Movers and Fakers (2 page)

“Let’s cruise lower and see what’s happening at the Pavilion.” Allie’s fear of flying had vanished. Instead she stared openmouthed
through the translucent floor of the plane, scanning the ground for Alphas and Brazilles.

“Roger that.” It was good to see Allie being enthusiastic about something. Lately, the easygoing songstress had been acting
strangely jumpy, like a mouse caught in a trap.

Charlie adjusted the plane’s controls and circled to the right, flying past the vertical farm and the Buddha-shaped Zen Center,
beyond the harp-shaped Music Hall and the Dionysus dance space dangling high above the junglelike dice hanging from an invisible
rearview mirror. Soon the Pavilion rose up in front of them, a skinny oblong structure with white winglike awnings extending
from either side, flapping to provide breezy slices of shade. It was lunchtime, and dozens of Alpha girls dressed in matching
metallics were lounging around on the shaded lawn.

“Go closer—let’s make sure they see us!” Allie studied the ground below to try to spot the blow-outs and ponies that belonged
to their friends. “Does this thing have a horn?”

“Lemme see…” Charlie pushed a tiny picture of a bird on the touch-screen controls and the plane made a cute chirping noise.
“Guess so!” Charlie waved to the Alphas on the lawn forty feet below them.

“Ariella looks so jealous,” crowed Allie, pointing at the statuesque platinum blonde squinting up at them in awe. Ariella
von Slivovitz was a Russian heiress who had revolutionized the art of cake decorating. She did more with spun sugar than Picasso
did with paint. Ariella waved back and beckoned to Ingrid Santana to check out the plane. A Frida Kahlo look-alike minus the
bushy eyebrows, Ingrid was a budding marine biologist whose remixes of orca whale songs had won a Grammy last year. “And check
out Maxine Montrose—our picture’s gonna go viral.” Maxine, a voluptuous redheaded photographer, had already attached a telephoto
lens to her aPod and was busily snapping pictures of Charlie and Allie floating above them.

Swooping closer to the building, Charlie spotted a figure sitting on a narrow rooftop balcony. She squinted behind her aviators
to try to get a better look. The heat-rippled sky revealed the figure to be male—which meant Brazille.

And he was holding a guitar.

Darwin
.

Perfect,
thought Charlie, unable to pull her gaze away from the hazel-eyed, floppy-haired boy in front of her. Darwin was the last
person she wanted to see right now. Shira’s musically inclined fourteen-year-old son was Charlie’s ex, and their past was
more checkered than gingham.

Allie squeaked, and Charlie knew she had spotted him, too. Charlie and Allie shared more than a bedroom—they both had a weakness
for Darwin’s sun-kissed skin, the adorable freckle above his lip, and his habit of chewing cinnamon-scented toothpicks.

But Charlie had given all that up. Shira wanted her Alphas to focus on school and her sons to date
appropriate
girls. So Charlie had struck the only deal she could: In order to attend Alpha Academy (and stay in physical proximity to
Darwin), she had to break up with him, ending a lifelong friendship and sacrificing the only love she’d ever known. Not only
that, but she had to give up her mom, too. As a condition of Charlie’s enrollment, Shira had forced Bee to resign.

“I’m going to get closer,” Charlie said, her voice cracking. She looked over at Allie to see if she’d noticed, but Allie was
oblivious, staring moonily at Darwin through twenty, then ten, then five feet of air like her eyes were missiles and he was
the target.

Darwin looked up from his guitar, pushing his naturally highlighted waves out of his face and staring through Charlie like
she was cellophane. His puppy-dog eyes zeroed in on Allie and fastened onto her like Velcro.

Ouch.
Charlie blinked hard. When would her tear ducts get the memo that she and Darwin were yesterday’s news?

The extended memo was that lately, Darwin and Allie had been hanging out. As recently as a couple of weeks ago, it had made
Charlie crazy. But slowly, she’d gotten used to it. Sort of. And Allie had become a good friend, which was the most important
thing.

“Hi Darwin,” Allie sighed. She pressed a pale slender hand against the windshield, and Darwin put his hand up to mirror hers.
Allie looked forlorn, as if she were separated from Darwin by an ocean and not just a piece of Plexiglas. Ever since the night
Allie and Darwin met up in the underground tunnels and Shira had nearly busted everyone, she’d been laying low, unable to
see him.

Charlie felt a tickling stab of jealousy in the pit of her stomach, but the knife was duller than it used to be. Mostly, she
just felt sad.

Darwin’s lips drooped like a wilting flower arrangement as the plane shifted a few inches away in a gust of wind.

“You miss him, huh?” she asked Allie, pulling the plane back up just as a rooftop camera blinked in their direction. Charlie’s
boiling jealousy of Allie had cooled and was quickly being replaced by concern. Ever since Shira had gone camera crazy and
made the island into her own personal version of
Big Brother
, Allie had seemed so low—almost lost. Charlie glanced at Darwin one last time before arcing the plane away, but his eyes
were already as lifeless as the buttons on a Raggedy Andy doll.

“Uh-huh.” Allie sighed, shrugging her shoulders in defeat.

“It’s tough being at a new school with new people and then—”

“The cameras!” wailed Allie, covering her face with her hands. “I feel like I’m being watched every single second!”

“You are,” said Charlie, tucking a long mahogany strand of hair behind her ear.

“And Darwin keeps texting, but what can I do?”

“Nothing. You’re right to be careful. Shira’s dying to kick more of us out.”A brooding silence wrapped around them like a
sleeping bag as Charlie thought about it more. Her nomadic childhood as part of Shira’s entourage had given her a lot: world
travel, brilliant private tutors who nurtured her love of math and science, access to all of Shira’s amazing resources and
technology, and of course the chance to bond with Darwin. But being a part of Shira’s entourage had deprived her of a lot,
too: Charlie had never lived anywhere long enough to have a place that felt like home, and she’d never had a chance to form
anything but the most shallow connections with other girls.

Cruising the plane over the lightbulb-shaped lab where she did her experiments, Charlie felt her heart rev a little faster.
The recycled glass building shot up from the jungle like a giant albino mushroom. It was where she felt like she belonged.
She squinted through the semi-opaque white walls and smiled when she saw Dr. G, her lab mentor, bent over some slides of her
latest project, a spray-foam that dried stronger than cement. With any luck, the foam would be used to build houses for the
world’s poor. If she had the lab as a home and Allie as a best friend, Charlie would survive here—maybe even flourish. Even
without Darwin.

She stole another glance at Allie, who looked lower than the ocean floor. Charlie tried to imagine how she would feel if the
situation were reversed. What if Darwin had broken up with
her
? She hoped he would want her to be happy, to move on.

It was crazy, but Charlie realized she
wanted
Allie and Darwin to be together now. Life at the Academy was more competitive than Olympic figure skating, more stressful
than the PSATs. Succeeding here could turn you from ordinary to infamous, from mousy to magnetic, from Lisa Simpson to Jessica
Simpson. And surviving here was way more likely with a friend on your side.

If Charlie couldn’t be with Darwin herself, then at least she could find a way to make her best friend and her boyfriend—or,
rather, boy “friend”—happy.

“Let’s take her in,” she said. Charlie pushed the Twizzler-shaped icon on the PAP’s touchscreen and Bee’s voice acknowledged
her selection as the plane angled through the crystalline sky. “Now preparing for landing. We hope you enjoyed your flight
on Alpha Airways.”

“Roger that,” said Allie, pasting on a brave smile.

Soon, if Charlie had anything to say about it, Allie would have something real to smile about.

THEATER OF DIONYSUS

HONE IT: FOR DANCERS

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 20TH

2:18 P.M.

As the elevator soared above the tree line toward the floating glass cube of the dance studio, Skye squinted her Tiffany box–blue
eyes, searching Alpha Island for any signs of a potential audience. Here and there, yellow-bellied finches and orange-and-purple
parakeets flitted among the palm fronds. On the westernmost edge of the island, where the curved tail of the island’s @-shape
formed a marshy isthmus, she spotted two muses gathering shells along the water’s edge. Actual Alphas were apparently in scarce
supply during class periods—hypercompetitive, 99th percentile, leaders-of-tomorrow types didn’t ditch class without a good
reason. The glass floor of the studio meant that anyone with the luck to be out of doors and in view of the studio could watch
a performance, but so far, it looked like Skye’s comeback would be witnessed by the bun-heads alone.

Correction: the bun-heads and at least three of Shira’s cameras.

The elevator opened with a chime, followed by the British voice recording: “Welcome to the Dionysus practice hall, where dance
is your pleasure.” An excited shiver rippled through Skye’s lithe torso. She stepped out of the elevator onto the clear rubberized
glass floor of the studio and took a deep whiff of the organic eucalyptus/lemon thyme spray-solvent manufactured by Brazille
Enterprises. Most dance studios smelled of corroded toe shoes and sweaty leotards, but this one smelled like inspiration.
A tiny, tasteful disco ball hung from the ceiling, bouncing mini-rainbows off the floor and onto the walls.

Triple, Prue, and Ophelia waved at her from the barre, where they were yawning through their usual
battement tendu
, each girl clad in a slightly different shade of metallic leo topped by a floaty chiffon dance skirt. Skye chin-thrust a
greeting in return, quickly shedding her sweatsuit and revealing her silver dance cami and shirred silver boy shorts. Showing
off her glutes made her feel powerful and confident, something her elephant-size ankle bandage did not. She suppressed a smile
as all six eyebrows at the barre shot up in appraisal of her missing ankle brace and butt-hugging outfit.

Prepare to be jealous, girls.

With Skye’s regulation Alpha-issued dance attire, there was nothing out of place. Her bun was the tightest and slickest in
the room, preventing her white-blond curls from whipping around and inspiring her to attempt crazy feats of experimental self-expression
during class. Her dance sleeves, the trademark accessory of the old Skye, were now charred around the edges, tucked away in
a shoebox under her bed. She’d tried to burn them on the beach one night as part of her commitment to impressing Mimi, their
instructor, who had a drill sergeant’s soul wrapped in the body of a world-class choreographer. Unfortunately, the sparkly
lycra/viscose blend refused to burst into flame, so she’d watched the sleeves smoke and smolder for a while before stamping
them out and giving up. Her body was toned and trim from weeks of salmon, egg whites, greens, and five hundred sit-ups a day,
and thanks to countless hours of strengthening exercises, her ankle was good as new—better, even.

She looked around at her fellow dancers lunging in deep quad stretches against the barre, picturing herself dancing among
them, her moves just as tight as her severe bun. Today, she was sure she would finally impress Mimi, who would applaud her
for sticking to the routine, for memorizing it perfectly while sitting on the sidelines. In just a few minutes, she’d finally
get the praise she so desperately needed to regain her confidence.

“Lookin’ serious, Sleeveless!” joked Prue, winding an errant strand of red hair around her messy bun. “You’re like Britney
on her comeback tour.”

Skye glared at the Nicole Kidman wannabe. The comparison to Britney hit her like a punch in the stomach; she’d sprained her
ankle, not shaved her head and lost her mind! She made a mental note never to ask Prue to dance backup for her once she’d
made it big.
You have no idea how seriously I’m about to dominate this studio.

“We’ll see,” smirked Triple. She rolled her eyes like she knew something Skye didn’t… like Skye had been the butt of every
joke among the bun-heads during her ankle-healing absence.

Triple, short for Triple Threat, was Skye’s bunk-mate in the Jackie O house along with Charlie and Allie J. Skye wished she
could undo whatever computer error was responsible for housing two dancers in the same dorm; putting up with the Goody Tap-shoes
“mo-dan-tress” day and night was like wearing a pair of too-tight toe shoes: uncomfortable at best, scream-inducing at worst.

“That all you got?” muttered Skye, turning her back on Triple and surveying the room. She wasn’t in the mood for the girl’s
mega-negative vibes.

She had been running through the steps of Mimi’s latest in her head all morning, along with some of Shira’s inspirational
Alpha phrases like “there’s nothing prettier than hard work paying off,” and “when in doubt, be the best.” For the last two
weeks, ever since Shira had quadrupled the number of surveillance cameras on the island, it had been all dance and no fun
for Skye. But today it was finally going to pay off. Skye had been doing everything possible to honor her HADs (Hopes and
Dreams), which she’d written on slips of paper and stuffed inside the lavender ballet slipper her mother, the once-famous
prima ballerina Natasha Flailenkoff, had given her the day she had received her acceptance package from school.

HAD No. 1: To stay at Alpha Academy.

HAD No. 2: To stay on Charlie’s good side (no more blabbing Jackie O secrets to bun-heads!).

HAD No. 3: To heal and dance by morning.

HAD No. 4: To swear off boys until graduation.