“So… you got back together with Syd and ditched Taz because of
Shira
?” Tweety shook her head sadly, her black-brown eyebrows knitting together in sympathy. “Poor Skye!”
“I don’t want a pity party.” Tweety’s sympathy was nice, but Skye needed a practical solution. She had enough self-pity to last a lifetime. “I want help! What should I do?”
A beat of silence passed in the steamy spa as each girl thought the question over. Skye stared miserably at the
billows of white steam surrounding her. The air in here reminded her of Syd—cloying and dense.
“If
he
dumps
you
, Shira can’t kick you out,” offered Ophelia.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Skye miserably. “I came to the same conclusion. But Syd is like a hungry puppy, and I have a porterhouse steak stuffed in every pocket.”
“We can figure this out,” said Ophelia firmly, sliding off her massage bench to come sit next to Skye. “Boys always hate me. How hard could it be?”
“Okay, got it!” chirped Tweety, grinning at Skye and Ophelia on the bench across from her. “Tell him he’s kissing wrong. Guys
hate
to be bossed around.”
“Can’t,” cried Skye. “He’s too sensitive. He’ll just do what I say, or cry.”
Ophelia sat up straighter. “Keep talking about how cute his brothers are!”
“Can’t. Too sensitive. See above.”
“Shave your head!” yelled Tweety.
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“He thinks I’m beautiful no matter what.”
Both Ophelia and Tweety gasp-gushed. “Aw!”
Then Tweety tried another angle. “Okay. What is he into? Other than you, I mean.”
“Poetry.” Skye rolled her eyes. She never wanted to hear
another poem as long as she lived. Syd had ruined the English language for her. “Romance. Crying.”
“Okay, I’ve got it.” Tweety jumped off her massage table and opened the door to the steam room. “You just need to be as un-poetic and un-dateable as possible.”
Skye pictured the un-dateable girls she’d known back in Westchester. They’d had bad hygeine, bad grades, bad clothes, or bad attitudes. Skye nodded. She could become un-dateable. She just had to be as ugly and hateful, inside and out.
“Tweety, you’re a genius!” Skye grabbed her spare towel and smiled as she wrapped it around her head, already coming up with gross ideas for her new un-dateable alter ego.
As she followed Ophelia and Tweety down the pink leather-lined hallway to the locker room, Skye’s mind relaxed along with her limbs.
Half an hour later, the three dancers stepped out of the Pavilion and into the still-bright late afternoon. Skye squint-smiled at her two companions. “Operation Gross-Syd-Out starts now.” She winked and high-kicked a sandaled foot gracefully in the air.
“Good, because here he comes,” Ophelia whispered, chin-thrusting toward the gravel path in front of them.
“Hey,” said Syd, shuffling toward them and clutching a
huge paper cup from the Alphas café. Skye fake-smiled at him, wishing for the millionth time that he had as much edge as his clothes did. His navy Alphas blazer looked like he’d run over it with a lawnmower, and dozens of safety pins sat clustered on his shoulders like punk epaulettes. Under the blazer, he wore a vintage Def Leppard T-shirt. “How was the spa?” His angular face crumpled into an eager smile, exposing the tiny gap between his two front teeth. His green eyes were stuck to Skye’s face like a set of cheap false eyelashes.
“Great,” Skye muttered, shooting a half-guilty smirk at Ophie.
“For my superstar.” Syd’s deep, gravelly voice didn’t match the cloying words he spoke, but his beaming smile did. He thrust the sweating cup into Skye’s hands. “I got you a strawberry-banana smoothie to rehydrate.”
Here goes nothing,
Skye thought, channeling Milly Vanderhooven from back in Westchester. Milly spoke exclusively in acronyms and loved discussing her digestive tract.
She smiled at Syd, her teal eyes meeting his green ones “OMG, TY!”
She wrapped her glossed lips around the straw, took a huge gulp of the smoothie, and then forced a burp, praying Taz wasn’t lurking anywhere nearby. Then she snort-giggled and snuck a look at Syd, who seemed unfazed. Tweety and
Ophelia covered their mouths, both girls struggling not to burst out laughing.
Skye studied Syd’s face for a reaction.
Nada!
His green eyes still shone with Skye-appreciation. “Nice one, babe. Once, I burped an entire Fugazi song.”
Skye needed to turn up her gross-o-meter, fast.
“Ew, my burp smells like salami!” Skye screech-giggled, fanning the air in front of her face with her hand. “OMG, Syd, tell me there isn’t salami in my smoothie!” She burped again, for good measure.
This time Syd’s thick eyebrows furrowed like kissing caterpillars and his full lips twisted into a grimace. Surely he was grossed out enough by his burping belle to take off running? Skye crossed her fingers on her right hand and held them behind her back.
“Is something wrong?” Skye grinned at him, practically tasting her freedom underneath her nasty burp.
“I’m going to talk to the chef ASAP. They need to make another one of these, or check the blender, or something. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Wait, Syd!” Skye tried, but he’d already broken into a jog and was headed straight for the café. She stared at his skinny jeans disappearing back into the Pavilion, her mouth hanging open in a bewildered
O
.
“Let’s ditch him in the cafeteria,” sighed Skye. “I need to think. And to think, I need to walk.”
“This is going to be tougher than we thought.” Ophelia frowned and threw her arm around Skye’s slumped shoulders. “But at least you got rid of him for now.”
Skye shook her head dejectedly, spraying a few water droplets from her damp hair onto her shoulders. “Yeah, but he’ll be back.”
Like salami, Syd couldn’t be kept down for long.
ALPHA INFIRMARY
PANACEA SUITE
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28TH
7:02 A.M.
Allie pressed the
CALL
button on the clear screen hovering in front of her, and Madame Vandertramp, her scarf-draped French teacher, went instantly mute on the video screen. Allie watched as Madame stabbed a whiteboard with her glamorous French-manicured fingers and silently explained the importance of
verbes reflexives.
“How can we help?” a melodic, health-promoting voice chirped from the screen.
“Um, could I have another pillow? And maybe some more soup?” Allie modulated her voice to sound pinched with a sinus infection.
“Right away, Allie. Some tea to go with it?”
“Sure,” Allie fake-coughed. “Thanks.” She pushed the
CLASS
button and was right back to French, having barely missed a thing. But her eyes drifted to the wall of her room, where a vertical waterfall burbled soothingly. Every few
minutes, the waterfall was tinted a different color. Right now, it was purple. Allie smiled, leaned back into her 1,000-thread-count sheets, and decided she’d have to fake sick for at least a week—the Alpha Infirmary was more relaxing than a five-star hotel.
Nurse Nightengale, the infirmary’s efficient chief, appeared silently, wearing a white lab coat cinched in the middle by a white leather belt decorated with a red patent leather cross. She smiled, her brow creased in an empathetic worry-line that made Allie feel as protected as if it were her own mother’s face hovering above her bed in Santa Ana.
“How are we feeling?” Nurse Nightengale said softly.
“Not so good,” she whispered, rubbing her glands on either side of her throat.
“Drink this,” Nurse Nightengale said. “And just relax. If you feel too tired to attend your virtual classes, we have a video library with all the latest movies and TV shows you’ve been missing. Research shows that watching humorous programming can actually cure ailments, so this is the one place on the island where it’s available.”
Ohmuhgud, rom-coms!
Allie’s fingers twitched in a Pavlovian response to her drug of choice, but she hid her hands under the covers and tried not to smile. She forced her head to nod slowly, hiding her excitement.
“I… I think I need to just lie here for a while and try to eat and sleep.”
“Of course, you do that. And just let me know if there’s anything else I can bring you.” With that, Nurse Nightengale’s clogs clomped out of the room, as she shut Allie’s door behind her.
Allie brought the soup spoon to her lips and smile-swallowed. The sick-meals here made her mother’s toast and ginger ale routine seem like prison food. The chamomile hibiscus tea tasted like it had been plucked straight from the tree. If you couldn’t get well and forget your problems here, Allie thought, you couldn’t be happy anywhere. Allie pushed another pillow behind her back and stretched out in bed, enjoying the feel of the temp-adjust sheets warming the soles of her feet and the knobby joints of her knees. It was so comfortable in this hospital that she could almost forget about Darwin rejecting her in the garden last night. Almost. She bit her lower lip hard enough to wince and squeezed her eyes shut, wondering how long she’d be able to hide out here.
“Pssst! Allie!”
Allie opened one navy blue eye and turned to the room’s window, where a set of twinkling brown eyes blinked back at her.
“Charlie!”
Charlie waved her over to the window and mimed opening it. “I brought you something.”
Charlie was such a good friend! Who else would bother
to track her down here? Allie jumped out of bed, wrapping her shiny oyster-colored robe around her narrow waist, and rushed over to the huge window.
“You sure you don’t want to just come in the regular way? It’s an infirmary, not a jail.”
Charlie grinned up at her. “Nah. This is way more
NCIS
.”
Allie yanked harder and slid the huge pane of glass up. She hoisted Charlie through the window, both girls giggle-grunting as they toppled onto the floor.
“Um, Al?” Charlie said, once they were in the room together. “Are you even sick? I’m getting a pretty healthy vibe here.” Charlie pulled Allie up off the floor and pulled up a chair next to Allie’s bed.
“I’m
emotionally
sick,” Allie whined, flopping back into bed and pulling the covers up to her chin. “I needed a place to heal from my Darwin-inflicted wounds.” She lay back and sigh-stared at the ceiling, sneaking a peek at Charlie when her friend didn’t answer.
Charlie crossed her legs, and then uncrossed them. Then crossed them in the other direction. She looked preoccupied, and her eyes darted around the posh hospital room before they landed back on Allie. But before Allie could ask what was up, the doorknob turned, followed by a sharp double-knock on the door. “Allie, may I come in? I brought you some Tylenol,” Nurse Nightengale’s soothing voice called.
“Sure, of course,” Allie coughed, back in sick-Alpha mode. She immediately fell back on her pillows, grabbed a fistful of tissues, and blew her nose as the nurse walked back into the room.
“Take two,” the nurse said, nodding curtly at Charlie and handing Allie two silver tablets.
“Dank you, Durse,” Allie sigh-groaned, feeling her eyes turn watery and the color in her face drain out until she was a sickly shade of eggshell. Faking sick had always been something Allie was good at, ever since Jordan Janowitz had pushed her face into the sand in third-grade recess and she needed a mental-health day to plot her revenge.
“Feel better, Allie,” Nurse Nightengale replied soothingly, leaning over her and swiping a credit card–sized thermometer over Allie’s forehead. “You have a slight fever. One oh one point one. Make sure your friend doesn’t stay too long.”
“Sure,” Allie said, willing her sweat ducts to open up on her forehead and release a hint of clammy exhaustion. “She’s just telling me about our homework for, um, a project we’re doing.”
Once Nurse Nightengale slid Allie’s door shut, she resumed her discussion with Charlie.
“So anyway, yeah. I’m emotionally ill. I threw myself at Darwin and he rejected me. Not to mention that AJ sings these vicious songs about me, and everyone else in school
except you and Skye still thinks I’m a psycho identity thief who deserves to be avoided like the plague.”
“But you’re about to hit your stride. All of this will just make you stronger!” Charlie smoothed out a wrinkle in her pleated mini and furrowed her brow emphatically.
“No, all of this would make
you
stronger,” Allie said, her voice wavering. She sat up and looked Charlie in the eye. “I’m not like you, Charlie. I’m not a real Alpha. I don’t have a real talent, or any idea of what it could be. It’s different for you. You go into that lab and you know exactly what you’re doing. I have no idea what I’m doing here. And without Darwin, I have no purpose—”
Just then, the door to her room opened, interrupting Allie and Charlie yet again.
Seriousleh, can’t they let a girl recuperate?
But she reasoned that it wouldn’t be the Alpha Island infirmary unless they pulled out all the stops.
“Knock knock, Allie,” Nurse Nightengale said, the mole on her chin wobbling as she talked. “I brought you a cool compress with juniper and begonia essence. Proven to reduce fever.”
Allie took the pink washcloth, monogrammed with two A’s in darker pink script, and fell back on her pillow. She whispered a tortured “thanks” before slapping the cloth onto her forehead and shutting her eyes.
“I’m going soon, I promise,” she heard Charlie say to the nurse.
When her door slid shut again, Allie continued.
“So for now, this is where I belong. In hiding. If I can’t be an Alpha at least I can do a great job of faking sick.”
“Faking sick is no way to get over…” Charlie stopped mid-rant and stared at Allie like she was her own personal science experiment. “Wait a second. Your performance in here, in front of the nurse! It’s Oscar-worthy, Allie. You’ve been sitting on this huge talent and calling it
faking
.”
“Faking is a
talent
?”
“Yeah,” Charlie laughed. “It is. It’s called
acting
.”
Allie ran an unsure hand through her honey-blond hair.
Acting?
She’d always been a good fake—she was great at faking being AJ, until the real AJ showed up and ruined it. She was great at faking deafness when AJ sang her crappy songs about her. She’d faked Cream of Wheat tasting good when she’d posed as a model for a supermarket coupon spread. And when she was ten, she’d done such a good job of faking sadness over the death of Sir Swimmy, her goldfish, that her father had gone out and bought her a kitten. Then she’d faked being allergic to Sizzles the kitten so she wouldn’t have to change his litter box.