Alphas by Lisi Harrison Page B

voice trembled.
    “What was he supposed to do?” Allie J butted in. “Suffer? Just sit around and mope while you move on with your life?” Her
     voice began to tremble too, as if a fresh wound was talking for her.
    Yes!
Charlie wanted to answer. Darwin was
supposed
to be in mourning, just as she was, his heart cryogenically frozen the moment it broke, waiting for Charlie’s return so it
     could thaw. Of course, he had no idea that she’d done it in order to ultimately keep them together. But shouldn’t their history
     guarantee a future, even if the present sucked? Feelings didn’t turn on and off like aPods or transfer over like frequent-flier
     miles—even when the first-class upgrade came in the form of Allie J.
    “She’s right.” Darwin sided with Allie J. “You dumped me. On
Skype
!”
    “Maybe she just wasn’t that into you?” Allie J joked.
    No one laughed.
    Two quails scuttled across the yard, like a giddy couple on their first date. Charlie willed Darwin to put the pieces together.
     Her mom’s speedy exit. The boy ban. Her sudden admittance. But he just stood there, looking at Allie J like she was a Brita
     pitcher—taking in all the negative and pouring out purity and rainbows.
    “I better head to class.” Darwin stood.
    “Same.” Charlie’s eyes clouded with a 100 percent chance of rain. She turned and ran inside Jackie O without another word.
    There was only one thing left to say. But not to Allie J or Darwin.
    To Shira.
    After the first tear fell, Charlie grabbed her aPod and typed a name. Turned out snitching was easier than she’d thought.

11
THEATER OF DIONYSUS
HONE IT: FOR DANCERS
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 6TH
10:11 A.M.
    Skye stretched her hammys while gazing up at the soaring glass box in front of her. The dance studio had windows where mirrors
     should have been and a glass floor instead of gleaming cherrywood. A girl with strawberry blond waves skirted around Skye
     and zipped into the elevator, but Skye paused outside for another moment. Straightening her lavender mesh sleeves, she tilted
     her face up to the sun. The air smelled of honeysuckle and promise.
    “Wait for me!” a girl with two thick black braids woven with gold ribbon called from behind Skye. Skye recalled pooh-poohing
     the accessory when she was virtual shopping. Big mistake. Those strings had potential!
    “I like your sleeves,” said Gold String as they stepped inside the all-glass elevator. Her bright smile carved dimples in
     her cheeks.
    “Thanks.” Skye beamed, forgetting all about her accessory-envy. “They’re kinda my thing.”
    “Truly inspired.” The girl ran a tanned finger along the seam as if petting a furry caterpillar. “I’m Ophelia. I live in Angelina
     Jolie.”
    Skye introduced herself as the elevator shot them to the top floor with a minor jerk. They giggled nervously as the campus
     grew smaller and smaller below them. From up here, Skye could see the outline of the @-shaped island, the tram tracks that
     circled it, the glass-and-steel buildings growing out of the tropical foliage below, and the Mojave Desert in the distance.
    When they reached the top, five other girls in various, albeit boring, interpretations of the uniform were scattered about
     the all-glass studio. Skye grinned. Plain dressers were plain people. And plain people had no passion. And dancers without
     passion were like writers without ideas or actors without issues.
    Triple Threat stretched at the barre. “Heard from the boys?” she whispered.
    “Yup,” Skye replied faux-modestly, pulling her ankle to her butt. Not that she needed to warm up. She’d been born hot.
    Triple nod-approved. “Mel texted me, but Renee said I should wait at least one hundred thirty-nine minutes before texting
     back.”
    “A hundred thirty-nine minutes?” Skye repeated.
    “That’s three episodes’ time,” Triple explained, retying her dance shoe. “Something to do with suspense and drama. Apparently
     three-episode arcs always