Authors: Lisi Harrison
“Barf!” she choke-shouted and then dry-heaved. The tart sludge clawed at her taste buds, and then she reflexively sucked her
cheeks 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 somewhere in the
Mojave Desert. 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.
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 getting 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.
“Um, hello? Can I watch a movie?” Allie asked the empty cabin. Maybe the flight attendant was sitting up front with the pilot?
Suddenly 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,” the British voice informed her over the intercom. 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 the most exclusive academy in the world 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 in downtown Santa Ana. 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.
“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 than
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 into 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’d even offered to
tag along with the couple to Disneyland for their eleven-month anniversary, and sketch picturesque moments of their enchanted
day in charcoal.
“Ha!” A bitter laugh escaped Allie’s waxy Burt’s Bees–coated lips—the natural balm was 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. 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. She’d lost her boyfriend and best friend all in
one afternoon, and the loneliness and betrayal hurt more than a lip wax. 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.
Until two days later, when her lo mein arrived with 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, and what kind
of gift he was sending to make it up to her. A gold mobile device fell onto her duvet-covered lap along with a letter. It
looked like an iPod dipped in glitter.
Huh?
Dear Allie J,
Welcome to the inaugural class of Alpha Academy
…
Allie whipped the letter onto 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 girl’s fan mail for years. The songwriter had grown up on the Applemay Farm Commune just five miles
outside Santa Ana. But ever since she’d left on some save-the-melting-ice-caps mission in Antarctica, the letters 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:
1. A green eye behind a mess of black hair.
2. Her thin body photographed from behind. She was onstage, facing the audience at New York’s famed Nuyorican Poets Cafe in
a white dress and bare feet.
3. 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 heartbreak recovery 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. Sure the Academy was intended for artists, writers, and inventors, but Allie had her own gifts. She could remember
the lines from any romantic comedy she’d ever seen with the accuracy of a sci-fi geek memorizing
Battlestar Galactica.
She could apply makeup like a painter. She was a veritable celebrity historian: She knew the height, weight, dating history,
and clothing preference of every major star. And 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 Him.
“Sixty seconds until we enter the communication-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 typing.
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. The text 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 a few final lines.
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 the dress nine times and liberally spraying it with Clinique Happy,
Allie still smelled dead people.
“We are now in a communication-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.”
Allie craned her neck to see the view out of the plane’s mini windows to the Mojave Desert below. Joshua trees and cacti filled
in the blanks between expanses of red sand. Rock formations of red clay monsters climbed on top of each other and reached
for the sky, as if they, too, wanted to hitch a ride to Alpha Island. Allie triple-blinked as the desert gave way to an oasis
of blue. It was as if someone had taken a giant @-shaped cookie cutter and carved out an island. Allie glimpsed white buildings
beneath a canopy of palm trees, no doubt planted to provide shade from the Mojave heat and prying paparazzi.