Alphas #1

by Lisi Harrison

  Finally free to react, the Pavilion erupted in a swirl of commentary.

  Over the din, Thalia called, “Charlie, leaving before dismissal is against the rules.” But Charlie kept running, forcing the muse to chase after her.

  “Maybe she’ll have to kick herself out,” Triple joked, stretching her funny bone.

  Allie nodded grimly and picked up her phone. If Charlie was the spy, then her time here was limited. She couldn’t be sure why she hadn’t been the first to go, but surely she would be the next. And she wasn’t going to spend another night missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She positioned her thumbs over the aPod.

  Allie J: I started a new song: No one kept Romeo and Juliet apart/Imagine if we changed the end and healed their heart? If you want to hear the rest, meet me tonight.

  She pressed SEND and imagined the message sailing toward Darwin on the wings of an air kiss. Almost immediately, her aPod buzzed in her hands.

  Darwin: Cant wait to hear it. C u l8r.

  And then it happened, her first shock of inspiration. The title of her memoir would be Carpe Darwin: The story of a girl who risked it all for love.

  All she needed now was a happy ending.

  18

  THEATER OF DIONYSUS

  HONE IT: FOR DANCERS

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7TH

  10:37 A.M.

  Skye danced in the middle of the drum circle, her feet siphoning the beat from the all glass floor and distributing it to the rest of her body. Life pumped through her in a primal sort of way, transforming her from a skilled dancer into a wild creature of expression.

  Triple, Prue, and the other tightly wound buns stretched on the sidelines.

  “Skye, you can stop dancing,” Mimi announced. “Good work.”

  Padding over to the barre, Skye squeezed in beside the other dancers and began loosening her joints.

  “Any faster and you’d have traveled through time,” Triple joked, lifting a leg to her ear like it was a cell phone.

  The tight buns giggled.

  “Any thinner and you’d slip though,” Skye countered, not sure if what she said made sense. Not that she cared. She felt like a battery that had been recharged. All that moving around and physical freedom was just what she needed to shake the stress from the last few days. She felt clean. Clear. And ready to show Mimi what Westchester already knew.

  That Skye was a star.

  “Today we’re going to learn how to do attitude turns,” Mimi announced, the skirt on her bronze Lycra leo swinging with the same sultry swagger as her hips.

  Skye scrunched her nose. Attitude turns were so second grade.

  “I know you think you’ve had this turn mastered for years,” Mimi said to Skye’s nose. “But today I’m going to show you how to do it properly.” She clapped twice. “Andrea and Sleeves, you’re first.”

  No one moved.

  “Andrea!” Mimi shouted at Triple.

  “Oh,” Triple smacked her bird chest in feigned horror. “Sorry, I’m so used to everyone calling me Tr—”

  “And Sleeves,” Mimi snapped her fingers at Skye. “Take center.”

  “Ready.” Skye jazz-walked to the middle of the room, then rolled back her shoulders. Standing next to the model-dancer-actress felt like resting under a tree; Triple was tall, slender, and cast an enormous shadow. But could she give attitude?

  “Music on,” Mimi shouted.

  The tribal drums resumed. It was an odd music choice for a standard jazz move, and Skye loved it. The less conventional the better.

  “I want your best attitude turn. Move in a four-count even though the drums will be beating in an eight. This is all about control and grace. It’s about tuning out your surroundings, feeling the choreography, and honoring its integrity.”

  Skye snuck a peek at Tweety and Ophelia. They looked just as confused as she felt. This was borderline insane. What was the point of dancing to the wrong beat? No one would ever ask her to do that in real—

  “Five, six sev-uhn eight!” Mimi called. The drums beat a frenzied rendition of what sounded like the Ting Tings song “That’s Not My Name.”

  Skye crossed her leg, plied in fourth like she was about to do a pirouette, and stopped. She felt like she was attempting that childish game of rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time. The music was throwing her big-time.

  “Sleeves, silence your mind and keep going,” Mimi called.

  Skye tried to shut out the raging music and focused on her four-count. Cross one two three four… plié five six seven eight… clench butt two three four… lift leg …

  “Nice, Andrea, stay with it.”

  Suddenly, Skye lost count. Why did Mimi like Triple so much? The girl was a robot. Void of passion and—oops… Skye made the turn but landed too quickly. It reminded her of that time Robert Noble had tried to make out with her and kiss-missed. His lips had landed on her jaw and it had all been downhill from there.

  “Music slow to four!” Mimi commanded. “Girls, give me attitude in double time.”

  Skye picked up the pace. She was starting to feel it now… Cross leg… plié in fourth… clench butt… lift leg… and bring to attitude. Cross leg… plié in fourth… clench butt… lift leg… and bring to attitude.

  “Better, Sleeves,” Mimi called. Her words were like defibrillators, sending electric jolts to Skye’s heart.

  Cross leg… plié in fourth… clench butt… lift leg… and bring to attitude.

  “Nice energy!”

  Cross legplié in fourth… clench buttlift leg… and bringtoattitude.… Cross legplié in fourth… clench buttlift leg… and bringtoattitude.

  “A few more like that, Sleeves,” Mimi urged.

  Skye’s heart was shocked into euphoria. Triple had gotten one shout-out. She’d gotten three. Crosslegpliéinfourthclenchbuttliftlegandbringtoattitude. She had hit her stride. Crosslegpliéinfourthclenchbuttliftlegandbringtoattitude. Mimi had finally noticed her talent. Crosslegpliéinfourthclenchbuttliftlegandbringtoattitude. The thrill of it all made her turn faster and faster. Crosslegpliéinfourthclenchbuttliftlegandbringtoattitude. Skye snuck a peek at Triple, who was a step and a half behind. Mimi was bound to make Skye her favorite now. Maybe she’d even back a line of dance sleeves named for her favorite student who—Crosslegpliéinfourthclenchbuttliftlegand … Suddenly Skye’s knee buckled.

  “Ohmuhgud!”

  Skye rolled over on her ankle, slammed into a glass wall like a bug on a windshield, and slid into darkness.

  “Skye?”

  Skye opened one turquoise eye. She was lying in a cloud of white, the scent of chamomile tea tickled her throbbing nose. “Is that where I am?” she mumbled. “In heaven?”

  “It’s me, Thalia,” the muse said gently. “How is your ankle feeling?”

  Skye peered at her ankle. It was mummified with layers of gauze and bandages the color of drugstore pantyhose. Was she hallucinating, or was it really bigger than her thigh? Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “It hurts.” She sniffled. Her mouth tasted like a sweaty leotard. “Why does it hurt so much?”

  “‘If you had not suffered as you have, there would be no depth to you, no humility, no compassion.’” Thalia smiled from the edge of her bed. “Eckhart Tolle said that.”

  “Is he dead too?”

  “Just rest.” Thalia removed the tea and gently covered Skye’s elephant-ankle with the duvet. She tiptoed off, leaving Skye behind like she was a racehorse with a broken leg.

  Skye replayed the fragmented memory of dance class again and again, trying to make sense of it all… and finally came to the only logical conclusion. She’d been dancing well, really well, and Triple had gotten jealous because she wasn’t getting any Mimi-love and tripped her. That had to be it! It wasn’t like Skye could have just fallen like some amateur.

  “Okay, Skye. Ah-one-ah-two,” she mumbled. Summoning all her strength, she lifted her shaky hands overhead and batted at her mom’s ballet shoe like a kitten chas
ing a string, until it fell in her lap. With weak fingers, she began HAD No. 7: Destroy Triple…

  But before she could finish, her ankle began to throb, her head swirled, and darkness claimed her once more.

  The sun had set and something hard—a pen? A brush? The devil’s pitchfork?—was poking Skye’s spine. “Ow,” she groaned. It sounded more like “Arughoi.”

  She rolled onto her side with the grace of an eighty-year-old and reached behind her back. Her headache pounded in protest as she gripped the hard satin… Ohmuhgud!

  Skye shot straight up.

  “Ahhhhhh,” she moaned through the aftershocks of full-body pain, like a Hollywood heroine dislodging a knife from her own back. But this was far worse than a knife. It was the HADs shoe. And it was empty!

  Littered around her bed were seven HADs, like crumpled scraps from fortune cookies. Her ankle felt like Savion Glover was tap-dancing all over it, and her eyes were having trouble focusing. Maybe this was just a dream. Or—

  “Welcome to hell,” Triple Threat growled.

  —her biggest nightmare.

  Allie J stood beside Triple, hands on her hips like a disappointed parent. A bouquet of shell-pink peonies hung from her palm.

  “Hey,” Skye managed with an exaggerated take pity on me grogginess. She pulled her swollen ankle out from under the down comforter for added effect.

  “We came to check on you.” Triple’s light brown eyes bored into hers. She tapped her toe shoe and cleared her throat. “But I can see now that you don’t need my help.” She lifted the scrap of paper with HAD No. 7: Destroy Triple written on it. “In fact, I can see that you don’t want me around at all.”

  “No.” Skye tried to sit up. Owie! “It’s not like that.”

  “Is it like this?” Allie J held up a napkin. HAD No. 3: Crush Renee and Triple like chestnuts in a nutcracker.

  “You don’t get it!” Skye insisted, her head whirling, her mouth dry.

  “Oh, I get it,” Allie J insisted. “You’re the spy.”

  “Wait, what?” Suddenly the world snapped sharply into focus. “You think I’m the spy?” Skye screeched. “Charlie’s the spy—you said so yourself!”

  Triple waved the crumpled piece of paper like a victory flag. “Yeah, but she wasn’t the one who wrote ‘crush Renee’ and made it come true.” She sighed. “So I guess I’m next, huh? Can’t take the competition, can you?”

  Skye’s hand closed around her mom’s slipper, as if it could transport her to a fairy dance land where sugarplum fairies beat up girls named Triple Threat.

  “That’s a coincidence, not evidence.” A note of urgency had crept into her voice, and hot, familiar pricks of tears knocked at the backs of her eyes, seeking escape. She tilted back her head, hoping to send them back to wherever it was tears came from.

  “What does HAD even stand for? ‘Heartless Alpha Desires’?” Triple asked, folding her arms over her chest. The starless sky had reduced her to a dark silhouette, but her rage was unmistakable.

  “Hopes And Dreams,” Skye muttered softly, as if sudden movement might trigger an avalanche of tears.

  “You hope and dream of crushing your friends?” Allie J dropped the bouquet on the floor.

  “Come on, A. J.,” Skye pleaded, hoping a spontaneous nickname might endear the writer to her. “How could I rat you out to Shira when I’m just as guilty?”

  Allie J considered this.

  “Well, you obviously want me gone,” Triple snapped.

  “I may want you gone, but I’d never do anything about it,” Skye blurted.

  Allie J giggled.

  Skye giggled too. “That came out wrong. I mean, these HADs are like a diary for me. That’s all. I write down my thoughts and then get on with my life. I don’t mean them.”

  “‘Heartless Alpha Diary.’” Triple tossed her hair extensions over her shoulder self-righteously.

  The fight drained out of Skye. She felt like the victim in the ballet Giselle who was forced to dance until she died. “I admit it, okay. I get jealous sometimes. I was the best dancer in my hometown and now I’m—”

  “Not,” Triple said flatly.

  “I’m not the spy, okay? No one saw these HADs until now. I promise.”

  Triple and Allie J exchanged a come on glance. Frustration bubbled in Skye’s veins like a Lush All That Jasmine Bath Bomb.

  Allie J sighed. “I actually feel bad for Charlie.”

  “Totally.” Triple shifted her feet into first. “I think it’s time to send out an update.”

  Triple held her aPod in front of her, talking as she typed. “Beware of SPY Hamilton.”

  “Don’t. Please,” Skye begged. Her heart hurt more than her ankle. “It’s not true!”

  Ignoring her pleas, Triple and Allie J galloped down the glass staircase. For a moment, Skye sat in stunned silence.

  Then Triple’s head popped over the landing, a smile on her face. “One more thing.”

  Skye felt her spirits lift. Was Triple taking pity on her after all?

  “It’s a message from Mimi.”

  “Did she ask about me?”

  “Yeah. She wanted to know how you ever got into this place.” Triple cackled at her own crack and then hurried down the stairs.

  Skye sank back into her pillows, feeling more deflated than a popped water bra. She wanted to dance away that conversation. Dance away her discovered HADs. Dance away her lack of friends. And most of all, dance away the disappointment that was sure to wrinkle her mother’s Botoxed face when she got sent home.

  But dancing was no longer an option.

  19

  ALPHA ACADEMY

  SHIRA’S OFFICE

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7TH

  8:08 P.M.

  Charlie squeezed the tiny flash drive in her hand as she read the news ticker that slithered across the windows outside Shira’s office.

  Skye Hamilton is recovering from a fall in Mimi’s dance class. She will live but will she live it down?… LoChang is picking up a third major. In addition to engineering and sculpting she has added string instruments… Animal plastic surgery phenom Kutya Slavin gave a beautiful nose job and tummy tuck to Poncho the Chihuahua. The results are inspiring….

  It was hard to focus on the Island Update when the key to her future lay in her sweaty palm. It had taken all night and most of the day, but it was finally time to show Shira what she could contribute—or rather, how she had contributed to building the Brazillionaire’s precious academy. So what if her mum always said bragging was tacky? Charlie was just as qualified as the girls who’d actually applied. And her application, essay, design blueprints, tech specs, and international education would prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  Fiona set a white mug on the ice-block table. A stream of coffee rained down from above.

  “No thanks.” Charlie smiled graciously at the assistant. But no sleep, no food, and the rumbling churn of anxiety had left her wired enough.

  “Try it,” Fiona urged, her mud brown eyes unwavering. “Trust me.”

  Leaning forward in her chair, Charlie politely lifted the cup to her mouth. It smelled like Bee. “You got the recipe.” She sipped.

  “Miracles do happen, you know.” Fiona grinned, sounding more like a nun than a beaten-down rebound assistant.

  “I guess.” Charlie sighed, remembering that her mom had sent Shira the recipe as a thank-you.

  A green light above Shira’s door illuminated.

  “She’ll see you now,” Fiona said.

  “Thanks.” Charlie placed the empty cup back on the table, then pressed her sweaty hands into the ice. The chilly burn cooled her nerves.

  “Good luck.” Fiona waved.

  Like Dorothy approaching the Wizard, Charlie crept with caution toward the alpha’s open door.

  “Beyoncé, it’s not that we don’t appreciate the offer, luv, it’s just that I’m not taking any guest lecturers from the mainland at this time. Island policy, lolly. Nothing personal.” Shira waved for Ch
arlie to come in and sit down while she wrapped up her call. As always, she wore round black glasses, a matching maxidress, and an air of superiority.

  Behind her Lucite, Australia-shaped desk, five new portraits of her sons were displayed on the floating shelf. Darwin’s brown locks were standing up like he’d just run his fingers through them. She stared at his face, his freckle, and his hazel eyes without inhibition, like he was art hung for her to admire. There were no traces of guilt, longing, or pain anywhere inside her. Just appreciation. For the first time in days, just appreciation. He was perfect.

  Suddenly Darwin blinked, and Charlie gasped. She waved just in case the live feed went both ways, but Darwin didn’t respond.

  “I know, and I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Shira said into her Bluetooth, sounding bored.

  Next to Darwin’s frame, Dingo was slouched over a notebook, undoubtedly planning his next elaborate prank. Taz was swinging from a ceiling fan. Sydney was drying his eyes on the sleeve of his blazer. And Melbourne was completely still, probably working on his mannequin-modeling poses.

  “You are at the top of my list should the ban on outside influences ever lift, okay? Love to Jay. G’day.” Shira pressed a recessed button on her Lucite desk and the call was done.

  “Celebrities. They’re more beastly than Komodo dragons.” Shira swiveled toward her guest. “Tim Tam?” She gestured to the tray of imported Australian cookies.

  Charlie popped one in her mouth and luxuriated in their melty chocolate goodness. Shira took a cookie as well, and they chewed in comfortable silence. For a second, Charlie forgot all about their recent drama—or trauma, rather—and basked in the joy of sharing a delicious snack with a woman she’d known her entire life. It was nice to just sit and—wait a minute! Charlie swallowed hard, then pushed the plate aside. This wasn’t companionship. It was Stockholm syndrome; a condition where kidnapping victims BFFed their captors. It seemed highly improbable that Charlie could find pleasure in the presence of this particular tormentor. But in her vulnerable state—no friends, no boyfriend, no mother, no sleep, Tim Tams—she did. And so she reminded herself that Shira’s small kindness wasn’t kindness at all—just an extravagance to reinforce good behavior.