Holt Hyde snapped his fingers in front of Heath's face—a crisp *click* that made his cousin's marshmallow-flavored smoke rings dissipate midair. "Earth to Pyro! You gonna share those"—he plucked a flaming marshmallow straight from Heath's fingertips—"or just let 'em go to waste?"
The sugar crust burned blue against Holt's palm before he popped it into his mouth with a wink at Frankie, whose bolts flickered pink despite herself. "Careful," she chided, nudging her swamp juice away from Heath's latest pyrotechnic experiment. "Last time you pulled that stunt, you set Clawdeen's tail extensions on fire."
"Relax, Boltzen," Holt drawled, kicking his boots onto the table—earning an eye roll from Cleo and an approving fist bump from Heath. "I'm all about controlled burns." He flexed his fingers, letting tiny embers dance between them like fireflies on espresso. "Speaking of"—he leaned forward, "again, what'd I miss?"
Holt Hyde drummed his fingers against the cafeteria table—one-two-three-four, perfectly in time with the muffled bassline pumping from the Creepeteria's haunted speakers. The ghouls and mansters launched into their recap with the enthusiasm of zombies dissecting fresh brains. "Dude, we *just* told Jackie about Cleo's Blood Moon Ball plans," Deuce said, one of his snakes flicking its tongue toward Holt's stolen marshmallow. "Thirty nights away, pharaoh-themed, no flammable decor—blah blah blah."
Holt's grin sharpened as he leaned back, the chair creaking dangerously. "Wow, riveting stuff," he deadpanned, snapping his fingers to summon a lick of flame from the table's candle centerpiece. It coiled around his wrist like a tamed serpent. "But let me guess—Jackie just nodded along like a nervous scarecrow and bolted for the library?"
Clawdeen snorted into her Frightening Fruit Punch. "More like evaporated. One minute he's there, the next—*poof*—gone with the swamp mist." She twirled a claw around her temple. "That boy's got more screws loose than Frankie's prototype arm."
Frankie's bolts sparked defensively, but Holt just laughed—a sound like gravel and guitar feedback. "Classic Jackie," he said, rolling his eyes. "Probably off measuring the exact decibel level of library silence or whatever." He flicked the stolen marshmallow into the air and caught it between his teeth, winking at Frankie as her neon stitches flared pink again. "But hey, at least *I* know how to have fun."
The table erupted into overlapping protests and laughter, but Holt barely heard them. His attention snagged on the cafeteria clock—its hands inching toward the witching hour of next period. Jackson's meticulous schedule would have him panicking right about now, but Holt?
Holt thrived on chaos.
Besides he got all the fun classes anyways.
If there was any bright side to sharing a body, it was that you could split things down the middle.
The fluorescent swamp-lights hummed like a chorus of disgruntled ghosts overhead as the bell screeched.
Oh well, time for Creepateria Baking.
Holt Hyde strode into the classroom—fashionably late (well almost, he didn't want both him and Jackson in detention), as always—with all the subtlety of a fire elemental at a paper convention. The fluorescent swamp-lights buzzed overhead, casting flickering shadows that seemed to bow in his presence. Creepateria Baking was, in Holt's expert opinion, the third best class Monster High had to offer. After all, what better way to spend an afternoon than combining pyromancy and pastry arts?
"DJ Hyde! My guy!" Heath Burns called out, waving a flaming spatula dangerously close to Draculaura's hair. The vampire ghoul hissed and ducked, nearly knocking over her bowl of coagulated blood substitute. Holt smirked—his cousin had all the subtlety of a Molotov cocktail in a morgue. He snatched the spatula mid-air, twirling it between his fingers like a baton before flipping it back at Heath handle-first. "Save the fireworks for the oven, Pyro. Unless you're volunteering to be tonight's soufflé?"
The class erupted into laughter as Chef Rotter lumbered over, his stitch-mouthed grimace barely visible beneath his towering toque blanche.
Soon class officially started, Chef Rotter began his lecture on "How to Bake Without Burning Down the School"—a lesson Heath Burns clearly needed. Holt lounged back in his chair, legs kicked up on the workstation, as the zombie chef droned on about temperature control.
Like clockwork, Cleo leaned over and hissed, "Put your feet down before I curse them into anchovies." Holt just grinned and wiggled his toes—extra obnoxiously.
Sure everyone knew Holt Hyde's love if music, but that doesn't mean he didn't have other hobbies like this, as he found out after his first class.
Besides all the fire would be too much for Jackson and he would turn into Holt anyways.
And then thier secret would be out.
And who knows what would happen after that.
*Remember the first class you had?* Jackson joked at the back of Holt's mind—his mental voice as crisp and annoying as the bell that was previously ringing overhead just a minute ago.
Holt Hyde licked powdered sugar off his thumb—streaked blue from Heath's "experimental" food dye—as Chef Rotter's zombified groans filled the Creepateria.
Holt exhaled a puff of cinnamon scented smoke—courtesy of Heath's latest "culinary innovation".
"Now Heath, no need to be so messy!" Draculaura yelled behind Holt. Holt chuckled, leaning against the counter as Heath Burns dramatically clutched his chest like he'd been stabbed—which, considering the flaming marshmallow still stuck to his apron, wasn't entirely inaccurate. Holt flicked a sugar cube into the air and caught it between his teeth, grinning as Draculaura rolled her dark eyes.
------
The rest of the day at Monster High was something like this for Holt with Jackson being the voice in the back of his head.
Soon the final bell rang—or rather, the final *ghoul*—but Holt wasn't ready to let the day end. Jackson's panicked whispers in his skull ("*We have to go home before someone notices—*") were drowned out by Heath Burns coming up to halfway tackle him.
"DJ Hyde my guy, it's friday, you know what that means?" Heath's grin was practically splitting his face, flames flickering at the corners of his mouth like he'd swallowed a lit match. Holt felt Jackson's internal groan reverberate through their skull—*Not the party. Not the stupid normie mashing, monster shocking, absolutely going to get us expelled party*—but Holt drowned him out with a sharp mental shove and slung an arm around Heath's shoulders.
"Oh, I know *exactly* what it means," Holt drawled, twisting the silver ring on his finger—Jackson's ring, technically, not that he'd ever admit to caring about the dorky thing. Somewhere in the back of their skull, Jackson was mentally recoiling at the thought of Heath's infamous "Boil & Broil" parties, where fire elementals dared each other to swallow lit sparklers and zombie girls groaned in disapproval. Holt drowned him out by cranking up the mental static, like a radio dial stuck between stations.
The hallway flickered with the last of the afternoon sunbeams slanting through the coffin-shaped windows, casting jagged shadows that made the lockers look like they were breathing. Holt caught his reflection in one—smirking, effortless, *alive* in a way Jackson never let himself be—and winked. Jackson's answering groan was almost audible. *"We have homework,"* he whined internally.
Holt rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.
Even if Jackson had a point.
*"We'll do it before the party, it doesn't even start before 10:00 PM"*
Yeah, while Holt wouldn't normally care about homework, his half from the classes he took were actually kind of fun.
Analyzing a great song for instance (which was the only thing that got him to act as dorky as Jackson) which he always wrote in his surprisingly good handwriting.
"Anyways I got to get home Heath, gotta prepare you know!"
He was already prepared.
But Holt already had the reputation of that lazy student who somehow has all A's.
While Jackson already had the reputation of that nerdy student who always had his nose buried in a book.
That was another thing, when you can only be half of your true self, you end up being even less of that to others.
"Yeah I know it man, just tell me if ya need any help man!" Heath called out as he went to his home. Holt sighed as he went to the same direction Jackson would've went, except Holt had a bit more pep in his step.
That was another thing.
Him and Draculaura lived on the same road.
But as far as anyone knew only Jackson and Draculaura lived on the same road.
They were awkwardly introduced to each other by thier parents a week before they started thier Fleshman Year.
So Holt had to find a place so he could turn off his music to turn back into Jackson just in case Draculaura went straight home.
If she saw Holt she'd ask where he lived, and he'd have to either lie to Draculaura or admit to living in Jackson's house, which would raise too many questions. Not that Holt *minded* lying—honesty was Jackson's neurotic hang up—but keeping track of thier cover stories was already exhausting. The mental effort of remembering who knew what version of his fake backstory made his skull ache.
Better safe than sorry after all, as the normies would say.
Soon thier usual alleyway to change in came up, Holt sighed, going sown the alleyway.
He popped his head out to make sure no one was around to see him or Jackson. Just to be safe he went a bit deeper into the alleyway, just to make sure no one would see Jackson just appearing out of thin air, literally.
Holt pulled out his headphones and paused his music, expecting to feel the familiar tug of Jackson clawing his way back to control.
And then, as usual, he was at the back of Jackson's mind once more.