by Lynn Mason
LYNN MASON
AN ORIGINAL PREQUEL NOVEL BASED ON THE
HIT SERIES CREATED BY J. J. ABRAMS
BANTAM BOOKS
NEW YORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND
Contents
Title Page
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Don't miss any of the Official Alias Books
Front Sales
Copyright Page
One of my biggest pet peeves is when people assume they know all about someone they've barely met. Take me, for example. I'm tall and thin and get my sensibly styled hair trimmed once a month (just a quarter inch, or if I'm feeling risky, a half inch, but only if Debbie is working that day—I can trust her).
Sometimes I wear tortoiseshell glasses that my best friend swears make me look like a librarian. On most days I can be seen carrying a backpack that weighs about thirty pounds. I don't drink or smoke. I'm athletic but prefer individual competition over team sports. I'd rather read Jane Eyre for the ninth time than the new issue of Cosmopolitan. I speak five languages (six if you count pig latin).
From these few details, people assume that I'm a brainiac. That I have no life. That I live in a world of books. That I spout off foreign phrases in my sleep. That I take too many solitary jogs.
You know what's pathetic? They're right.
But it's the start of my freshman year. Something out there is waiting for me. Some sort of higher calling or purpose or . . . or something. I can feel it. And I'm about to find out who—or what—it is. . . .
1
“YOU ARE NOT NORMAL!” Francie screeched, waving a pale-pink-tipped finger at Sydney. “What kind of person takes Spanish and Chinese as electives?”
Sydney Bristow rolled her eyes, but a soft smile stole across her mouth. She'd only known Francie Calfo since the summer and already she was used to these occasional flare-ups. With her melodic voice and her flair for the dramatic, Francie could easily turn an everyday conversation into a highly charged debate.
“Tell her, Baxter,” Francie said, elbowing her new boyfriend's lean, basketball-player arms. “Tell her that you're supposed to take electives like Famous French Films or Ballroom Dancing when you're a freshman.”
“Hey, man, I'm staying out of it,” Baxter replied, lifting his large hands in a gesture of surrender. “You two just keep on talking. I'm going to keep an eye out for that guy who sells ice cream.” He swiveled around on the bench and leaned against the table, checking out the UCLA scene on a sunny September day.
“Come on, Fran. I like languages,” Sydney said, turning her eyes back to her Spanish textbook. “I'm good at them. And besides, if I hope to get a teaching fellowship in a foreign country someday, it'll improve my odds.”
Francie leaned forward. “Yes, but will it help you get guys?”
Sydney laughed. “I don't know. Foreign guys, maybe.” She wished Francie would give it a rest. Ever since she'd started dating Baxter a couple of weeks ago, Francie had seemed intent on finding Sydney a guy of her own. Sydney had to admit she wouldn't mind either. But with one exception, she hadn't met any guys she would even consider going out with.
“So you're serious about this master teacher plan, huh?” Francie asked through a mouthful of salad. “You really see yourself standing in front of a classroom molding hundreds of minds? Young, obnoxious, sex-crazed minds?”
“Speak for yourself,” Sydney said, stretching back so that her white T-shirt rose slightly over her non-pierced navel. Although she wouldn't say so to Francie, she'd actually been trying to picture herself in that very position. Giving lectures at a podium. Scrawling passages from Sartre across dusty blackboards. Gossiping with the other overworked, underpaid teachers in cramped, coffee-cup-strewn lounges. Doing the whole teacher thing.
Only one thing was wrong with her mental picture. It wasn't happening for her. Not good for an education major.
Sydney had been looking forward to college forever. She had sailed through her college boards, so she hadn't had to suffer through any of UCLA's required courses. So far she was having no trouble with her classes. It was the students who were daunting. Everyone here was a standout—high school valedictorians (she among them), goal-scoring quarterbacks, computer geeks, drama queens, and rah-rah cheerleaders, all trying to fit in.
Not that she'd gotten to know anybody. Nope, out of the, oh, 30,000 students or so at UCLA, Sydney knew a whopping total of three: Francie, Baxter, and her friend from track, Todd de Rossi. The introductory courses, with their large lecture halls and even larger lecture groups, overwhelmed her. And while she had never been intimidated by brilliance, being around faculty members who were among the top scholars and scientists in the United States was a bit unsettling. She had witnessed upperclassmen engaging in lively debates and discussions with professors in the halls or as they walked across Dickson Plaza. One day, she'd overheard a professor offer to meet with a student over coffee to discuss a problem he was having. The professor's generosity impressed her—and made her wistful.
I bet Mom was like that, Sydney thought now, clicking her pen open and shut. Laura Bristow had been a highly regarded professor of literature at UCLA. She had had a passion for learning and for teaching. But that was before she died in a car accident when Sydney was six.
It had been a typical, hazy Friday night in Los Angeles. Sydney's parents had gone out to the movies while she stayed home with her nanny. A car had come from the opposite direction, crossing over the road's centerline. Her father had swerved to avoid it, and had careened off a bridge. He had survived. Her mother had not.
“She didn't have time to know what was happening,” Sydney's father had told her tiny, heartbroken six-year-old self, as if that small consolation made it all better.
Dad. Calm, cool, and utterly disconnected. The man was capable of smiling—there was proof of that in a sterling-silver-Tiffany-framed photograph he kept on top of his bedroom dresser of him and her mom and Sydney one sunny day in Venice. Mom, her hands on Sydney's bare, slightly peeling shoulders, laughing with her mouth half open. Sydney, holding a dripping ice cream cone, a smudge of chocolate on her chin, wearing that tank top with the rainbow decal. Dad, smiling over at his wife, at her obvious happiness.
Sydney couldn't remember ever seeing that smile in the flesh.
After her mother died, Sydney had grown up under her father's distant eye, spending more time isolated with her books than with family or friends. As time passed, her recollections of her mother faded. Just a few memories remained. . . . Catching fireflies in old applesauce jars with holes punched in the lids on a hot summer night. Riding the Matterhorn at Disneyland, screaming and laughing at the same time. Baking brownies and taking turns licking the orange Pyrex bowl clean. Watching her mother, her long dark glossy hair pulled back in a chignon, thumb through her collection of large, beautifully leather-bound books—a gift from her father that was now part of Sydney's own library.
It hadn't taken long for Francie to speculate that Sydney wanted to become a teacher not because she had a deep-seated passion to teach, but as a way to honor her mother's memory.
Was Francie right? Probably.
When she had been paired up with Francie at a special freshman orientation held at the beginning of summer, Sydney had been shy. She'd never been one to have lots of friends, and the bubbly, outgoing Francie had intimidated her. But there was something about Francie that made Sydney open up, and soon she had found herself spil
ling all sorts of things to her. Francie had confided in her as well, and by the time fall term began the two were fast friends—and roommates.
“Come on, Syd. I mean it,” Francie said with a pout, startling Sydney from her thoughts. “You should seriously think about closing that textbook and decide what you're going to wear to the Tropical Getaway party Friday night. We've been looking forward to it for weeks.”
Sydney sighed. “Bien. ¿Por que no?” She closed her book and slid it into her backpack.
“Good girl,” Francie said approvingly. “Now, are you going in your hula skirt or that flowered sarong?”
“I don't know. The sarong, I guess.”
“Excellent. So can I borrow your hula skirt to wear over my bikini? Please?” Francie asked, raising a hopeful eyebrow.
“Hey, I like the sound of that,” Baxter observed, turning back around.
“Oh!” Francie exclaimed, pointing at Baxter. “And then we can all three wear matching leis! Won't that be cool?”
“Uh . . . I don't know about that,” Baxter said, his grin disappearing. “I don't think I want to be all matching and wearing flowers around my teammates. The dudes'll call me Martha Stewart for the rest of the year.”
Francie rolled her eyes. “Sydney. Will you please tell him that we've progressed as a society and that men don't judge other men by what they wear anymore?”
“Actually, you haven't met my friend Todd,” Sydney said. “He's always finding fashion emergencies.”
“Thank you, Sydney,” Baxter confirmed. “Now, if you two lovely ladies will excuse me, I've got to start trekking across campus for my history class. Catch you later.” He leaned in and gave Francie a long kiss. Sydney looked down at her soggy salad and began rearranging lettuce leaves with her fork.
After what seemed like a mini-eternity, Baxter grabbed his backpack and began loping down the sidewalk. “Bye,” Francie called in a breathy voice. Then she turned back toward Sydney and flashed her a huge grin. “Isn't he amazing? I am really looking forward to the party. The three of us are going to have a blast!”
“Yeah,” said Sydney, drawing the word out slowly. Being a third wheel on Francie's date. What a hoot. “You know, I've gotta ask. Are you sure you want me tagging along?”
“Syd.” Francie blew out her breath. “You won't be tagging along. We want you to come. Of course . . .” She smiled slyly. “You could always ask someone to come with you and make it a foursome. Maybe that certain someone in your literature class?”
Not this again, Sydney thought, taking a long sip of her bottled water. Definitely time to change the subject. “Oh, hey, can I see your newspaper?” she asked, nodding toward the folded copy of the Los Angeles Register lying in front of Francie.
“Sure,” Francie replied, handing it over. “Why?”
“I need a job.” Sydney quickly found the employment section and spread it open.
“A job?” Francie repeated. “But I thought you had a scholarship?”
“I do,” Sydney said, her eyes slowly roving down the columns of ads. “Only it doesn't cover all my expenses. And I don't want to be calling up my dad all the time asking for money.”
“Right,” Francie said in a hushed voice.
Sydney was glad she didn't have to explain. Francie already knew well enough how difficult Jack Bristow could be. During their late-night talks, Sydney had opened up to her friend about her cold relationship with her father.
Johnathan “Jack” Bristow was a difficult man, to say the least. Always so caught up in his job at Jennings Aerospace as an airplane parts exporter, he never had much time for Sydney. On parent days the only person who would show up to see her was her former nanny. Letters from home consisted of signed checks with no notes attached.
Now that she was a declared psych major, Francie was always spouting off new psychobabble. To her, it was plain that Sydney's father had never recovered from his wife's accidental death. And the fact that Sydney resembled her mother so much only reminded him of the pain.
Maybe. It wasn't like Sydney had ever discussed it with him. Or ever would.
Sydney often took out the few precious photos she had of her mom and studied them closely. She and her mother had the same full, curvy lips, deep-set dark eyes, long, angular jawline, and abundance of chestnut brown hair. The main difference was the expression. In both the photos and Sydney's dim memories, her mother was always laughing and smiling. Sydney was more reserved—besides her height, it was the only trait she could trace directly to her father.
“See anything good?” Francie asked, pointing her cracker toward the paper.
Sydney shook her head. “Telemarketing . . . telemarketing . . . one that requires heavy lifting . . . fry cook . . . hairdresser . . . ugh! Here's one that says, ‘Professional photographer seeks hairy females.'”
“Yuck!” Francie exclaimed. “Wonder what his deal is.”
“Looks like I'm out of luck,” Sydney muttered, resting her chin on her fists. “I can't cook or give perms and I'm not particularly hairy. And the thought of selling stuff over the phone makes me want to retch.”
“I've got it!” Francie whacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Why didn't I think of it before? We need another waitress down at the restaurant. You should come and apply tomorrow when I go to work!”
“Are you sure?” Sydney asked, wrinkling her nose. “I've never waitressed before. I've never done much of anything, actually.”
“Not a problem. Aren't you great at everything?”
“Learning to say ‘Have a nice day' in Mandarin is one thing,” Sydney said. “Dealing with a surly short-order cook named Bubba is another.”
Francie gave her a look. “Let me say the magic word: tips.” She grinned. “That's the thing about waitressing. Some days it feels like the worst job in the world, but there's no other gig where you can leave with a wad of cash in your pocket.”
Sydney waggled her eyebrows.
“Oh, stop,” Francie admonished, laughing. “A legit job. It would be cool working together, don't you think?” she pressed.
Sydney nodded, slowly at first, then faster. “Okay, I'll do it.” She dove her fork back into her salad and began scooping out the soggy croutons—her favorite part. Okay. Waiting tables wasn't exactly her dream job, but it would at least give her some financial independence. And maybe, just maybe, it could give her a life beyond books.
All of a sudden, Francie reached out and grabbed Sydney's forearm. “Don't look now,” she whispered, “but here he comes.”
Sydney didn't need to look to know who Francie was referring to. His image had been seared into her brain ever since the first day of school, when he had sat down beside her and asked to borrow a pen—which he never returned. It was sad, she knew, but she actually got a secret thrill each time she saw him hold what she believed was her black Sharpie in his slightly calloused fingers.
She couldn't resist the chance to . . . experience him now. To catch sight of thick blond waves framing unusually large green eyes. Tanned skin that seemed to give off its own heat. Dimpled cheeks, and a cleft down the middle of his chin, like a scalloped edge on a piece of fine art.
Guys like Dean Carothers didn't grow on orange trees. He was special, one of those rare human beings who belonged in an Abercrombie & Fitch ad. In a body-baring music video with pulsating beats accentuating his every move. Sipping café au lait in Paris, a scarf wrapped around his neck, his glossy hair mussed by the breeze.
Primal attraction aside, there was something else about Dean that drew Sydney to him like a honeybee to nectar. It was the way he moved, with the assurance of someone who was very used to getting his own way, radiating self-confidence with his constant smile and fluid, effortless movements. The type of guy who saw what he wanted and went for it. She couldn't help admiring that. Among other things.
He was now just a few feet away. A sizzling sensation crept over her neck and cheeks. Instinctively, she propped up her Spanish textbook and ducked be
hind it.
“Syd!” Francie scolded in a loud whisper. “Don't hide from the guy. Go over there and say hi.”
“Why? I'll just end up acting stupid,” Sydney mumbled, peering furtively around her book as Dean sauntered past, all broad shoulders and high-wattage smiles for lucky passersby. She had never had a real boyfriend. Being around guys that were even one-tenth as beautiful as Dean had always made her feel brainy and tongue-tied and a variety of other emotions that were definitely not good ones.
“You will not,” Francie countered. “Come on. Go over and ask him to the party.”
Sydney shook her head. “It's not that easy. I can't just ask him out of the blue like that.”
“Why not? You said he talks to you all the time in class, right?”
“Well, yeah. But he's just asking about my notes or the essay assignment,” Sydney replied, wishing that she were just being modest. “Nothing major.”
“So?” Francie cried. “He's probably been flirting with you all this time and you don't even realize it.”
Sydney chuckled. Since when had Francie started taking drugs? Guys like Dean didn't flirt with her. They didn't do anything with her. “I don't think so, Fran.”
“Listen to me.” Francie leaned forward and stared directly into her eyes. “Just go over there and talk to the guy. That's all. This party is the perfect excuse to try and hook up. And right now when he's alone is the perfect time to approach him.”
Sydney bowed her head and risked a casual glance over her shoulder. Dean was sitting at a shady picnic table all by himself, without the group of people who typically trailed in his wake. Francie was right. If she ever wanted to talk to him privately, this was her chance.
She shot Francie a helpless look. “You really think I should?”
Francie grinned. “Go for it now, before you change your brilliant mind.”
“Okay.” Taking a deep breath, Sydney pushed herself up and forced her legs to carry her toward him.