It was Monday morning.
Again.
Monday had a way of doing that—showing up relentlessly, unapologetically, like it owned the calendar and enjoyed rubbing it in. Jackson had once tried to quantify this feeling in a notebook: *Perceived Monday Density vs. Emotional Fatigue.* The data was inconclusive, mostly because Holt had drawn flames in the margins and written *Mondays slap actually* in aggressive marker.
And since their mom knew Jackson would have said something if he wasn't in on it, he was grounded right alongside Holt.
Collective punishment. The ancient curse of siblings, roommates, and—unfortunately—shared bodies.
But since it was morning, and grounding did not extend to truancy (thankfully), Jackson was walking to Monster High alone, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, backpack weighing heavier than usual. Not because of books—Jackson carried fewer of those these days, thanks to Holt's insistence that "knowledge is vibes"—but because guilt had mass, and it had apparently chosen today to sit squarely between his shoulder blades.
The sky above was the pale gray of something undecided. Not stormy, not sunny. Just… there. The kind of sky that suggested the universe hadn't finished loading yet.
A shadow zipped past him.
Draculaura flew overhead, parasol tucked neatly under one arm, boots not quite touching the air as she glided with effortless vampire grace. Her phone hovered in front of her, thumbs moving at a speed Jackson could only describe as supernatural. If texting were an Olympic sport, she'd have at least three gold medals and a sponsorship deal.
Jackson raised a hand in a small wave. A polite one. A socially acceptable one.
Draculaura did not notice.
She adjusted her parasol to block a stray beam of morning light, eyes never leaving her screen, and vanished down the street toward the school gates.
Jackson let his hand fall.
"Figures," he muttered, mostly to himself.
He adjusted his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose. Being grounded *and* half responsible for Holt's latest arson-adjacent incident was not exactly the fresh start he'd hoped for at Monster High. He'd told himself—very firmly—that this semester would be different. Less chaos. More control. Fewer fire extinguishers involved in social events.
But hey. It could be worse.
At least Holt hadn't burned down the entire school.
*Yet.*
The thought slithered through Jackson's mind like a particularly self-loathing snake, coiling tight around his ribs as he trudged up the cobweb-draped steps of Monster High. The front doors loomed ahead, massive and ornate, carved with gothic flourishes that suggested both prestige and the strong possibility of being cursed if you pulled the wrong handle.
Above him, the gargoyles perched along the eaves seemed to smirk knowingly.
"Oh, sure," Jackson grumbled internally. "Laugh it up. You don't have to share a body with a walking disaster who thinks fire is a personality trait."
*Correction,* Holt's voice chimed in, unhelpfully bright. *Fire is a lifestyle.*
Jackson closed his eyes for half a second. *Not now.*
*Always now,* Holt replied cheerfully.
Inside, the halls buzzed with the usual pre-class chaos. Lockers slammed open and shut in a syncopated rhythm. Voices overlapped in a constant hum of gossip, greetings, and last-minute homework panic.
Deuce slithered past with his snakes hissing a chorus of "good morning"s, each one slightly out of sync. Clawdeen stood near the stairs, passionately debating the merits of pumpkin spice versus blood orange lattes with a zombie who responded exclusively in groans that somehow still conveyed strong opinions. Somewhere down the hall, a werewolf argued with a mummy about whether full moons counted as a legitimate excuse for missing quizzes.
And near the lockers—because of course—Heath was attempting (and failing) to replicate Holt's signature eyebrow waggle.
Jackson spotted him immediately.
Heath stood in front of Frankie, posture leaned back just a little too confidently, one eyebrow twitching up and down like it had a mind of its own. Unfortunately, it appeared that mind had never received proper instructions.
"Sup," Heath said, voice cracking halfway through the word. He tried again. "Sup." Another crack.
Jackson ducked his head, half-relieved that Heath's flirting was so catastrophically bad it looped back around into something almost endearing. Almost.
"Jackie!"
Frankie's voice crackled with static as she waved, her stitches pulling into a bright, genuine smile. A small spark jumped from her fingers to the metal locker beside her with a quiet *pop*.
"You okay?" she asked as Jackson approached. "You look like someone replaced your lab notes with a *How to Arson for Beginners* manual."
Jackson choked.
The sound came out halfway between a cough and a squeak, which was not a noise he enjoyed making in public.
"Oh ghoul," he thought. *Did she know?*
"Uh. Yeah," he said aloud, way too quickly. "Just—uh—Heath's bonfire got a little… enthusiastic last night."
That was technically true. The best kind of lie.
Frankie nodded sagely, hands clasped behind her back. "Ah. The classic *flammable charisma* dilemma. Happens to the best of us." She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "Though, between us? Holt's got way better taste in pyrotechnics."
Jackson's glasses nearly slid off his nose.
*WHAT.*
His brain performed a hard reboot. Internal systems scrambled. Somewhere deep inside, Holt made a noise that could only be described as smug laughter filtered through a speaker dipped in gasoline.
*You're welcome,* Holt said.
Before Jackson could combust on the spot—and not in the cool, Holt-approved way—Frankie took a sudden double take, her eyes flicking back to him.
"Wait," she said slowly. "How do you know about Heath's bonfire?"
Jackson froze.
Oh ghoul.
Holt had *definitely* not briefed him on that detail.
Time to improvise.
For real this time.
"U-uh, well…" Jackson stammered, adjusting his glasses with fingers that suddenly felt like overcooked spaghetti. "Holt told me about it?"
Frankie blinked.
Then her neon-green eyes narrowed, just a fraction, in a way that made Jackson's stomach perform an Olympic-worthy dive.
"Holtzilla told *you*?" Her voice climbed an octave. "Since when do you two—" She paused, tilting her head as a rogue spark jumped between her neck bolts. "Wait. *Do* you two… talk?"
Jackson's brain short-circuited harder than Frankie's wiring during a thunderstorm.
Somewhere in the back of his skull, Holt's laughter echoed like a malfunctioning car alarm.
*Oh, this is just rich,* Holt crowed. *We're screwed, Jackie.*
Before Jackson could dig himself any deeper, Heath seemingly materialized beside them with all the grace of a flamingo on roller skates.
"You talk to DJ Holt, Jackie?!" Heath exclaimed. "Man, I owe Deuce souch money now—"
His voice cracked again, right on cue.
Frankie's grin widened.
Jackson's pulse roared in his ears louder than Holt's mixtapes. He was trapped between Heath's oblivious enthusiasm and Frankie's unnervingly perceptive stare—a horror scenario neither Stevenson nor his great-grandfather could've predicted.
"Uh," Jackson said eloquently. "Yeah. We… exchange lab notes sometimes?"
The lie tasted like expired potion ingredients.
Frankie raised an eyebrow. The stitched one with lightning-bolt thread arched higher than should have been physically possible.
"Lab notes," she repeated slowly.
"Super boring," Jackson rushed on. "All, uh, hypotheses and… control groups."
His hands flapped vaguely in the air, performing interpretive science.
Somewhere in their shared subconscious, Holt wheezed like a broken accordion.
Heath, blissfully unaware of the tension, threw an arm around Jackson's shoulders with a friendly clap that nearly dislodged his soul.
"Yo, Jackie, you gotta put in a good word for me with DJ Hyde!" Heath said. "Convince him I totally nailed his *ignite the night* wrist flick last weekend!"
He demonstrated enthusiastically, nearly smacking Frankie with his elbow.
The zombie by the lockers let out a groan that sounded suspiciously like secondhand embarrassment.
Frankie's fingers twitched—whether from the urge to facepalm or electrocute Heath, Jackson couldn't tell.
"Riiight," she drawled, stepping back just as the first bell screeched through the halls like a banshee with a megaphone. "Well, this has been educational. Catch you at Chemistry, Jackie."
She turned, walking away with a spring in her step.
"And Holt—" She glanced over her shoulder and winked. "Tell him I said *sparkle on*."
Jackson stood frozen.
The hallway slowly resumed its normal rhythm around him. Lockers closed. Students shuffled toward classrooms. Someone laughed in the distance.
He probably should do the same.
Eventually.
*Did you hear that?* Holt said, vibrating with energy. *Sparkle. On.*
*Do not make this weird,* Jackson hissed internally.
*Too late.*
Jackson exhaled, long and slow, and finally started toward his first class. His heart was beating faster than usual, and he hated that he couldn't tell where his anxiety ended and Holt's excitement began.
Grounded. Exposed. Almost caught.
Again.
And it was only Monday morning.
The universe, it seemed, was warming up.
And somewhere deep inside, where fire met logic and chaos shared space with careful thought, something was beginning to crackle—quietly, dangerously—like a spark waiting for oxygen.
Jackson's chemistry notebook was a crime against academia. The pages were singed at the edges—courtesy of Holt's *experimental enthusiasm*—and half the formulas dissolved into frantic doodles of flaming guitars. His scrawl tilted like a drunk skeleton, and Frankie, peering over his shoulder, let out a sympathetic hiss of static.
"Jackie," she said, tapping a screwdriver against her chin. "Is this supposed to be covalent bonds or… abstract art?"
Jackson blinked at his own handwriting. It *was* debatable.
Before he could defend his notes (or lack thereof), the classroom speakers crackled to life with the tinny opening chords of *Werewolves of London*. Jackson's spine stiffened. His pulse spiked like a lab rat's EKG.
*No. Not here. Not now—*