Boys R Us

by Lisi Harrison

  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.