Authors: Lisi Harrison
Just then Darwin appeared on the beach and the world went slo-mo. His caramel-colored waves fluttered around his head, each
perfect strand glinting in the sunlight.
He strolled over to the Adam and Eve statues. His long, easy strides were effortless compared to Fletch’s well-rehearsed strut.
With each step, sand billowed around him, as if every granule was jumping up to kiss his tanned legs. Charlie glanced up at
him and smiled awkwardly. Darwin lowered his head but remained by the statues—and Charlie. Barefoot, their toes looked happy
to see each other. Their mouths did not.
Allie felt like she was watching a chick flick on mute—the kind that left her in a mess of tears before the first act had
even ended.
Keifer whistled shrilly, and everyone gathered around. Dry sand caked Allie’s wet feet and took shelter between her toes.
Sand that other barefoot people had stood in.
Ew!
If she ever got Reneed, surgical foot scraping would be at the top of her to-do list.
“Join hands,” Keifer said, offering her palms to Bridgette and Tatiana.
Allie was stuck between Hannah and Yara; an a-hole and a C-cup. Thankfully, she had a little bit of Purell on standby.
Charlie turned a Kermity shade of green and reached for Darwin’s hand. He took it with a mix of longing and disgust, like
a hungry vegetarian waiter serving a burger.
How was this happening again? Weren’t beautiful people supposed to be in the
center
of love triangles—not impaled by their sharp points?
“Everyone please close your eyes,” Keifer whispered.
Everyone did but Allie. Through her green lenses, she peered across the circle at Darwin. His expression was tight and strained,
like he was holding in a poo. The possibility that he might not be enjoying Charlie’s hand warmed Allie’s icy insides. But
not enough to melt them. He’d have to look her in the eye for that to happen.
“A good writer describes the world without platitudes…” Keifer began her morning lecture.
Allie searched her classmates through the blur of a scrunched eye. Was she the only who had no idea what
platitudes
meant?
“And a
great
writer describes it with emotions.” Keifer paused, allowing her words to penetrate her pupils’ champagne-colored blouses
and fill their hearts with hope. “Today’s in-class assignment is to write about the euphoria of love as inspired by this garden.
Grab your tablets, find a spot in the sand by your favorite statue, and begin.” Keifer picked up some sand and let it slip
through her fingers as through an hourglass. “You have ten minutes.”
Everyone opened their eyes and raced to get started.
Allie quickly squeezed a squirt of Purell and rubbed vigorously. But for the first time ever, her hands didn’t want to sanitize—they
wanted to write. She leaned against Narcissus’s quads and tried to ignore the fact that Darwin was ignoring her. Then she
let herself go.
Only once did she let her eyeballs wander—Darwin had an adorable snarl on his lips and he tapped his tablet with purpose.
Hannah twirled her nose ring thoughtfully. And the tip of Charlie’s tongue poked out of her mouth as she searched the cloudless
sky for the perfect word.
“Time,” Keifer called, her fingers drained of sand.
Allie put down her tablet, feeling lighter—like the first time she’d shaved her legs.
She gazed out at the water, wondering if maybe Narcissus had had the right idea, falling in love with himself. She would never
dump herself for Charlie. Or Trina.
“Allie J, this should be perfect for you,” Keifer’s voice cut through her daydream. “Your songs always end on a positive note.
Why don’t you start us off today?”
The sun beat down on the back of her neck, but it was the seven sets of eyes on her that made her sweat. Darwin’s hazel irises
bored into hers, and she couldn’t help but feel like he was urging her to steer clear of triangles.
Casting her own eyes down at her screen, she blocked everything, and everyone, out. She could do this.…
“Everything here is bright and cheery like a Crest Whitestrip laugh. You could snap a shot with your eyes closed and still
score a postcard-perfect picture. Every inch of sand and every sculpted smile is here to make me feel my heart. And I do.
But like theirs, mine has turned to stone.”
Allie looked up and grinned. She was ready to accept her “most improved” award.
Yara was biting her bottom lip so hard it had turned white. A plastic surgeon couldn’t have raised Hannah’s brows any higher.
Charlie was staring at the sand, Darwin at the ocean.
Keifer cleared her throat. “Can you explain your piece to us? Where were you?”
Every time Keifer asked a question, Allie felt like she was under the bright lights of an interrogator. Back home, she and
her teachers had a
don’t ask, don’t answer
relationship. Now, even her teeth were nervous. “I was… I
was
right here.”
A few of the girls giggled.
Keifer shook her head in obvious disappointment. “Allie J, I asked you to write about euphoric love and you gave me despair.”
Allie pretzeled her arms across her chest defensively. “You said to reach inside, and that’s what I found.”
Weren’t her stories supposed to be objective? Or was it subjective? Whatever. Wasn’t she allowed to write what she wanted?
“Allie J, my assignments are not
suggestions
.” Keifer tucked a strand of black hair behind her earringless ear. “I asked for a description of a warm, loving place and
you drained it of life and turned it to rock.”
Are you kidding me?
Allie wanted to scream. She’d once rolled down a runway in the Riverside Mall in a bikini and skates, but Keifer was the
one who made her feel naked.
But I’m trying! I’m finally trying!
A tidal wave of anxiety crashed over her, and Allie couldn’t bear it any more. Throwing her tablet in the sand, she stood
up and ran.
“Allie J!” Keifer called. “Stop!”
But Allie couldn’t. She bolted as fast as her bare feet would take her, as if she were trying to outrun herself, trying to
shed her flawless skin and the expectations that came with it.
She reached the tree line and returned to the woods without looking back.
“Allie J!” Keifer tried again.
But Allie J wasn’t her name, and she wasn’t answering to it. Not anymore.
Skye sat in the corner of the dance studio elevating her swollen ankle on a Recovery Lounger. The gel-filled La-Z-Boy alternated
from hot to cold every twenty minutes to keep injuries from turning into surgeries. It also worked wonders on swelling heads.
One more class on the sidelines and Skye’s ego would be the size of an airbrushed pore.
Mimi sashayed by while demonstrating a cabriole. She landed a yard away from Skye’s foot and gasped, “Music, pause!” Every
dancer stopped along with the music, and Mimi heel-toed over to the Recovery Lounger. She gripped her hips. “Sleeves, have
you completely given up?”
“Of course not, no.” Skye’s melting spine stiffened.
What was Mimi talking about? She had spent the better part of an hour committing every step to memory; couldn’t she see Skye’s
eyes working overtime? Her mind’s feet were moving to Mimi’s choreography, her ankle throbbing to the beat of the smoky jazz.
Dutifully, she watched the girls embody trees, while she left like a felled sequoia gathering moss.
“What is that?” Mimi asked Skye’s dance shoe. The gold satin was marred with crust that looked like toothpaste.
Triple smirked, as if wanting the class to know she was partly responsible.
“I don’t know,” Skye lied. But come on, what was she supposed to say?
My housemates wrote
Spy Hamilton
in shaving cream and I stepped in it on my way to the bathroom
?
It’s a case of mistaken spydentity
?
Please don’t send me home
?
Mimi shook her head. “A true dancer always knows what’s on her shoes.” With that, she strutted back to the front of the class,
mindful of where her insured feet were walking.
The others turned their backs to Skye as though her swollen ankle was more contagious than swine flu. Even Tweety and Ophelia
seemed disinterested in a
you’re only as good as your last soutenu
sort of way. And they were kind of right. What good was a girl with no friends and no game? Unless they planned on sacrificing
her to the alpha gods or donating her organs to the science majors, Skye would be boarding a PAP by sundown.
Mimi clapped sharply. “Even the tiniest flaws can sabotage your performance. And most of these flaws are bad habits you picked
up when you were just starting out.” A black corkscrew curl escaped her bun and bounced alongside her cheek. Skye envied its
playful giddiness and natural shine, two qualities she no longer possessed.
Mimi grabbed her aPod off the holster around her hips and pressed some buttons. Six holograms flickered to life.
“Wow!”
“Amazing!”
“Is that me?”
“Ohmuhgud!”
Staring at Skye from the other end of the Recovery Lounger was a little girl dressed in a tutu. Her wavy blond hair had been
French-braided to bathing-cap tightness. Her broad smile was missing two teeth, and white-blond brows sat like silky bows
on top of Tiffany box blue eyes.
“Girls, meet your younger selves.” Mimi announced with the crazed smile of a mad scientist. Her brown, almond-shaped eyes
radiated pride. “We created a computer composite based on the recital tapes you sent with your applications. I have pinpointed
the exact moment you strayed from perfection and would like you to discover it as well. We must locate and understand the
problem before we can fix it.”
Triple raised her hand and spoke. “Um, excuse me, Mimi, but um, what if we don’t have a problem?”
“Yeah,” echoed some of the others.
The teacher’s ribs lunged up against her bronze bodysuit, then pulled back, like an angry attack dog chained to a fence. “Oh,
you have flaws, Andrea, believe me. Starting with your need to give yourself a nickname so everyone knows you have talent.
But that’s an issue for the psych department. I’m here to focus on your physical flaws, of which you have several. You all
do.”
Skye rolled her wrists nervously, willing Mimi to avoid rattling them off in public.
“For example”—Mimi paced the row of five—“Andrea, you’re precise, but you lack passion. I watch you dance and I think back
to the time I practiced kissing on my mirror. I hit my mark but felt nothing.”
Tweety twittered.
“I don’t know what you’re laughing about, Lacey.” Mimi circled the bobbleheaded girl. “You’re built like a lollipop. If you
want to stop sucking, put more power below the neck, or your skull will always upstage you.”
The temperature on the Recovery Lounger switched to icy. But Skye couldn’t stop sweating as Mimi made her rounds.
“Sadie, save the chopping for your culinary classes. In here I want smooth transitions. Ophelia, I’m going to hack off that
braid if you don’t bun it up. It’s throwing off your balance. We dance with our hearts, not our hair. Prue, you’re tight.”
Prue beamed relief.
“Eat nothing but bran for three days straight. If that doesn’t loosen your blockage, consider a career as a mannequin. And
Sleeves…” Mimi paused to tuck the errant curl back into submission. “Stop searching for love in the studio. Find it within
yourself. If you don’t, you’ll bump up against walls for the rest of your life. Your freestyle isn’t dazzling—it’s distracting.
Perfect the moves, then add the grooves.”
The girls stood in silent horror. After a lifetime of being told they were the best of the best, they had been reduced to
puddles of sweat—Skye included. Only her sweat had been frozen into a sheet of salty ice, thanks to the Recovery Lounger.
Was Mimi right about her? Maybe. After all, she was right about the others. But as Skye replayed the teacher’s words, she
felt her cryogenically frozen spirits lift. Mimi’s critique was about her personality, not her poise. Maybe she had to strip
away all of that confidence and open her mind. Listen to her teachers and rebuild her foundation. Kind of like Icarus putting
a new coat of wax on his melted wings and vowing not to fly so high next time. Sure, Icarus was dead, but Skye was just broken.
There was still time. She still had a chance.
“I want you to spend the remainder of the class studying your younger selves to see if you can tap into the moment your skills
soured.” Mimi clapped. “Music on. Dancers, begin.”
The girls watched in wonder as their mini me’s danced across the studio, showcasing routines they hadn’t seen in years.
Skye’s mini took a seat on the arm of the Recovery Lounger, indifferent to the cold.
“Dance,” Skye commanded, feeling semi-insane talking to the ghost of Skye past.
The girl glanced at Mimi, then the other dancers, and shook her head no.
“Why not?” Skye pressed.
“No one is watching. I’ll wait until they’re paying attention to me. Then I’ll dance.”
Problem identified.
Skye had spent her life dancing for others: Natasha, Madame P, her friends, her crushes…
Did she love dancing or performing? It was a hard question to answer. No one had ever made her think about it until now. She
remembered a time when dance was the only thing that mattered. It was before she was good enough to be noticed. Before she
got addicted to applause. Before it became the thing that made her special.
“Sorry,” Skye heard herself apologizing to the flickering girl.
“For what?”
“For everything,” Skye mumbled, thinking of how she’d thought spa-ing with girls who weren’t even talking to her now had seemed
more important than practicing. How flirting with Taz could have gotten her expelled. How trying to out-dance Triple had landed
her in chair that went hot and cold more times than Blair and Nate.
Pushing her butt off the lounger, Skye grinned at her younger self. “Who cares who’s looking. Let’s dance! I’ll watch you.”