Monster High: A New Start (Male Reader)

Monster Mash

Y/N: Uh, hey. H-Happy birthday.

Clawdeen said nothing. Instead, she hugged you. You went tense in surpise.

Clawdeen: I am still mad at you, but Cleo and La told me everything. I'm sorry.

She pulled away and smiled.

Clawdeen: I'm happy that you came.

You let out a sigh of relief. You thought this would be much worse. But you were glad to have your friend back.

Y/N: Well, it might not be exactly as you planned, but we did the best with what we had. Mostly what Cleo had. I never threw a party before.

Clawdeen: Wait, you helped set this up?

You nodded. You then rubbed the back of your neck.

Y/N: Even if it wasn't my fault with the whole uncensored interview thing, I still got you all in this mess. It was the least I could do.

Clawdeen hugged you again, which you returned this time. You then grabbed her by the shoulders.

Y/N: Now, let's party.
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The golden tent cast a royal glow on the forty-plus guests as DJ Duhman spun things sweaty.

His gear consisted of an iPod touch, a thin black wire, a headset microphone, and refrigerator-sized speakers. His “booth”, a bronze-plated, hieroglyphic-covered tomb with black-lacquered lion’s paws for legs, had been relegated to the far corner of the tent because Cleo swore he smelled like bananas. And apparently Clawdeen couldn’t stand bananas.

I hope she likes Egyptian-themed parties and Middle Eastern munchies….

Duhman: We have another contest coming up in T-minus five minutes.

Rainbow-colored dreadlocks hung slack around his pasty face like deflated balloons as he scrolled through his playlist, fading out “The Time” and turning up Bruno Mars.

Cleo finger-pulled Deuce off the dance floor. He plodded behind her dutifully, like a Great Dane being walked by a child. Ten minutes with the exotic beauty and he was already wrapped, just like the jewel garland around her bangs, the gold silk around her legs, and the ruby-red strapless mini around her curves.

Despite Clawdeen’s arrival, the dance floor was still packed. You stopped by a table and took a look at the pictures of Clawdeen as a bald newborn, a thumb-sucking baby, a big-eared toddler, dressed up as a superhero, a tap dancer, a tool-belt-wearing tween. Each picture was more adorable than the next. At least, the photos had been adorable before the boys arrived.

But the pen that was once tied to the guestbook had been used to draw long fingernails on Clawdeen’s hands. Pointy teeth jutted from her mouth, and scribbles of hair covered her face.

Melody swallowed hard to avoid barfing up her baba ghanoush. How could she have let this happen?

Boys: Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!

They had moved on to the photo of Clawdeen at her middle school graduation. A guy in a pit-stained polo had drawn a full moon over her head and was now adding a squirrel hanging from her mouth.

Harriet: My pictures!

Clawdeen didn’t have to see the ink smudges on Colton Tate’s fingertips to know that he was responsible. He, along with Darren, Tucker, Rory, Nick, and Trevor, had been tormenting her ever since she joined their precious Merston High track team. She’d never put them on the invite list. Why were they even there? They blew spitballs in her hair, “accidentally” bumped into her, and even taped crude sketches of male anatomy to her locker.