring — the one her
teary best friends gave her as a going-away present.
Melody, desperate to dodge the
I-miss-my-friends
bullet
Candace would undoubtedly fi re when she noticed her cheek,
was the fi rst to open the door and step onto the winding street.
The rain had stopped and the sun was rising. A purplish red
layer of mist cloaked the neighborhood like a thin fuchsia scarf
over a lampshade. It cast a magical glow over Radcliffe Way.
Damp and glistening, the neighborhood smelled like earthworms
and wet grass.
“Get a whiff of that air, Melly.” Beau smacked his fl annel-
covered lungs and lifted his head in reverence to the tie-dyed sky.
“I know.” Melody hugged his corrugated abs. “I can breathe
better already,” she assured him, partly because she wanted him
to know she appreciated his sacrifi ce but mostly because she truly
could breathe more easily. It felt as if a sandbag had been lifted
from her chest.
“You gotta get out and smell this,” Beau insisted, tapping his
wife’s window with his gold initial ring.
Glory lifted her fi nger impatiently and then cocked her head
toward Candace, in the backseat, to show she was dealing with
another meltdown.
“Sorry.” Melody hugged her father again, this time with a
softer grip, a grip that begged
forgive me .
“For what? This is great!” He took a long, deep breath. “The
Carvers needed a change. We had LA dialed. It’s time for a new
challenge. Living is all about —”
“I wish I was dead!” Candace screamed from inside the SUV.
“There goes the only cool person in Salem,” Beau mumbled
under his breath.
Melody looked up at her father. The instant their eyes met,
they burst out laughing.
“All right, who’s ready for a tour?” Glory opened the door.
The tip of her fur-lined hiking bootie lowered tentatively toward
the pavement as if testing the temperature of a bath.
Candace jumped out from the backseat. “First one upstairs
gets the big room!” she shouted, and then charged toward the
house. Her toothpick legs moved at an impressive clip, unencum-
bered by the Speedo tightness of her fashionably torn skinny jeans.
Melody shot her mother a quick
how’d-you-do-that?
look.
“I told her she could have my vintage Missoni jumpsuit if she

stopped complaining for the rest of the day,” Glory confessed,
gathering her auburn hair into an elegant ponytail and securing it
with a quick twist.
“With promises like that, you’ll be down to one sock by the
end of the week,” Beau teased.
“It’ll be worth it.” Glory smiled.
Melody giggled and then took off toward the house. She knew
Candace would beat her to the big room. But that’s not why she
was running. She was running because after so many years of
labored breathing, she fi nally could.
Bounding past the trucks, she nodded at the men struggling
with the couch. Then she leaped up the three wood steps to the
front door.
“No  way !” Melody gasped, stopping at the foot of the spa-
cious cabin. The walls had the same orange-hued Lincoln Logs as
the outside. So did the steps, the banister, the ceiling, and the rail-
ings. The only deviations were the stone fi replace and the walnut
fl oors. It was hardly what she was used to, considering they came
from a multitiered glass-and-concrete homage to ultramodern
design. But Melody had to admire her parents. They were cer-
tainly committed to this new outdoor-lifestyle thing.
“Behind you,” grunted a sweat-soaked mover trying to negoti-
ate the plump couch through the narrow doorway.
“Oops, sorry.” Melody giggled nervously, stepping aside.
To her right, a long bedroom spanned the entire length of the
house. Beau and Glory’s California king was already inside hold-
ing court, and the master bath was in the middle of a major face-
lift. A tinted sliding glass door opened onto a narrow lap pool
that was enclosed by an eight-foot-high Lincoln Log wall. The
indoor pool must have sealed the deal for Beau, who swam every

morning to burn off the calories his nightly swim might have
missed.
Overhead, in one of the remaining two bedrooms, Candace
was pacing and mumbling into her phone.
Across from her parents’ room was a cozy kitchen and dining
area. The Carvers’ sleek appliances, glass table, and eight black-
lacquered chairs looked futuristic compared to the rustic wood.
But Melody was sure the situation would be remedied as soon as
her mom and dad located the nearest design center.
“Help!” Candace called from upstairs.
“Huh?” Melody called back, peeking at the sunken living room
and its view of the wooded ravine out back.
“I’m dying!”
“Really?”  Melody bounded up the wooden staircase in the
middle of the cabin. She loved the way the uneven wood slabs felt
beneath her black Converse high-tops. Each one had its own
unique personality. It wasn’t a celebration of symmetry, cohesion,
and perfection, like Beverly Hills. It was the exact opposite. Every
log in the house had its own patterns and nicks. Each was unique.
None was perfect. Yet they all fi t together and supported a single
vision. Maybe it was a regional thing. Maybe all Salemites
(Salemonians? Salemers?) celebrated unique patterns and nicks.
And if  they  did, that meant the students at Merston High did too.
The possibility fi lled her with a burst of asthma-free hope that
propelled her up the steps, two at a time.
At the top, Melody unzipped her black hoodie and threw it
over the railing. The pits of her gray Hanes tee were soaked with
sweat, and her forehead was beading up.
“I’m dying. It’s so seriously  fuego .” Candace appeared from
the bedroom on the left wearing nothing but a black bra and
jeans. “Is it two hundred degrees in here, or am I going through
the change?”
“Candi.” Melody tossed her the hoodie. “Put this on!”
“Why?” she asked, casually inspecting her belly button. “Our
windows are limo-tinted. It’s not like anyone can see inside.”
“Um, how ’bout the
movers ?” Melody snapped.
Candace pressed the hoodie against her chest and then peered
over the railing. “This place is kinda weird, don’tcha think?” The
fl ush in her cheeks burned straight up to her aqua blue eyes, giv-
ing them an iridescent glow.
“This whole house is weird,” Melody whispered. “I kinda
love it.”
“That’s because
you’re  weird.” Candace whipped the hoodie
over the railing and sauntered into what must have been the big-
ger bedroom. A sassy mass of blond hair swung across her back
as if waving good-bye.
“Someone lose a top?” called one of the movers from down
below. The black garment was slumped over his shoulder like a
dead ferret.
“Um, yeah, sorry,” Melody answered. “You can just throw it
on the steps.” She hurried to the only remaining bedroom so he
wouldn’t think she was hitting on him.
She looked around the small rectangular space: log walls, low
ceiling with deep scratches that looked like claw marks, a tinted
mini window that revealed a view of the next-door neighbor’s
stone fence. The closet smelled like cedar when its sliding door
was opened. The temperature in the room must have been close
to fi ve hundred degrees. A real-estate listing would call it “cozy”
if the agent wasn’t afraid to lie.
“Nice coffi n,” Candace, still dressed in her bra, teased from
the doorway.
“Nice
try ,” Melody countered. “I still don’t want to move
back.”
“Fine.” Candace rolled her eyes. “Then at least let me make
you jealous. Check out my boudoir.”
Melody followed her sister past the cramped bathroom and into
a spacious, light-fi lled square. It had an alcove for a desk, three deep
closets, and an expansive tinted window overlooking Radcliffe Way.
They could have shared it and still had room for Candace’s ego.
“Cute,” Melody muttered, trying not to sound the least bit
envious. “Hey, wanna walk into town and get some bagels or
something? I’m starving.”
“Not until you admit that my room rocks and you’re jealous.”
Candace folded her arms across her chest.
“No way.”
Candace turned toward her window in protest. “Um, how
about
now ?” She blew a fog circle with her breath and then fi nger-
drew a heart inside.
Melody proceeded with caution. “Is this some kind of setup?”
“You wish,” Candace said, eyeing the bare-chested boy in the
garden across the street.
He was watering the yellow roses in front of a white cottage,
wielding the hose like a sword. Lean back muscles undulated
every time he thrust forward to joust. His worn jeans had slipped
just enough to reveal the elastic band on his striped boxers.
“Is that the gardener, or do you think he lives there?” Melody
asked.
“Lives there,” Candace said with certainty. “If he was a gar-
dener, he’d be tanned. Tie me.”
“Huh?”
Melody turned to fi nd her sister dressed in a purple, black, and
silver zigzagged Missoni jumpsuit, holding the halter straps
behind her head.
“How did you fi nd that?” Melody asked, tying a perfect bow.
“The wardrobe boxes are still on the truck.”
“I knew Mom would give it to me if I kept complaining, so I
snuck it in my bag before we left.”
“So all of that stuff in the car was an act?” Melody’s heart
began to trot.
“Pretty much.” Candace shrugged casually. “I’ll make friends
and meet guys wherever. Besides, I need to keep my grades up this
year if I want to get into a good college. And we all know that
wasn’t gonna happen senior year in Cali.”
Melody wasn’t sure whether she wanted to hug her sister or hit
her. But there wasn’t time for either.
Candace had already slipped on a pair of Glory’s silver plat-
form sandals and scuttled back to the window. “Now, who’s
ready to meet the neighbors?”
“Candace, don’t!” Melody begged, but her sister was already
struggling with the iron latch. Trying to tame Candace was like
trying to stop a moving roller coaster by waving your hands in
the air. It was an exhausting waste of time.
“Hey, Hot Stuff!” Candace shouted out the window, then
ducked below the ledge. The boy turned and looked up, sheltering his eyes from the sun.
Candace lifted her head and peeked. “Nope. Not interested,” she
muttered. “Too young. Four eyes. No tan. You can have him.”
Melody wanted to shout “I don’t need you to tell me who I can
and can’t  have !” But there was a shirtless boy with black-framed
glasses and a mop of brown hair staring at her. All she could do
was stare back and wonder what color his eyes were.

TO BE CONTINUED IN SEPTEMBER…

TTYW,

Lisi XXXX

LIFE’S A STITCH
The sun was finally up. Robins and sparrows were chirping
their usual morning playlists. Outside Frankie’s frosted bedroom
window, kids on bikes began ringing their bells and circling the
Radcliffe Way cul-de-sac. The neighborhood was awake. She could
finally blast Lady Gaga.
“I can see myself in the movies, with my picture in the city
lights . . .”
More than anything, Frankie wanted to bop her head to “The
Fame.” No. Wait. That wasn’t entirely true. What she  really
wanted to do was jump up on her metal bed, kick the fleece-
coated electromagnetic blankets to the polished concrete, swing
her hair, wave her arms, shake her booty,
and  bop her head to
“The Fame.” But disrupting the fl ow of electricity before the
charge was complete could lead to memory loss, fainting spells,
or even a coma. The plus side, however, was never needing to
plug in her iPod touch. As long as it was near Frankie’s body, the

device’s battery had more juice than Tropicana.
Luxuriating in her morning infusion, she lay supine with a
tangle of black and red wires clamped to her neck bolts. While
the last electric currents ricocheted through Frankie’s body, she
leafed through the latest issue of  Seventeen  magazine. Careful not
to smudge her hardening In the Navy nail polish, she searched the
models’ smooth, odd-colored necks for metal rivets, wondering
how they managed to “amp” without them.
As soon as Carmen Electra (the name she’d given the amp
machine, because its technical name was too hard to pronounce)
shut down, Frankie delighted in the itchy tingle of her thimble-
size neck bolts when they started to cool. Feeling invigorated, she
pressed her pert nose into the magazine and took a long sniff of
the enclosed Miss Dior Cherie perfume sample.
“You like?” she asked, waving it in front of the Glitterati. Five
white rats stood on their pink hind feet and scratched the glass
wall of their cage. A flurry of nontoxic multicolored glitter slid
off their backs like snow from an awning.
Frankie took one more sniff. “Me too.” She waved the folded
paper through the cold formaldehyde-laced air and got up to light
her vanilla-scented candles. The vinegary chemical odor of the
solution was seeping into her hair and dominating the fl oral notes
in her Pantene conditioner.
“Do I smell vanilla?” her dad asked as he rapped on the closed
door.
Frankie shut off her music. “Yesssss!” she trilled, ignoring his
pretending-to-be-annoyed tone — a tone he’d been using since
Frankie transformed his lab into a “Fab.” She heard it when she
glammed up the laboratory rats, began storing lip gloss and hair

accessories in his beakers, and glued Justin Bieber’s face to the
skeleton ( because, how voltage is that poster where he’s sitting on
the skateboard? ). But she knows her dad didn’t really mind. It
was her bedroom now too. And besides, if he really cared, he
wouldn’t refer to her as —
“How is Daddy’s perfect little girl?” Viktor Stein knocked
again and then opened the door. Frankie’s mother followed
Viktor
into the room.
Viktor was swinging a leather duffel and wearing a black Adi-
das tracksuit and his favorite brown UGG slippers with a hole in
one toe.
“Worn and old, just like Viv,” he’d say when Frankie made fun of
them, and then his wife would swat him on the arm. But Frankie
knew he was just joking, because Viveka was the type of woman you
wished was in a magazine just so you could stare at her violet-colored
eyes and shiny black hair without being called a stalker or a freak.
Her father, however, had more of an Arnold Schwarzenegger
thing going on, as if his chiseled features had been stretched to
cover his square head. People probably wanted to stare at him
too but were afraid of his six-foot-four frame and super-squinty
expression. But his squints didn’t mean he was angry. They meant
he was thinking. And being a mad scientist, he was always
thinking. . . .  At least that’s how Viveka explained it.
“Can we talk to you for a minute, sweetie?” Viveka asked in a
singsong way that mimicked the swooshing hem of her black
crepe sundress. Her voice was so delicate that people were shocked
when they heard it coming from a six-foot-tall woman.
Viv and Vik walked across the polished concrete fl oor holding
hands, a united front, as always. But this time, traces of concern

lay beneath their proud grins.
“Have a seat, dear.” Viveka gestured to the pillow-covered ruby-
red Moroccan chaise Frankie had ordered online from Ikea. In the
far corner of the Fab, along with her sticker-covered desk, her fl at-
screen Sony, and a rainbow of colorful wardrobes stuffed with
Internet buys, the lounge faced the only window in the room. Even
though that window had been frosted for privacy, it gave Frankie a
glimpse into the real world — or at least the promise of one.
Frankie padded across the fl uffy pink sheepskin path from her
bed to the lounge, silently fearing that her parents had seen her
latest charges from iTunes. Nervous, she pulled on the track of
fi ne black stitches that held her head in place.
“Don’t pull,” Viktor insisted, lowering himself onto the chaise.
The birch frame creaked in protest. “There’s nothing to be ner-
vous about. We just want to talk to you.” He placed the leather
duffel by his feet.
Viveka tapped the empty cushion beside her, then fussed with
her signature black muslin scarf. But Frankie, fearing a lecture on
the value of a dollar, tightened her silky black Harajuku Lovers
robe and chose to sit on the pink rug instead.
“What’s up?” she asked, smiling and trying to sound as if she
hadn’t just spent $59.99 for a season pass of
Gossip Girl .
“Change is in the air.” Viktor rubbed his hands together and
inhaled deeply, as if gearing up to tackle a hike up Mount Hood.
No more credit cards?  Frankie speculated with dread.
Viveka nodded and forced another smile, her dark purple
painted lips holding tight to each other. She looked at her hus-
band, urging him to continue, but he widened his dark eyes to
communicate that he didn’t know what to say

Frankie shifted uncomfortably on the rug. She had never seen
her parents at such a loss for words. She fast-forwarded through
her recent purchases, hoping to figure out which item had tipped
them over the edge.
Season pass of  Gossip Girl —  orange blossom
room spray  — striped Hot Sox with the cute toe holes  —  magazine
subscriptions for  Us Weekly
,  Seventeen ,  Teen Vogue
,  Cosmo-
Girl —  horoscope app  —  numerology app  —  dream interpreter
app  —  Morrocanoil hair de-frizzer  —  Current/Elliott
boyfriend
jeans . . .
Nothing too major. Still, the anticipation was making her neck
bolts spark.
“Relax, dear.” Viveka leaned forward and smoothed her hand
over Frankie’s long black hair. The soothing gesture stopped the
energy leak but did nothing for her insides. They were still pop-
ping and hissing like the Fourth of July. Her parents were the only
people Frankie knew. They were her best friends and mentors.
Disappointing them meant disappointing the entire world.
Viktor took another deep breath, then exhaled as he made his
announcement. “The summer is over. Your mother and I have to
go back to teaching science and anatomy at the university. We
can’t home school you anymore.” He jiggled his ankle restlessly.
“Huh?” Frankie knit her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.  What
can this possibly have to do with shopping?
Viveka placed an
I’ll-take-it-from-here
hand on Viktor’s knee,
then cleared her throat. “What your father is trying to say is that
you are fifteen days old. On each of those days, he implanted a
year’s worth of knowledge into your brain: math, science, history,
geography, languages, technology, art, music, movies, songs,
trends, expressions, social conventions, manners, emotional

depth, maturity, discipline, free will, muscle coordination, speech
coordination, sense recognition, depth perception, ambition, and
even a small appetite. You have it all!”
Frankie nodded her head, wondering when the shopping part
was coming.
“So, now that you’re a beautiful, smart teenage girl, you’re
ready for . . .” Viveka sniffed back a tear. She looked over at Vik-
tor, who nodded, urging her to continue. Licking her lips and
exhaling, she managed to work up one last smile, then —
Frankie sparked. This was taking longer than ground shipping.
Finally Viveka blurted, “Normie school.” She said it like
nor-mee .
“What’s ‘normie’?” Frankie asked, fearing the answer.
Is that
some kind of rehab program for shopoholics?
“A normie is someone with common physical traits,” Viktor
explained.
“Like . . .” Viveka picked up an issue of
Teen Vogue  from the
orange-lacquered side table and opened it to a random page.
“Like them.”
She tapped an H&M ad featuring three girls in bras and hot
pants — a blond, a brunette, and a redhead. They all had curly hair.
“Am I a normie?” Frankie asked, feeling just as proud as the
beaming models.
Viveka shook her head from side to side.
“Why? Because my hair is straight?” Frankie asked. This was
the most confusing lesson of all.
“No, not because your hair is straight,” Viktor said through a
frustrated smirk. “Because I built you.”
“Didn’t everyone’s parents ‘build’ them?” Frankie made air

quotes. “You know, technically speaking.”
Viveka raised a dark eyebrow. Her daughter had a point.
“Yes, but I built you in the literal way,” Viktor explained. “In this
lab. From perfect body parts that I made with my hands. I pro-
grammed your brain full of information, stitched you together, and
put bolts on the sides of your neck so you could get charged. You
have no real need for food, other than enjoyment. And, Frankie,
because you have no blood, well, your skin, it’s . . .
it’s  green .”
Frankie looked at her hands as if for the fi rst time. They were the
color of mint chocolate chip ice cream, just like the rest of her.
“I know,” she giggled. “Isn’t it voltage?”
“It  is .” Viktor chuckled. “That’s why you’re so special. No
other student at your new school was made like that. Just you.”
“You mean the school will have other people in it?” Frankie
looked around the Fab, the only room she’d ever truly known.
Viktor and Viveka nodded, guilt and trepidation wrinkling
their foreheads.
Frankie searched their moist eyes, wondering if this was really
happening. Were they really going to just cut her loose? Drop her in
a school full of curly-haired normies and expect her to fend for her-
self? Did they really have the heart to walk away from her education
so they could teach lecture halls full of perfect strangers instead?
Despite their quivering lips and salt-stained cheeks, it seemed
that they actually were. Suddenly, a feeling that could only be
measured on the Richter scale rumbled through Frankie’s belly. It
climbed up her chest, shot through her throat, and exploded right
out of her mouth:
“VOLTAGE!”

SHOUT OUT TO: Jenn good luck with your sand soccer tournament.

TTYW,

Lisi

XXX

I hope you liked the Monster High prologue I posted last week. Here is chapter one.

CHAPTER ONE

NEWFOUND

FABULOUSNESS

The fourteen-hour drive from Beverly Hills, California, to

Salem, Oregon, had been total Gitmo. It went from road trip to

guilt trip in less than a minute. And the torture didn’t let up for

nine hundred miles. Faking sleep was Melody Carver’s only

escape.

“Welcome to  bOre -egon,” her older sister mumbled as they

crossed the state line. “Or should I call it  snOre -egon? How about

abhOre -egon? Or maybe —”

“That’s enough, Candace!” her father snapped from the driver’s

seat of their new BMW diesel SUV. Green in both color and fuel

effi ciency, it was one of the many overtures her parents had taken

to show the locals that Beau and Glory Carver were more than

just great-looking wealthy transplants from the 90210.

The thirty-six preshipped UPS boxes fi lled with kayaks,

sailboards, fi shing poles, canteens, instructional wine-tasting

DVDs, organic trail mix, camping gear, bear traps, walkie-talkies,

crampons, ice picks, cobra hammers, adzes, skis, boots, poles,

snowboards, helmets, Burton outerwear, and fl annel underwear

were just a few more.

But Candace’s comments became even louder when it started to

rain. “Ahhhhhh, August in  pOre -egon!” Candace sniffed. “Ain’t it

grand?” An eye roll followed. Melody didn’t have to see it to know.

Still, she peeked out through barely opened lids to confi rm.

“Ugggggh!” Candace kicked the back of her mother’s seat

indignantly. Then she blew her nose and whipped the moist tissue

at Melody’s shoulder. Melody’s heart beat faster, but she man-

aged to hold still. It was easier than fi ghting back.

“I don’t get it,” Candace continued. “Melody survived fi fteen

years breathing smog. One more won’t kill her. She could wear a

mask. People could sign it, like they sign casts. Maybe it would

inspire a whole line of accessories for asthmatics. Like inhalers on

necklaces and —”

“Enough, Candi.” Glory sighed, obviously exhausted from the

monthlong debate.

“But next September I’ll be in college,” Candace pressed, not

used to losing an argument. She was blond, perfectly proportioned,

and used to getting what she wanted. “You couldn’t wait one more

year to move?”

“This move will be good for all of us. It’s not just about your

sister’s asthma. Merston High is one of Oregon’s top schools.

Plus, it’s about connecting with nature and getting away from all

that Beverly Hills superfi ciality.”

Melody smiled to herself. Her father, Beau, was a celebrated

plastic surgeon, and her mother had been a personal shopper to

the stars. Superfi ciality was their master. They were its zombies.

Still, Melody appreciated her mother’s ongoing effort to keep

Candace from blaming her for the move. Even though it kind of

was  her fault.

In a family of genetically perfect human beings, Melody Carver

was an anomaly. A rarity. An oddity. Abnormal.

Beau had been blessed with Italian good looks despite his SoCal

roots. The fl icker in his black eyes was like sunshine on a lake.

His smile warmed like cashmere, and his perma-tan had done

zero damage to his forty-six-year-old skin. With just the right

stubble-to-hair-gel ratio, he had as many male patients as female

ones. Each one hoped to peel off the bandages and look ageless . . .

just like Beau.

Glory was forty-two but, thanks to her husband, her blemish-

free skin had been nipped and tucked long before she needed the

procedures. She seemed to have one pedicured foot off the human

development chart and into the next stage of evolution — a stage

that defi ed gravity and ceased to age her past thirty-four. With

wavy shoulder-length auburn hair, aqua blue eyes, and lips so

naturally puffed they needed no collagen, Glory could have

modeled had she not been so petite. Everyone said so. At any rate,

she swore personal shopping always would have been her career

choice,

even if  Beau had given her calf extensions.

Lucky Candace was a combination of both her parents. Like an

alpha predator, she had fi lled up on the good stuff, leaving scraps

for the next offspring in line. While the petite frame she inherited

from her mother hurt her potential modeling career, it did won-

ders for her wardrobe, which was bursting with hand-me-downs

that included everything from Gap to Gucci (but mostly Gucci).

She had Glory’s blue-green eyes and Beau’s sunny sparkle, Beau’s

tan and Glory’s airbrushed complexion. Her cheekbones ascended

like marble banisters. And her long hair, which happily assumed

the texture of straight or wavy, was the color of butter drizzled

with melted toffee. Candi’s friends (and their mothers) would snap

photos of her square jaw, strong chin, or straight nose and give

them to Beau with the hopes that his hands could work the same

miracles his DNA once did. And, of course, they did.

Even with Melody.

Convinced the wrong family had taken her home from the hos-

pital, Melody placed little value on physical appearance. What was

the point? Her chin was scant, her teeth were fanglike, and her hair

was a fl at black. No highlights. No lowlights. No butter or toffee

drizzle. Just fl at black. Her eyes, while fully functional, were as

steel gray and narrow as a skeptical cat’s. Not that anyone noticed

her eyes. Her nose took center stage. Composed of two bumps and

a sharp drop-off, it looked like a camel in downward-facing dog.

Not that it mattered. As far as Melody was concerned, the ability

to sing was her best asset. Music teachers had gushed over her

pitch-perfect voice. Clear, angelic, and haunting, it had a mesmer-

izing effect on everyone who heard it, and teary audiences would

spring to their feet after every recital. Unfortunately, by the time she

turned eight, asthma had taken center stage and stolen the show.

Once Melody started middle school, Beau offered to operate.

But Melody refused. A new nose wouldn’t cure her asthma, so

why bother? All she had to do was hold out until high school,

and things would change. Girls would be less superfi cial. Boys

would be more mature. And academia would reign supreme.

Ha!

Things got worse when Melody started at Beverly Hills High.

Girls called her Smellody because of her giant nose — and boys

didn’t call her anything at all. They didn’t even look at her. By

Thanksgiving she was practically invisible. If it weren’t for her

incessant wheezing and inhaler sucking, no one would have

known she was alive.

Beau couldn’t stand to see his daughter — who was “full of

symmetric potential” — suffer any further. That Christmas, he

told Melody that Santa got a new form of rhinoplasty approved,

promising to open up airways and alleviate asthma. Maybe she’d

be able to sing again.

“How wonderful!” Glory placed her small hands together in

prayer and then lifted her eyes toward the skylight in gratitude.

“No more Rudolph the big-nosed reindeer,” Candace joked.

“This is about her health, not her looks, Candace,” scolded

Beau, obviously trying to meet Melody halfway.

“Wow! Amazing.” Melody hugged her father in thanks, even

though she wasn’t sure noses had anything to do with restricted

bronchi. But pretending to believe his explanation gave her

some

hope. And it was easier than admitting that her family was embar-

rassed by her face.

Over Christmas break, Melody underwent the surgery. She

woke up to fi nd she had a thin, pert Jessica Biel nose, and dental

veneers instead of almost-fangs. By the end of the recovery period,

she had lost fi ve pounds and gained access to her mother’s Gap to

Gucci (but mostly Gucci) hand-me-downs. Unfortunately, she

still couldn’t sing.

Back at Beverly Hills High, the girls were welcoming, the boys

were gawking, and hummingbirds seemed to fl y a little closer. She

found a level of acceptance she had never dreamed possible.

But none of this newfound fabulousness made Melody any

happier. Instead of fl aunting and fl irting, she spent her free time

buried under the covers feeling like her sister’s metallic Tory

Burch tote — beautiful and shiny on the surface but a terrible

mess on the inside.

How dare they act nice just because I’m pretty!

I’m the same person I’ve always been!

By summer, Melody had completely withdrawn. She dressed in

baggy clothes, never brushed her hair, and accessorized solely by

clipping an inhaler to her belt loops.

During the Carvers’ annual Fourth of July barbecue (where she

used to sing the national anthem), Melody had a severe asthma

attack that landed her in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. In the

waiting room, Glory anxiously fl ipped through a travel magazine

and stopped at a lush photograph of Oregon, claiming she could

smell the fresh air just by looking at it. When Melody was released,

her parents told her they were moving. And for the fi rst time ever,

a smile spread across her perfectly symmetrical face.

“ Helloooooo, adOre-egon! ” she said to herself as the green

BMW forged ahead.

Then, lulled by the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers

and the tapping of falling rain, Melody drifted off to sleep.

This time for real.

XXX

SHOUT OUT to the ol’ USA. Happy Independence Day!

Have a great long weekend everyone.

TTYW,

Lisi

I am starting to get the green light (Pun intended? You decide) to leak some Monster High news. And since sharing is scaring I’m going to go for it, big time. (If you think I’m out of control with the monster puns wait until you see the chapter titles in this book. I can not be stopped!)

I know most of you have already seen the front cover…

But have you seen the back?

And what about the silhouettes of Frankie and Melody How awesome are they? They will be at the top of each girl’s chapter. I mean does it get any more festive than that? And now, in the name of sharing and caring I give you the Prologue.
PROLOGUE
Frankie Stein’s thick lashes fluttered open. Flashes of bright
white light strobed before her as she strained to focus, but her
eyelids were too heavy to lift all the way. The room went dark.
“Her cerebral cortex has been loaded,” announced a man, his
deep voice a blend of satisfaction and fatigue.
“Can she hear us?” asked a woman.
“Hear, see, understand, and identify more than four hundred
objects,” he replied, delighted. “If I continue filling her brain with
information, in two weeks she’ll have the intelligence and physi-
cal capabilities of a typical fifteen-year-old.” He paused. “Okay,
maybe a little smarter than that. But she’ll be fifteen.”
“Oh, Viktor, this is the happiest moment of my life.” The
woman sniffled. “She’s perfect.”
“I know.” He sniffed too. “Daddy’s perfect little girl.”
They took turns kissing Frankie’s forehead. One of them
smelled like chemicals, the other like sweet flowers. Together,
they smelled like love.

Frankie tried to open her eyes again. This time she could barely
make them flutter.
“She blinked!” the woman exclaimed. “She’s trying to look at
us! Frankie, I’m Viveka, your mommy. Can you see me?”
“She can’t,” Viktor said.
Frankie’s body tensed at the sound of those words. How could
someone else decide what she was capable of? It didn’t make
sense.
“Why not?” her mother seemed to ask for both of them.
“Her battery pack is almost drained. She needs a charge.”
“So charge her!”
Yeah, charge me! Charge me! Charge me!
More than anything, Frankie wanted to see these four hundred
objects. Wanted to study her parents’ faces while they identified
each object in their kind voices. Wanted to come to life and
explore the world she had just been born into. But she couldn’t
move.
“I can’t charge her until her bolts finish setting,” her father
explained.
Viveka started to cry, her gentle sobs no longer sounding
joyful.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Viktor cooed. “A few more hours and
she’ll be completely stable.”
“It’s not that.” Viveka inhaled sharply.
“Then what?”
“She’s so beautiful and full of potential, and it . . .” She sniffed
again. “It just breaks my heart that she’ll have to live . . .  you

know . . .  like us.”

“What’s wrong with  us ?” he asked. Yet something in his voice
suggested that he already knew.
She snickered. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Viv, things won’t be like this forever,” Viktor said. “Times
will change. You’ll see.”
“How? Who’s going to change them?”
“I don’t know. Someone will . . .  eventually.”
“Well, I hope we’re around to see it,” she said, sighing.
“We will be,” Viktor assured her. “We Steins tend to live long
lives.”
Viveka giggled softly.
Frankie desperately wanted to know what about these “times”
needed to “change.” But asking became unimaginable as her bat-
tery drained completely. Feeling both light-headed and impossi-
bly heavy at the same time, Frankie floated deeper into the
darkness, settling in a place where she could no longer hear the
people around her. She could not recall their conversation or
smell their flower- and chemical-scented necks.
All Frankie could do was hope that by the time she woke up,
that thing  Viveka wanted to be “around to see” would be there.
And if it wasn’t, that Frankie herself would have the strength to
get it for her.

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT ME TO POST CHAPTER ONE AND I’LL DO IT NEXT WEEK.

SHOUT OUT: HAPPY BIRTHDAY KENNA!!!

TTYW,

LISI

• I caught wind of an exciting rumor this morning and was waiting for confirmation before I spilled. And guess what. CONFIRMATION GRANTED. So stand back because I’m about to let loose like the volcano in Iceland. But instead of hot lava and ash, I’m spitting up the latest Clique gossip.

• A new Clique live-action series (that means real actors, not toons or avatars) is going into production. It will be written by Justine Bateman** and produced by the kind people who brought you “Wizards of Waverly Place.”
• I know what you’re going to ask next so let me answer those questions for you.

1) I have no info about casting but I will post as soon as I hear anything.

2) No idea when or where it will be shot.

3) I have no say in these decisions.

4) It will be available through online digital retailers only.

5) I have no clue how much it will cost to download. Remember I just got the news today.

6) My sources tell me that it will start with Massie as a senior at OCD but will mostly be about a new girl that shows up as a freshman.

7) I have no clue what her name will be.

8)  I still don’t have any info about casting.

9) The producer said the series doesn’t, “just begin where the books left off; it enhances, enriches and brings the characters, the story and the references into 2010.”

10) Nope. Still no word about casting.

As always I will keep you posted.

TTYW,

XXXX Lisi

**Pack your leg warmers, step inside your time machine, and turn the dial to 1982. When you arrive, ask any bitchin’ 80’s person who Justine Bateman is and they’ll tell you–”like, she totally plays Mallory Keaton on the show Family Ties.” But if  80s people freak you out get back in the time machine, set the dial for 2010, and Google Justine Bateman. That’s what I would do.

CHAPTER ONE

ZEN CENTER
MEDITATION POOL
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24TH
8:28 A.M.
“OHHMMMMM.”
Sitting in full lotus position on a silver blue yoga mat,
Charlie Deery’s chapsticked lips formed a perfect circle as
she chanted the sacred sound of the universe. But while her
mouth was saying om, her mind was screaming ommmhmuh-
gud. Scared had become the new sacred.
She opened one coffee-brown eye and peeked at Alpha
Academy’s holographic meditation yogi.
“No. . . . ohhhhmmmm. . . .Peeking. . . .ohmmmm”
chanted Tran, his lids still blissfully shut. “Keeeep breath-
ing . . . ohmmmmm.”
The chubby monk—or “Chunk”—wore a flowing saffron
robe and floated a few inches above the Zen Center’s medita-

tion pool. Conceived by Shira Brazille, head Alpha and cre-

ator of the academy’s @-shaped island, Tran’s purpose was to
teach the girls at the fiercely competitive high school how to
relax. And it was completely stressing Charlie out.
The meditation courtyard in the belly of the Buddha-
shaped Zen Center should have been a calming respite, but
after last night, Charlie wouldn’t have been able to find
peace at a Woodstock reunion. After one more deep inha-
lation of jasmine-scented air Charlie gave up.
“Sorry, Tran,” she sighed, her mahogany bangs blowing
up off her forehead. “I just can’t focus.”
Tran’s puffy cheeks expanded with his smile, slicing his
double chin into a quad. His eyes crinkled into crescents as
his hologram face flickered out for a split-second and then
reappeared. “Buddha says: The way is not in the sky. The
way is in the heart.”
“I don’t even know which way is up,” Charlie answered,
her voice shaken by confusion and stirred with exhaustion.
She had spent the night playing ref to an endless wrestling
match between her heart and her brain, and still, there was
no clear winner in sight.
She lifted her eyes to the patch of blue sky above the
meditation courtyard. But instead of neon-colored parrots
and personal airplanes, she saw a cloud-shaped Darwin and Allie,
each silently imploring her to choose a side; their side.
“You are still looking outside yourself for answers, ” he
said, patting his virtual heart. “Look in.”
“How?” Charlie asked, her sage-rage mounting.
Tran flickered again. He opened his mouth to speak, but she
didn’t want to hear it. The only thing Charlie wanted to ‘look
in’ was a pint of Tell Me What To Do Before I Go Nuts ice cream.
Was he ever going to give her some real advice? If not she’d be
better off with a Magic Eight Ball. At least that gave answers.
“Namaste,” she said, aiming her aPod at his muffin top,
and pushing end session. “Namaste,” he bowed and then dis-
integrated.
Now what?
She never should have let Shira connive her into break-
ing up with Darwin. She never should have convinced Allie
to date him so she could keep tabs on him. She never should
have confessed to Darwin that the dump was committed
under duress. And she never should have stood there when
he said he wanted her back. Because she had already prom-
ised him to Allie. But was he hers to promise?
Loyalty vs. Love? Head vs Heart? BFFs vs. BFs? The
answer was harder to come by than an iPad 4G.
Charlie unwound her legs from lotus position and reached
toward the stone bench where she’d set down her breakfast,
a frosted beaker full of a brain-stimulating protein shake spe-
cially concocted for invention majors. She placed the silver
straw beneath her lips and took an aggressive sip. Hopefully
the ice-cold green goo would cause brain freeze and grant her
a moment of much needed peace. But instead, all the green

tea, ginger, and honey blend left behind was the metal-
lic tinge of panic on her tongue and a mild stomach ache.
Double now what?
Charlie pulled out her aPod again began pacing the perime-
ter of the meditation courtyard like a caged circus lion. She had
one option left. Thumbing the screen she located the Alpha
Class Selector app and started to scroll through her options
to see what else she could add to her schedule. Overwhelmed
by the 322 current courses, Charlie decided to start with the
A’s and quickly selected Acrobatics, Animation, Arabic, and
Astronomy, bringing her total class periods up to eleven. Now
she wouldn’t have a spare second to fret about her life.
Time Class Location
7:30 a.m. BREAKFAST AND MOTIVATIONAL
LECTURE Pavilion
8:00 a.m.
(RE)INVENTION (IM’s ONLY)
Mentored lab hour for Alpha
experimentation, innovation, motivation.
Marie Curie
Invention
Laboratory
9:00 a.m.
3-D RENDERING & ANIMATION
Create, then replicate. Programs to
reproduce your inventions on a global
scale.
Melinda Gates
Computer Lab
9:40 a.m.
INTRO TO ARABIC
Prerequisite: Fluency in Spanish,
French, and German
Sculpture Garden
10:10 a.m.
PROTEIN BREAK
Nourish your mind and body with a
personalized smoothie. Drink fast. Your
next class starts in ten minutues.
Health Food Court
10:20 a.m.
THE ART OF EXCELLENCE
Betas work to live. Alphas live to work.
Map your professional goals with a life
coach and plot your path to the top.
Elizabeth I Lecture
Hall
11:30 a.m.
HONE IT: FOR WRITERS
Whether fact or fiction, when Alphas
write, the world reads.
The Fuselage
12:40 p.m.
LUNCH AND SYMPHONY
Digest lunch and life as you commune
with Beethoven, Brahms and
Tchaikovsky.
Pavilion
1:50 p.m.
GREENER PASTURES
Learn how to keep your carbon footprint
small while still wearing fabulous shoes.
Vertical Farm
2:55 p.m.
PHYSICS & QUANTUM LEAPS
An Alpha in motion stays in motion.
Advanced mechanical/philosophical
investigations in matter and mind.
Newton’s Apple
Orchard
4:10 p.m.
ALPHAS THROUGH HISTORY
Great women have always risen to the
top. Follow their example!
Golda Meir Globe
5:10 p.m.
FIGURE DRAWING
It’s all in the details. Train your eye and
your hands. The spirit will follow.
Sculpture Garden
6:00 p.m.
AERODYNAMIC TRAPEZE
Soar to the top of your potential—
Alphas dare to fly.
Achilles Track
8:00 p.m.
ASTRONOMY/ASTROLOGY
Harness the constellations and reach for
the stars.
Delphi Observatory

Setting her aPod down next to what remained of her
breakfast, Charlie took a few cautious steps toward the
reflection pool and leaned over until she could see herself
in the placid water. She shivered and wrapped her arms
around her bare shoulders, going over the situation for the
hundredth time. Her relationships were tied in more knots
than a cable-knit sweater. Wherever she pulled, she would
end up with the same result: her life unraveling.
Best friend or boyfriend? Who should she choose? Who
would she lose?
“Buddha? What should I do?” Charlie shouted up
through the cavity of the giant deity. Her low, sensible voice
struck her as screechy and desperate as it echoed off the
hammered-silver walls. “I need a sign. And I need it fast.”
She turned in a slow circle, like a satellite searching for a
signal. A bird passed over the open sky above—was that
the sign? Was it telling her to leave? Charlie bit her lip and
struggled to interpret it, but it was so vague.
Ping!
A text from Buddha! How very modern.
She ran to her aPod.
Allie: Where R U? Hash browns at brkfst!
A slow smile spread across her face.
“Thanks, Buddha,” Charlie whispered, stepping out into
the tropical sunshine of Alpha Island. She yanked the elas-
tic out of her ponytail and liberated her brown waves. She
had her answer. She finally knew what to do. The only ques-
tion left was: could she go through with it?

READ THE REST OCTOBER 2010…or if I feel like spilling more before then, which I probably will.

TTYW,

XXXX Lisi

TTYF,

Lisi

Thank you for all the Bee Bee prayers and well wishes. Turns out the hairy bullet needed four teeth pulled. It’s normal for small dogs.  And might end up being my fate if I don’t stop my extreme gum chewing. Which should slow down at least for the next few days because I am DONE! That’s right. I made my June 1st deadline for Monster High 2. But it wasn’t pretty. I am more pale than Edward.

As you know, I work my booty off. I care a ton about my characters and even more about you guys and what you’re getting out of my books. So when I come across a comment from Melissa, “I love your alpha books but i think they are a bit shallow, going on about beauty all the time…i think they could make some girls feel insecure.” I feel compelled to respond. Not because I am defensive. Everyone is entitled to their opinions. And I am glad Melissa shared hers. But because I want to make sure you understand the messages I am sending. If you do, and you still aren’t pleased, there’s nothing I can do about that. But if I can help by clarifying I’m certainly going to try. So Melissa, sit back and enjoy the following paragraphs. They’re for you. I hope this helps…

It’s interesting that you find the Alpha’s to be more “shallow” than the Clique. I purposely put the Alpha’s characters in uniforms so they wouldn’t talk about clothes. And I gave them talent so they wouldn’t judge one another based on beauty, popularity, or wardrobe. I really don’t know many moments where “beauty” is given any importance at all. To me this series is about the length people go for success. The backstabbing, lying, cheating, betrayal… The message is that integrity and friendship are more important than professional success. In fact, they are success. The Clique is a lot more shallow. At least on the surface.  After all it’s a full on label-dropper. But the Pretty Committee’s obsession with money, designers, and beauty isn’t there because I think those things are important or because I am trying to educate you in fashion. Quite the opposite my friends. I am trying to show you how ridiculous I think it is.

The Clique is about the lengths people go to get accepted. Alphas is about the things we do for success. And Monster High is about the things we do to conform. How we suppress the things that make us different, instead of celebrating them, so we can be just like everyone else. So to all the girls who feel “insecure” after reading my books, I am truly sorry. My goal is to empower. I choose to do it by showing you the wrong way to live. Because if I wrote books about a bunch of confident, no-drama, go-getters who always got what they wanted without stabbing their BFFs in the back, while wearing the same outfits five days in a row, no one would read them.  I wouldn’t even want to write them. Suh-noozer. The bad examples can teach us how to be good just as well as the good examples. And they’re more fun to read about.

SHOUT OUT to Melissa. Thanks for asking. Don’t ever let a bunch of characters make you feel insecure. If anything they should be the one’s feeling insecure. They can’t think for themselves. They don’t get dressed by themselves. They don’t even eat by themselves. They rely on me for everything. Without me they are nothing. You on the other hand don’t need anyone for those things. See, you are way ahead of the game.

TTYW,

Lisi