Boys R Us

by Lisi Harrison

  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.

  Lik
e 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.