International Billionaires School may not be real… but Alpha Academy is.
What happens when THE CLIQUE’s Skye Hamilton, the original eighth-grade alpha, gets an invite to this ultra-exclusive academy?
Turn the page for a sneak peek of #1 bestselling author Lisi Harrison’s hawt new series.
1
WESTCHESTER, NY
BODY ALIVE DANCE STUDIO
THURSDAY, JULY 22ND
11:37 A.M.
_______________________
There were five Skye Hamiltons in the Body Alive Dance Studio. One on each mirrored wall and one in the flesh. As in-the-flesh Skye step-turn-step-plié-step-fan-step-ball-changed, the reflections followed. So did the eight other girls in Atelier No. 1. Or at least they tried.
A trickle of sweat slithered from the base of Skye’s tightly bunned blond waves down the back of her pale blue leo. She drew her shoulder blades back (even more), trying to pinch the salty snake, not because she was embarrassed, but because she could. Her body always did what it was told. All she had to do crank up the music and ask.
“And one… twooo… thu-hree… fourrrr… five… six… seh-vuuuun… eight.” Madame Prokofiev slow-clapped to the jazzy ooze of Michael Bublé’s “Fever” while scanning her students for TICS (Timing, Incongruity, Carelessness, and Smiles). As always, her scrutinizing brown eyes whizzed past Skye like two bullets aimed at someone else.
“Too wristy, Becca!” She clapped. “Less chin, Reese.” Clap. “Rollllllll the knee, Wendi. Don’t poke.” Clap. Clap. “And I swear on my tendons, Heidi, if you don’t fix that posture, I’m going to use you as a throw pillow!”
Chignoned and clad in a no-nonsense black cami with matching flare dance pants, the aging brunette looked like a prima ballerina laced up tighter than a pair of toe shoes. Yet she moved like honey and stung like a bee.
Skye loved her.
Charged by Madame P’s silent approval, Skye added a turn before the freeze, then came out of it with hands in prayer pose, or rather, a Bollywood Namaste Flower. The routine hadn’t called for it—her instincts had. She’d downloaded the M.I.A. track from Slumdog, and like some people got songs stuck in their heads, Skye had this one stuck in her body.
“Enough.” Madame P clapped sharply, the frown lines in her passion-wrinkled forehead bunched like loose leg warmers. Had she gone too far with her flower?
All nine dancers stop-panted. But Skye’s heart kept hitch-kicking against her rib cage. Finally, she crossed her arms over her B-minus cups and ordered it to take five.
She lined up with her dance BFFs Missy Cambridge, Becca Brie, Leslie Lynn Rubin, and Heidi Sprout. Like Skye, her besties were blond—two in braids, two with ponies—and wore identical pink balloon skirts over gray leotards and tights (BADS Anna Pavlova Collection). Skye had added her signature sleeves; today’s were black mesh with five mini sterling silver locker keys dangling from the holes—one for each of her friends. Every time she moved they jingled, adding a little extra something to the otherwise humdrum musical score.
“Flair, ladies.” Madame P heel-toed to the center of the room, clucking her tongue in disappointment. “Dance is not just knowing the steps. It’s interpreting them.” She winked at Skye, releasing her from the scold. “So please try to remember. We’re doing Twyla, not Twilight, so stop sucking!”
Some of the girls gasped. Some giggled nervously. Skye pressed her thumb against the sharp grooves of her locker key. The pain kept her from gloat-smirking.
Madame Prokofiev snapped her fingers. “Again! And one… twooo… thu-hree… fourrrr… five… six… seh-vuuuun… eight.”
This time, the girls responded like thoroughbreds at the starting bell. Their Capezio’d feet polished the shiny wood floor that the Hamilton family had owned for years. The force of their synchronized movements pumped Skye with energy and made her sweat pride. Not only for the girls who danced, but also for her parents, who gave them the place to do it.
A thunderous knock interrupted their flow. The door opened just enough for Madame P to see that someone wanted her in the hall. She gave Skye a nod, silently transferring power to her star pupil, and then slipped out.
Skye rolled her neck, then padded happily to the front of the class, pausing only to change songs. “Same routine in triple time.” She grinned, her legs twitching, ready for some real dancing.
“WhenIgrowupIwannabeastarIwannabefamous…” the Pussycat Dolls meowed from the iPod deck.
“Ah-five, six, seven, eight…” Skye went hard. The midday light pouring in from the windows found her like a spotlight.
Tutting, waving, popping and locking, she moved faster to the pounding beat than the Tasmanian Devil on So You Think You Can Dance. With Madame P gone, she could let go of the traditional dance steps and express herself freely. Borrowing at will, she riffed on a few Bollywood moves, added the punch of Broadway, a dash of Beyoncé hip shaking, and a sprinkle of ballet scissors from Romeo and Juliet. She moved between more styles than a Moulin Rouge montage. At the end she executed a final glissé tour jeté, leaped up, and gave a little bow to the captivated audience that would be there one day. The keys on her sleeves clanged together. They sounded like applause.
Straightening, she turned to the two rows of four behind her and panted, “Again. Without me this time.”
Skye had set the barre high. Just like it had been set for her by her mother years ago. Leslie Lynn attacked the moves with gusto, but that very same headbanging enthusiasm caused her bangs to wriggle free from her loose braid. Her attempt to sideswipe them during an axel turn dropped her one second behind the other dancers, and left her dragging like a piece of toilet paper on the back of a shoe.
Feet turned out in textbook first position—her power position—Skye pursed her lips and channeled her inner Russian dance dictator. “The mirrors are here for us to perfect our form, not our hair,” she announced. Leslie picked up the pace with an embarrassed grimace.
“Chest out,” Skye demanded of Heidi, whose posture had taken another dive. Heidi had sprouted B-plus cups this year, the pull of which she was obviously still having trouble adjusting to. “Own ’em, H!”
Heidi thrust out her boobs while her back arched in protest.
Note to self: Introduce H to the new line of Martha Graham bust minimizer tops. Give her the friends and family discount if she balks.
Next to her, Becca spiked up into a high, athletic half split that was about two centimeters short of a cheerleader hurkey. Skye pulled Becca’s ponytail down to stop her overzealous bobbing. “Less bounce, more weight.”
Becca sucked in her already concave stomach on hearing the word weight. Skye sighed. Becca wasn’t the brightest beta on the barre, but she was sweeter than Splenda and shadowed Skye with the dedication of a choral swan in Swan Lake. Those who can’t lead follow. And as long as they were following Skye, everything was perfect.
Next, she circled Missy. Each strand of her hair was in place, just like her steps. She strung together the exquisite sequences with technical perfection: Her toe was pointed at a forty-five-degree angle, her shoulders parallel to the floor, and her leaps timed to a millisecond of the driving beat. But she was full of more lead than a Chinese toy.
The song ended and the dancers stopped. Missy blinked up at her friend, eagerly awaiting her notes. It was like a sadist’s Hallmark card; when you care enough to be insulted by the very best.
“Watch me.” Skye launched into a perfect piksa turn, arms wide, hands clasped, as if hugging Kevin Fat-erline. “You want to be solid and liquid at the same time, like an unopened juice box on a whirling merry-go-round,” she instructed, borrowing a line from her mother and passing it off as her own.
One… two… three…
After the third revolution, the door creaked open and Madame P glided back in.
On the fourth turn, Skye saw her parents, dressed in matching gray-and-white après-dance warm-ups, her mother waving a piece of gold paper over her head.
And on the fifth—wait, was that a camera crew? Skye slowed, then settled on the balls of her feet. Lithe waitresses dressed in white BADS unitards and silver tutus wheeled in tray after tray of dim sum followed by Skye’s favorite dessert, Payard’s Pont-Neuf. It was a veritable port-a-party. But why? Food was never allowed in the studio. Or the dancers, for that matter.
Miss and Leslie widened their glitter-dusted eyes at Skye, who shrugged in return.
“Congratulations, my darling!” Natasha shouted in her faint Russian accent. Her moonlit whitish-blond hair was clipped in a low ponytail. But the rest of her moved with uninhibited joy. “You have been accepted to Alpha Academy!”
The back eight squealed in envy-delight.
“What?” Skye’s blue eyes searched her mom’s identical ones for an explanation. A retraction. A punch line.
But the pride on her mother’s face was as genuine as it was rare.
The last time Skye had seen it was seven years ago, when she’d told Natasha she wanted to become a professional ballerina, just like her. Months later the studio had been built, instructors had been imported, and training had begun. But, no matter how hard Skye danced for it, that proud expression had never returned. Until now.
Skye threw up her arms and spun in a perfect pirouette. “I’m in!” She tapped her toe on the floor, her breath caught in her throat. This was it. Her big break. The gateway to more stages, more solos, more standing ovations, more proud expressions, more chances to be in the center of everything.
A brunette reporter with a chin-butt that rivaled Demi Lovato’s stood in front of a one-man camera crew. She cleared her throat and forced a wide grin on her powder pink lips. “This is Winkie Porter reporting from Body Alive Dance Studio in Westchester, New York?” Winkie’s voice went up at the end of every sentence, making even her name sound like a question. “When eccentric billionaire entertainment mogul Shira Brazille announced the opening of Alpha Academy last spring, thousands of kids from all over the country applied. CEO of Brazille International, acclaimed entrepreneur, innovator, and tastemaker, the Australian expat founded the exclusive boarding school—whose location is top secret—to, and I quote, ‘nurture the next generation of exceptional talent without distractions from our mediocre world.’ And our very own fourteen-year-old Skye Hamilton, dance wunderkind, is one of the lucky one hundred to secure a coveted spot.”
“You did it Skye-High!” Her dad scooped her up into a lift, and she giggled on the way down. Even though she landed perfectly, she still felt like she was floating.
“Are we getting this?” Winkie asked her stubbly-but-cute camera guy. When he shook his head no, she said, “Mr. Hamilton, could you do that again?”
The dancers scuttled behind Skye and her father, in an attempt to get on camera. They moved in a tight tangle, like a clump of hair coasting toward the shower drain.
Skye shrugged and nodded at her dad, whose hazel eyes moistened with pride as he whirled her again. He set her down gently, his full head of dark blond hair slightly tousled from the spinning. She patted it down like he was her very large obedient poodle.
“Did you ever think your daughter would be sought after by the most influential woman in the world?” Winkie stuck a microphone under his strong chin.
“Of course.” Geoffrey winked at his daughter.
Like he was proud? Or like he was lying?
Then he hooked his hand around his wife’s tiny waist and pulled her close. “Natasha and I always knew Skye would follow in her mother’s dance steps. Because she—”
“No,” Natasha interrupted, her accent slicing his words like a kindjal sword. “Skye won’t be as good as I was. She will be better.”
Her declaration was a pointe shoe to the gut. How could Skye ever be better than a world-class ballerina when she wasn’t even close to ‘as good’? To be better than her mother she would have to train her body to be disciplined. Obedient. Exact. And for Skye, dancing was the opposite of that. It was liberating. Expressive. Fun. But as always, Skye buried the pressure in a mental locker and leaned against the door until it closed.
Winkie rested her frosty hand on Skye’s shoulder. “We heard there was a little mishap with your essay and that it was lost in the mail. Did you stay up all night rewriting? Take us through your ordeal.”
Skye adjusted her sleeves. How did Winkie know about that?
Over the summer, Skye had received word that the essay portion of her application had been misplaced. After a few minutes of deep contemplation she had decided not to write a new one. After all, applying to the academy had been her mother’s idea, not hers. And she was about to go to high school. With boys. Boys who might love her the way her father loved Natasha. So why head off to another all-girls school? Why leave BADS when she was the best dancer they ever had? Why start over and risk losing it all?
The disappearing essay turned out to be a gift. One she couldn’t dream of returning. So, really, the “ordeal” hadn’t been an ordeal at all. Until now. Either her mother rewrote the essay for her or they found the original. But how did you explain that to America?
“It was really stressful.” Skye cupped her hair bun. The jingle of keys made her homesick even though she was still there. “Let’s just say I have calluses on my hands to match the ones on my feet.”
Winkie laughed with her mouth closed.
Behind the camera, old instructors, school friends, and neighbors were starting to arrive. Greeting one another with hugs, they stuffed dumplings in their mouths and then chew-nodded their delight in this local success story.
Winkie stuck a microphone under Skye’s barely glossed lips. “Tell us how it feels to be chosen by Shira Brazille, entertainment mogul. Icon. Alpha.”
Skye reached up and pulled a silver chopstick from her artful bird’s nest, releasing a cascade of blond wavelets for the camera. “Shira’s a real hero of mine,” she said confidently. “Her outback-to-riches story is such an inspiration. It shows what a girl can do when she applies herself. And now to give back in this way—wow!” Skye inflected as if all this had just occurred to her and she hadn’t practiced a million times with her mother over the summer before the essay was lost.
“What is the most important thing your mother has taught you about dance?” Winkie’s head tilted, heavy with interest.
Natasha’s bony fingers reached for her daughter’s hand. A cue to return to the script. “My mom taught me that success is like ballet. You work until your feet hurt, until your muscles ache, until your body knows the steps without thinking. So when the lights come on and the performance begins, it looks effortless.”
Her mom’s round mouth and full lips moved along with her own. After a career full of interviews and TV appearances, Natasha always knew what to say. But Skye could never put her feelings into words. She was the type who had to get on her feet and show them.
“Well, you’re certainly ready.” Winkie’s voice didn’t go up that time—there was no question about it. Skye was ready.
At least to those watching the show.
“Thanks for the party, Mom.” Skye followed Natasha to a pair of chairs in the corner once everyone had gone. “And for rewriting my essay.”
“I didn’t write it.” Natasha crunched down on a piece of celery. “I added a few lines here and there, but you did most of the work.”
Skye studied her mother’s pronounced jaw. It was pulsing from chewing, not tension.
“When are you going to start believing in yourself?” Natasha swallowed, her long pale neck lengthening slightly. “You are going to Alpha Academy because of your talent, not mine.”
“Really?” Skye searched her mother’s eyes, giving her one last chance to blink-admit that she’d somehow gotten Skye in.
“Really.” Natasha lifted a silver box out from under her chair.
“Hmmmm.” Skye looked up at the track lights, wondering if the essay had been found after all.
“Time to stop doubting and start accepting your fate.” Natasha handed her daughter the box. “You’re going to be a bigger star than I was. Now stop being afraid to shine.”
Skye slowly untied the white bow. She wasn’t afraid to shine like a star. She was afraid to fall like one.
Skye lifted a lavender toe shoe from the box, its worn silver satin ribbons trailing behind like smoke from a blown-out candle. The pair had hung over her mother’s vanity forever. Like stamps on a passport, the scuffs, scrapes, and frayed silk told the story of her mom’s career: from the Mariinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg, to the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris, and the Royal Opera House in London, where a grand jeté gone wrong had landed her in King’s College Hospital with a torn meniscus and a fractured career.
“They’re too big for me,” Skye said, hoping for a new pair. Maybe something in a soft gold. “Besides…” She searched the box for the other shoe, but the tissue was empty. “There’s only one.” Skye furrowed her brow, not sure what she was supposed to do with one big used shoe.
“This slipper is special,” Natasha whispered. “It will fit your hads.”
“Huh?” Skye blinked. Her mom had been in the country for eighteen years, but every once in a while something got lost in translation.
“It will fit your HADS,” her mom explained. “Your Hopes And Dreams.” She flipped open the tip of the shoe. “You write what you dream for and hide it in the shoe. When the time is right, it comes true.”
“Really?” Skye leaned in closer. Wanting desperately to believe in the magic. It was easier than believing in herself, especially where she was going. “What did you wish for?”
“Meeting your father,” Natasha mused, untucking Skye’s hair from behind her ears. Skye knew the story well. Her mom had come to America when she was seventeen to perform at Lincoln Center. After one dance onstage, she’d landed a marriage proposal from a Broadway choreographer and defected. “This dance studio,” Natasha continued. “And you.”
Her mom’s words filled her muscles with the kind of warmth that comes after a good stretch. They softened and strengthened her at the same time. Who cared how her application had landed on Shira’s desk? All that mattered was that it did. Which meant the time was right.
Skye glanced around at the place she’d learned to dance, suddenly feeling too big for the small studio. The leaded windows, the track lighting with special bulbs that flattered blondes, the nick in the doorjamb where she’d spun and whacked the frame with her Tinker Bell wand when she was six. They were part of her past now. Destined to shrink into wallet-size snapshots in her memory. Images that she’d flip through when she needed to remember where she came from.
Weaving the shoe’s silk straps through her fingers, Skye glanced at her mom’s cheekbones. Her pale skin covered them like white tights over smooth stones when she smiled. And she was smiling now.
Skye opened the secret compartment, discovering neatly folded squares of blank, lavender-scented paper. They smelled like her mother.
“What are you going to wish for first?” Natasha pulled her daughter close.
“I dunno,” Skye lied. The truth was she knew exactly what she wanted. She had hoped and dreamed for it her entire life. HAD No. 1 was to live up to her mother’s expectations.
Unfortunately, Natasha expected perfection.
And perfection was no fun at all.
2
ALPHA JET
SOMEWHERE
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5TH
9:24 A.M.
_______________________
At thirty-eight thousand feet, Allie Abbott tried to GPS her emotional state. It was somewhere between wow and whoa, what have I done!? Her emerald-colored contact lenses flitted around the womblike belly of the personal private plane. After two-plus hours of flying and crying, her eyes were finally dry enough to take in their surroundings.
Hammered silver coated the convex egg-shaped walls, reflecting prisms and rainbows all over the cabin.
“I’m made from sixty thousand recycled aluminum cans,” the wall announced in a woman’s British accent when she ran her fingers over its warped surface.
She Purelled immediately.
Still, Allie never would have known that she was flying “green” if the plane’s automated voice didn’t remind her every time she touched anything. But maybe that was because the only thing she saw lately was red.
“Refreshment?” asked a bamboo cup as it magically hovered above her hand.
“Sure.” Allie sniffled. She reached for the drink and gulped it down. “Barf!” she choke-shouted and then dry-heaved. The tart sludge clawed at her taste buds, and then her cheeks reflexively sucked in.
“Problem with the wheatgrass lemonade?” asked a smooth, motherly voice over the intercom from the cockpit. It was the same voice that had welcomed her aboard. The same voice that had told her she’d be flying to a discreet location. And the same voice that had reminded her there was no turning back as the wheels lifted off the runway in Santa Ana, California.
“Nope. The lemonade is perfect,” Allie lied—a skill she’d mastered over the last few weeks. And something that she’d, hopefully, get even better at once she landed. Because Alpha Academy had outfitted this plane for a very different Allie Abbot. Allie J. Abbott, to be specific. The girl power poet–slash–eco-maniac songwriter. Not the heartbroken mall model who worshipped pop culture, pop songs, and Pop-Tarts. No. No one wanted that Allie these days.
Thumbing away another tear, Allie nestled into her ergonomic recliner. It was made of what looked like bubble wrap filled with water and felt like a massage from a hundred different people at once. If her intestines weren’t contracting from the shot of wheat-ass, it might have felt incredible.
“Movie,” Allie told the U-shaped plasma screen inside the curved wall. The lights dimmed and an electric cart filled with organic popcorn pulled up beside her. A hemp blanket slid out of the armrest like a fax and wrapped around her entire body until she felt like a crab hand roll.
Leonardo DiCaprio’s Eleventh Hour began immediately. “This film will be shown in high definition using patent-pending Smell-O-Vision, a feature that sprays a scent to match the image on-screen.” Just then Leo appeared on screen, accompanied by the fresh aroma of jojoba and eucalyptus, the notes in Fletcher’s Intense Therapy Lip Balm.
Allie’s mouth began to involuntarily pucker, longing for the taste of her ex-boyfriend’s kisses. Serious-leh? If flying on a talking personal jet to an unknown destination while committing identity theft didn’t help her forget him, a lobotomy was the only remaining option.
Allie had first seen Fletcher Barton at the Riverside Palace Mall. They’d locked eyes on the north escalators—she was going up, he was going down. Her arms were full of bags. His were full of muscles. Goose bumps sprouted all over her spray-tanned body that had nothing to do with the frigid air-conditioning and everything to do with his leather jacket. He was tall and fit, with product-enhanced light-brown hair and narrow blue eyes. She was the same. For a second, Allie wondered if they were related. Maybe fraternal twins separated at birth. But their attraction had been too strong for something that creepy.
Allie wanted to race toward him. But she was too awestruck. Like in those dreams where you run and run but never move, she remained frustrated and frozen.
“Wait!” he shouted, pushing past moms and their kids, taking the steps two at a time as he darted up the down escalator.
They met at the top.
“I’m Fletcher,” he panted, holding out his hand.
Allie immediately put down her bags and stuffed her hands in the kangaroo pouch of her suede tunic. She pocket-pumped some Purell onto her palms and rubbed them together. Not because she thought he looked germy. In fact, he looked more sanitary that any boy she’d ever seen. But because he had been gripping the rubber rail for at least twenty seconds, and that was more than enough time for a virus to adhere to his fingertips.
“You want?” Allie extended the clear bottle.
“No, thanks.” He smiled with his entire face. “I’ve got the wipes.” He pulled a square package out of his back pocket, tore it open with his tartar-free teeth, and rubbed. With a swift toss, the used cloth soared straight in the trash can and Cupid’s arrow straight into Allie’s heart.
From then on they were inseparable, and quickly became known for their combined physical perfection and strong immune systems. Everyone joked that when they got married and had kids, they would be studied for advancing the human genome. Allie said it too, only she was serious.
And the best part was that her BFF, Trina, who was single, and much less attractive than them, never got jealous or made Allie choose. In fact, she seemed just as inspired by their beauty as everyone else. Always wanting to be around them and nibble on the by-product of their love. But what Trina lacked in beauty she made up for in artistic talent. She could create a portrait faster than Polaroid—and offered to tag along with the couple to Disneyland for their eleven-month anniversary. Her gift would be to sketch every moment of their enchanted day in charcoal and red pastel.
“Ha!” A bitter laugh escaped Allie’s waxy Burt’s Bees–coated lips, an unfortunate favorite of Allie J’s.
“Everything okay back there?” the voice asked from the cockpit.
Um, if by okay you mean wanting to shove my bare unpedicured foot up my ex-friend’s butt like a shish kebab skewer, then yes, everything is fine, Allie wanted to shout. But that would blow her cover faster than a DNA sample. So she simply nodded yes and forced a smile in case the omniscient voice could see her from behind the aluminum wall.
“Good,” it replied, satisfied.
But it wasn’t. Nothing was good. Not since the happy threesome had boarded the yellow-and-blue submarine on the Finding Nemo ride. Not since everything went dark when they had been “swallowed by a whale.” Not since the lights flashed back on and Fletcher’s neck was covered in charcoal fingerprints. And Trina’s lips smelled like jojoba and eucalyptus. And they both looked more caught than Nemo.
Allie slammed her compact shut without the satisfying click. She just didn’t get it. She was beautiful. And not just in her opinion. She had the pageant tiaras and tear sheets from local modeling jobs to prove it. With puffy O-shaped lips, narrow navy blue eyes, skin that looked lit from within, and a nose so perfectly sloped that a girl two towns over had requested it for her fifteenth birthday, Beauty was her backstage pass. It got her everything she ever wanted. So why hadn’t it been enough to keep Fletcher? Or rather, how had she lost him to a girl who was a mere 6.5 out of 10 after Photoshop?
She’d asked him that one day after school.
“Alliecat, you’re a hottie, no question.” Fletch leaned back like there was a wall behind him, even though they were in the middle of the basketball court during practice. “But Trina’s talent is more attractive than being a perfect ten.” He caught the ball and began dribbling it down the court. Allie followed despite the angry coach and his threats to call the police. Fletcher shot and scored. His teammates smacked him high fives. In the empty stands, Trina speed-sketched the moment. Allie began to cry.
“I’m sorry.” Fletcher wiped his sweaty forehead with the bottom of his jersey. “But it’s not about looks for me.”
“Since when?” Allie mumbled, eyeing Trina’s witchy black bangs, asymmetrical brown eyes, and pressed-down nose with borderline envy. Maybe if she had been born ugly she would have had to develop a talent too. But she hadn’t been. And that wasn’t her fault! Yet here she was, paying the price.
“Since always,” Fletcher insisted, obviously lying. Because for the last eleven months he’d had no problem posting her pictures on his Facebook page. “I want to be inspired. And she does that.”
“Real-leh? How? By drawing pictures of you out of barbecue ash?” Allie felt the grip of his coach’s meaty hands on her shoulder. “Her binder doodles are just another way for you to admire yourself. They’re like mirrors or pictures—” The meaty hands tightened and began pushing her toward the exit. “Ow!” Allie squealed all the way to the double doors.
Once outside, she Purelled her shoulder until she heard eleven boys and one girl applauding. It sounded like a thousand tiny slaps.
Word spread quickly about the scandal, and even more quickly about their on-court battle. There was only one thing left to do.
Hide.
Allie retreated into her room with the intention of never leaving it again. Her mom came in frequently with all her favorites from the food court. But the pit in her stomach was too deep to fill, even with Hunan Pan’s crispy fried wings and pot stickers. The family doctor came. And the family shrink called. But they both said the same thing. “Get over it!”
“But how?” she pleaded.
“Find something to take your mind off of it,” said the family doctor.
“I agree,” said the family shrink.
Thanks for sucking, thought Allie.
But two days later, that something was delivered in a heavy, gold package.
Allie sat up in bed and asked her mother to kindly close the door behind her.
It’s about time! She sniffled, tearing through the vellum. She wondered if Fletcher would just apologize or actually grovel. A gold mobile device fell onto her duvet-covered lap along with a letter. Huh?
Dear Allie J,
We welcome you to the inaugural class of Alpha Academy…
Allie whipped the letter on the ground and beat her Tinker Bell pillowcase. It figured Allie J. would be hitting a high note when Allie was at her lowest.
Allie had been getting the songwriter’s fan mail for years. But ever since she’d left on some save-the-meltingice-caps mission in Antarctica, they had been coming more frequently. Allie could have notified the post office, but that would have involved forms and post office people. Both of which were boring and probably covered in germs. Besides, Allie J’s songs had shown up on the sound tracks of three teen summer flicks, and according to a blind item in Page Six, a certain trio of Disney brothers were fighting over more than her body of work. And who knew what one of them might send. Maybe himself?
Allie lowered her head, succumbing to a new generation of tears. Through salty blurred vision the gold seal of the envelope had caught the light and winked at her from the floor. Like they shared a joke. Or a secret. Or the need to escape.
Allie raced to her laptop and Google-imaged Allie J. Only three pics came up:
A green eye behind a mess of black hair.
Her thin body photographed from behind. She was onstage, facing the audience at New York’s famed spoken word Nuyorican Café in a white dress and bare feet.
A grainy camera-phone pic of her face with what appeared to be a very large mole.
And that was it.
It was perfect.
Allie raced to the mall for the first time in days.
Hours later, she had black hair, green contact lenses, and a kohl-mole on her left cheek. She told her parents the new look was part one of her “get over it” plan. Part two was applying to Alpha Academy. They couldn’t quite understand the mole, or how “catalogue modeling and a vast knowledge of mall culture” were talents Shira Brazille valued, but they went with it anyway. At least she was eating pot stickers again.
Days later, Allie waved her acceptance letter around (after gold-outing the J) and said goodbye to her supportive parents.
And here she was, a green-eyed butterfly flying toward a new beginning on a top secret mission to Get Over It.
“Sixty seconds until we enter the communications-free zone. No texting, no phoning, no Internet,” announced the British voice.
“For how long?” Allie asked the speaker above her head.
“Until you return.”
“Serious-leh?”
“Fifty seconds.”
What? Allie felt her stomach twirl like the food court’s Jamba Juice machine. If she couldn’t let Fletcher and Trina know how awesome her life was without them, what was the point? She whipped out her Samsung and began texting.
I’m on a private plane heading for Alpha Academy. This is the last time you will hear from me. Turns out I have talent after all.
Allie read it over. Did the message imply I am fine without you? I have moved on? I have more talent than Trina?
“Twenty seconds.” A countdown appeared where Leo’s face had been. It smelled like loneliness.
Allie’s thumb hovered over the send button. It was missing something, something that stung like a thousand tiny slaps. Something that—
“Nine seconds.”
“Got it!” Allie half smiled, mindful of smudging her mole, and then added one final line.
In this world there are artists and subjects. You know, the people worth drawing? Well, I am a subject. I always will be. Capture me if you can.—Allie
She hit send and dropped the obsolete phone on the lap of her secondhand white dress—apparently Emily Dickinson had worn something white every day, and so did Allie J. But even after dry-cleaning nine times and liberally spraying the dress with Clinique Happy, Allie still smelled dead people.
“We are now in a communications-free zone,” announced the voice. “And are beginning our descent to Alpha Island, where temperature on the ground is a perfect seventy-two degrees.” She snickered softly. “For now.”
The aluminum walls disappeared into the floor and the entire plane became one big window. Below, clear blue water stretched on for miles. Was it ocean? A lake? A giant collection of her tears? The round windows reminded Allie of the portholes on the Finding Nemo submarine. The bitter taste of wheatgrass returning to her mouth.
Suddenly a mass of land came into view. It was as if someone had taken a giant @-shaped cookie cutter and carved an island out of mirrors, or some other reflective surface that was probably good for the environment.
Without warning, the plane swooped down along with Allie’s stomach, as she considered what she’d gotten herself into. Sticking an earbud in each ear, she let the words from Allie J’s latest hit, “Global Heartwarming,” coax her into character.
Reduce, reuse, and recycle my heart
Give it back to me
’Cause I want a fresh start
Now that I’m fine,
You’re on your knees
Begging me please
To be your main squeeze
You’re starting to panic
Calling me satanic
But I prefer organic
And hold the cheese!
Reduce, reuse, and recycle my heart
It’s ready for a brand-new start
She’d never really liked Allie J’s music—she was too folksy and message-y for Allie’s aerobic taste. But the lyrics to this one were spot-on. She tapped her newly short nails and continued memorizing the words, which could have been written for her—or better yet, by her. Then she touched up her mole and cranked the volume.
The jet was starting to dip. It was showtime.
3
ALPHA ACADEMY
JETWAY
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5TH
1:43 P.M.
_______________________
The gold glitter-flakes on the tarmac suddenly started to liquefy.
“Mom, what’s happening?” Charlie Deery loosened her metallic tie and began fanning her flushing cheeks. “The temperature just went from seventy-two degrees to three thousand!”
“Hyperbole, Chah-lie,” Bee Deery corrected her Jersey-born daughter in a proper British accent, as if exaggeration was strictly an American trait. Bee quickly reached for the sagging silver material around her daughter’s neck and retied it. Not even the familiar smell of her rose-scented body cream—the only constant in Charlie’s life—could soothe her today.
“Hyperbo-leave-me-alone!” Charlie swatted her mother’s fussing hands and then instantly regretted it. Aggression toward Bee was like beating on Bambi, only worse. “Sorry.” She avoided her mother’s kind brown eyes. “But I can’t breathe.”
Bee quickly scanned the area and then refastened the tie with a once-and-for-all cinch. “This is no time for a uniform violation. Not on the first day. Shira has enough stress as it is.”
“What about me?” Charlie stomped her foot in a gold puddle, forever frustrated by her mother’s efforts to please her boss, at any cost, even familial asphyxiation. “I don’t even go here. Who cares if I wear the stupid tie?”
“It’s about respect,” Bee insisted, patting her tightly wound updo. Was it held by hair spray or the power of positive thinking?
With a surrendering sigh, Bee aimed her A-pod at Charlie’s uniform: a platinum vest, matching tie, pleated mini in shimmering pewter, champagne-colored blouse with oversize puffed sleeves, and clear knee-high gladiator sandals with massaging soles and no–tan line technology. “Here.” She pushed a button. The microscopic crystals in Charlie’s shirt turned icy cool. “Better?”
“Much.” Charlie smile-thanked her.
Just then, a giant glass Twizzler-shaped tower rose up from the ground with the hushed hum of a passing golf cart. One hundred platforms jutted off the sides. One for each Personal Alpha Plane—or PAP as Charlie and her mother secretly joked—to park after landing.
Charlie lifted her brown eyes and searched the sun-soaked sky. Flecks of light flashed in the distance like copper-colored winks. They were getting closer.
Shira’s ground team raced onto the tarmac wearing thick regulation jumpsuits in white patent leather. Apparently they absorbed the reflection of the gold dust on the runway so the pilots wouldn’t be blinded during landing.
“Why don’t you just get rid of the gold dust?” Charlie asked, imagining how hot the team must have been.
Bee smoothed her white pleather blazer and skirt. “Because Shira likes it.”
And that was that.
Suddenly Bee turned away, curling her ear toward her shoulder. “Affirmative,” she reported into her Bluetooth device, which had been remodeled to look like a diamond stud earring. Charlie knew for a sad fact that she never turned it off, even when going two in the loo. She hoped the loyalty stemmed from pride—Charlie had invented the fashion-forward device—but knew better. Being Shira’s head assistant wasn’t a job, it was lifestyle. Minus the life. And being out of reach was not an option.
“We’re in position.” She nodded, still cupping her ear. “Yes. We’re on the welcome platform, above the tarmac, facing due south.”
Bee’s warm brown eyes zeroed in on the hem of Charlie’s skirt—a prototype that was being donated to the Smithsonian as soon as the real Alphas arrived and Charlie left for boarding school in Hoboken. Which was in exactly ninety minutes. The devastating reality made her stomach lurch. Or was that her heart?
“Ugh!” She wiggled, as if trying to slip out of her own skin.
“Stand still,” her mom demanded, snapping an errant thread off the pleated pewter mini.
But Charlie couldn’t stand still. Time was running out. In eighty-eight minutes she wouldn’t just be leaving her mother. Or the island she’d secretly helped design. She would be leaving him.
The oppressive heat suddenly blew by like a bad smell in the wind. A gray cloud mass gathered overhead, and warm droplets, the temperature of tears, began to fall. Well past caring, she didn’t bother to cover the precious uniform. Instead she slipped the A-pod prototype out of her pocket and checked her messages. There were three gold heart bubbles, all from Darwin, all asking when he could see her.
For the last ten months, while Bee oversaw the construction of Alpha Island, Charlie played Blue Lagoon with her fifteen-year-old boyfriend, Darwin Brazille, Shira’s oldest son. She hung out with all five Brazille brothers but had loved Darwin ever since they first napped together, twelve years ago, in the nursery on Shira’s private plane. Darwin, on the other hand, claimed he’d loved her even before they met. And Charlie believed him. He never gave her any reason not to.
Since then, they had traveled the world together, getting homeschooled by life experience and a tutor who was legally bound to make sure their education was up to conventional standards, should they ever choose to enter society. Once she turned twelve, the tutor resigned. They had successfully passed their tenth-grade finals and were given the green light to sit back and enjoy the ride. A ride, that thanks to their hardworking mothers, took them to the most exotic places on the planet and left them alone to explore. A ride that filled their digital cameras with more romantic shots than a season of The Bachelor. A ride that, thanks to Shira, was about to end in a devastating crash.
“She’s doing it on purpose.” Charlie dabbed the corner of her eye with her champagne-colored sleeve, a flulike ache pulsing thorough her entire body.
“I sincerely doubt she built all this to break you and Darwin up.” Bee splayed her arms, indicating the acres of state of the art architecture, woman-made beaches, and advanced technology.
“Then why am I getting sent back east to some boarding school while Darwin stays here, with a pack of alpha females?”
Bee sighed, like she was tired of saying what she was about to say but would say it one last time. “Every girl at the academy has been hand-selected by Shira because of her outstanding abilities. And after giving it a lot of thought, she figured it wouldn’t be fair to admit you based on family connections. Not fair to them and not fair to you.”
Charlie clenched her fists, wanting to punch the fawn right out of Bambi.
“Besides, do you really think a few months apart is going to undo twelve years?” Bee raised her light, arched brows and shook her head in disbelief. “Since when are you insecure about Darwin?”
“I’m not insecure about Darwin,” Charlie insisted. “I’m insecure about me.”
Charlie, despite her advanced brain and waist-length locks, always saw herself as a medium. Medium brown hair. Medium texture between a wave and a curve. Medium-size brown eyes. Medium hotness—more Aniston than Angie.
“We Deery women have a quiet beauty that sneaks up on people. At least that’s what your father used to say.” Bee smiled fondly at his memory.
Charlie twisted the three silver bracelets on her wrist. “Mom, guys don’t want beauty that creeps. They want beauty that comes up and slaps them across the face. And that’s what’s about to land here. One hundred times over.”
The rain stopped suddenly. Bee squinted up at the sky. The copper-colored kisses were getting bigger. “You are more talented than any of those girls, and Darwin knows that.”
“Yeah, but Shira doesn’t,” Charlie hissed. “She has no idea that I took apart her robo dog when I was ten and reprogrammed it to act like a cat. Or that I used to take the engines out of Darwin’s electric cars and put them in my Bratz dolls so they could braid each other’s hair. Or that I put wings on her cell so it would fly back when she lost it. Or that I invented the digital-camo iPhone case that changed color to match her outfits. She doesn’t know you gave my blueprints to the Alpha lab and that most of this place was designed by me. Maybe if she did, she’d let me stay here with you and Darwin. But she’s too arrogant to see it and you’re too afraid to tell her.”
“Lower your voice,” Bee whisper-snapped.
But Charlie couldn’t. Her voice had been lowered for too long.
Suddenly, a warm wind blew their clothes dry instantly and restored the gold puddles to dust.
“Maybe if I showed her what I made for Darwin she’d see that I’m not useless and let me stay.” Charlie pulled an electronic butterfly out of her wrist-pack and slowly opened her hand.
“What does it do?” Bee couldn’t help smiling at the cute little iridescent creature that batted its heart-shaped wings in Charlie’s palm.
Charlie lowered her head, thinking of her first kiss with Darwin at the Butterfly Botanical Garden in Costa Rica. She kissed the butterfly softly. All of a sudden it took flight.
“Oh, it’s wonderful.” Bee clapped her hands until it landed, then smiled sadly. “Now put it away, sweetie. She’ll be here any minute.”
“I’m gonna show her,” Charlie decided, filling with hope.
“Impossible.” Bee sighed. “You’ve used her resources without permission.”
“So?”
“Remember when she arrested Assistant Seven for filling her canteen from the glacier springs? She accused her of stealing. Imagine what she’ll do when she discovers how much of her lab has become your secret workshop?”
Charlie lowered her head. More droplets fell. This time from her eyes.
“I know it’s hard, love. But your time will come. For now, try to remember that Shira has given us everything.”
“No, she’s given us everything she doesn’t want.”
Charlie’s fingers immediately went to the three silver bracelets on her wrist. Both she and Darwin had DD’s (Dead Dads) who had died in car accidents when they were babies. His had left him a roomful of vinyl records, explaining his love for music. And hers had left the bracelets, an heirloom he had inherited from his mother. Each bracelet had a cameo that opened; one held a picture of her mom, one of her dad, and one of Darwin. They were the only non-Shira-tainted thing she owned. Everything else had once been Shira’s or bought by Shira or bought for Shira and never returned.
Suddenly, the sky darkened overhead and more storm clouds rolled in. Thunder crackled in the distance. The temperature dropped twenty degrees in an instant.
Bee pressed a button on her A-pod to warm her daughter’s uniform and then rolled back her shoulders.
A clear platform, identical to the one they were standing on, rose up from the ground. Shira, hands resting on the railing like she was standing at the bow of a ship, gazed at the horizon until the platform locked into place. She turned to face them; her wavy auburn hair blew as if blasted by a wind machine while her navy off-the-shoulder Grecian dress remained perfectly still. As usual, dark round sunglasses concealed her eyes.
In twelve years, Charlie had never seen her without them. One rumor was that Shira had tried to lighten her green irises but something had gone wrong and they had turned yellow, like a snake’s. Others swore she had bat sonar technology implanted in her eyeballs so she could out-see regular humans. But Charlie had her own theory. Which was: Shira just liked to freak people out.
“Unbelievable!” Shira’s down-under accent was outback fresh, even though she’d been off the continent for nearly two decades.
A crack of thunder startled everyone but Shira.
“What is it?” Bee cooed with dutiful concern.
“I just lost a promising actress to a George Clooney movie.” Her jaw muscles twitched. “Bee, call the producer and have her removed from the picture.”
The appropriate contact information appeared in Bee’s A-pod.
“What time would you like her here?”
“Here?” Shira’s lips tightened. “I don’t want that no-hoper here. I want her working in a Chuck E. Cheese costume by sundown.”
Bee turned away with a reluctant sigh and began dialing.
Charlie’s fingers started tingling. They always did when she thought up a new invention. It was her body urging her to start building. Only this time her tongue tingled too, forcing her to speak.
“So does this mean you have an open spot?” she asked quickly, before her mother could get off the phone.
Shira slowly nodded yes.
“Maybe I could take it?” she asked meekly.
“You?” Another crack of thunder echoed across the campus.
Charlie’s legs began tingling. They wanted to run.
“What can you do?” she laughed without smiling. “Besides distract my son?”
Charlie reached into her wrist pack. “I kind of make things.” She opened her hand. The metal butterfly sat stiffly in her palm. “Look.” She kissed it and it flew.
“What are you doing?” Bee snapped her phone shut and glared at her daughter.
“She’s trying to convince me to give her the open spot,” Shira checked her reflection in her silver mirrored nail polish. “But we all know that’s impossible.”
“Why?” Charlie blurted. “Because you want me away from Darwin? Because you don’t think I’m good enough—”
“Charlie!” Bee hissed.
“Well, I do question your motives for wanting to attend the academy.” Shira brushed a speck of glitter off her pale forearm. “I didn’t build it for girls to get their C-R-U-S-H degrees.”
Charlie narrowed her brown eyes, no longer fearing the woman she had feared for years. She was about to get exiled from Alpha Island—what did she have to lose? “I don’t want to go to the academy for Darwin.” Only, she added silently. “I want to go for me.” And him. For us!
Shira turned to face her. “It’s a moot point, Lollie,” she stated with feigned disappointment. “The admissions committee has strict rules about nepotism. Stating that anyone related to an employee can’t attend.”
“But you are the committee!”
“That’s enough, Charlotte!” Bee insisted. “It’s settled.” She turned to Shira, her scowl dissolving like Crystal Light in water. “The actress has been removed from the film.
Clooney sends his deepest apologies. Will there be anything else or can I release the circle-hold on the planes and prepare the ground crew for arrival? ”
Shira tapped her nails against the platform railing, and the sky cleared instantly. “Unless…”
The single word hung in the air. Bee’s eyes widened in anticipation. Charlie held her breath.
“Unless”—Shira turned toward her longtime assistant—“you resigned. Then Charlie wouldn’t be related to anyone.” She grinned, clearly pleased with herself for having lowered the evil bar that much closer to hell.
“What?” Charlie locked eyes with her mother’s, a barrage of sentiments passing silently between them.
Bee’s fluttering lids seemed to ask if this was what she really wanted. If she would be okay without her. If this would make her happy.
“Very well.” Bee stretched up to her full height of five foot two. “I quit.”
“Are you kidding? Mom, you can’t!” Charlie blurted. Ever since her dad died, Bee had worked birthdays, holidays, weekends—work was as much a part of her mother as afternoon tea. And as much as Charlie abhorred Shira, she wasn’t sure Bee could cope without her. What would keep her from missing her husband now?
“It’s okay.” She reached for her daughter’s hand. “I’ve been meaning to visit Mum and Dad in Manchester for twelve years. Don’t you think I’m overdue?”
“Are you sure about this, Bee?”
Bee gave a nod.
“Very well.” Shira nodded back.
It was a done deal.
A look flickered across Shira’s face that Charlie had never seen before. The corners of her lips lifted. Her brows relaxed behind her glasses. Was that satisfaction or the release of gas?
Bee pulled her daughter close and whispered into her ear. “Chahlie, everything I did was for you. You have a gift. It’s time you shared it.”
“But Mom, I can’t—” Charlie whispered back, unable to fully process what had just happened. Within minutes, the entire course of her mother’s life had changed. And for what? A boy?
“Do we have a deal?” Shira extended her arm.
Bee elbowed her daughter in the ribs. Charlie surrendered and offered her right hand.
“No.” Shira shooed it away. “The other one.”
“Huh?” Charlie slowly held out her left.
Shira stepped to the edge of her platform, leaned forward, and slipped a bracelet off Charlie’s arm. In a single motion she popped open the cameo and removed the round picture of her son. Pleased, she handed it back.
How did you know about the photo? How did you know which bracelet it was in? How can you just take that from me? Charlie wanted to shout. But she couldn’t. Her stomach was in her throat.
The sky buzzed. A fleet of gold-tinted PAPs circled overhead, waiting for clearance to land. Shira nodded at Bee. Bee signaled the crew to bring the planes in. It was her final job for Brazille Enterprises.
“As long as you’re here, you will focus on your studies,” Shira stated, watching her protégés descend onto the runway and roll to a stop. “Darwin is off-limits. When you break up with him, leave this conversation out of it. A true alpha makes sacrifices for her goals. And he will be your first sacrifice.” She made a fist around the photo and squeezed. “Understood?”
Charlie inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself with her breath. Could she really convince Darwin she was over him? Did she even have a choice? What was the alternative? Boarding school in New Jersey? A long-distance relationship with the two most important people in her life? At least now she’d be able to see one of them. And maybe in time, if she got the grades, Shira would see that she was good enough for her son. And her mom could get her job back and—
“Understood?” Shira pressed.
“Understood,” Charlie managed.
Shira’s lips curled back against her teeth. To the untrained eye, it might have looked like a smile. But Charlie knew better. It was the look of a predator preparing to devour her prey.
“Welcome to Alpha Academy.”