Alphas

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 leave people wanting more.”
A ripple of annoyance crawled up Skye’s spine. Who’d died and made Renee the boy whisperer?
Triple Threat fell gracefully over her legs. “You’re lucky Mimi isn’t here yet.” She leaned sideways and grabbed her heel. “You’re late.”
“And you’re lame,” Skye shot back hastily, even though the comeback wasn’t her best.
“Are you just going to stand there picking your sleeves?” Triple jutted one hip out.
The others, backlit by the blazing sun, tittered into their various body parts.
“Are you just going to stand there picking fights?” Skye countered.
“Silence!” snapped a statuesque woman. Her caramel-colored skin was so perfect it seemed airbrushed. With catlike grace she padded to the front of the studio, the shapely results of decades of dance undulating under her bronze Lycra dress. “If you want to fight in my classroom, I’m all for it. But use your bodies, not your mouths. I don’t ever want to hear what you have to say again. I only want to see it.”
Triple lowered her leg from the barre and pliéd her respect.
Skye stood even straighter. A moment of self-loathing gripped her like toe shoes. The single-named legend had been her mother’s idol for years.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed this is not your average dance studio.” Everyone nodded in agreement. “You can be seen from all over campus.” She gestured to the window-walls. “If you miss a step, everyone will see. Just like onstage. Understood?” She lifted her palm in a swooping motion.
The girls assumed first position.
“Now show me why Shira picked you. Music: On,” Mimi ordered. “Instrumental. Minor-key tonality. Bass-centric.” The room’s hidden speakers responded to her voice command. A hip-hop beat thundered from the floor up. “Watch first. Ah-five-ah-six-ah-sev-un… eight.” Mimi unfolded like a flower as she demonstrated an intricate routine made up of soutenus, stag leaps, and pencil turns. Skye burned the steps to memory, leaving room for a few tricks of her own. Challenging? Yes. Too challenging? Never.
“This time without me,” she panted. “Re-cue music. Ah-five-ah-six-ah-sev-un… eight.”
Skye tuned out the others and replicated every soutenu, stag leap, and pencil turn with remarkable accuracy. Then she added some sizzle to the steak with a few snaps and switches. She didn’t need mirrors to tell her she was on. The crowd gathering below the studio was all the reassurance she needed.
Mimi wove through the dancers and stopped alongside Skye, who extended her arms farther, ready to catch the instructor’s praise.
“Music off!” Mimi shouted, taking her place at the front of the studio. “Playback Skye.”
At Mimi’s command, a hologram of Skye appeared, her digital smile confident. All the girls awwwed in amazement at the projection. Skye shifted her feet to first position. It was a little early to be casting her as the one to watch, but not the least bit surprising. Jealousy-glares warmed her like a spotlight.
“Music. Dance.” The faux Skye launched into the routine, and the real Skye’s eyes widened in amazement. So that was why there were no mirrors. Why settle for 2-D when you could watch your hologram execute a perfect piqué in every possible dimension?
Skye squeaked with joy. Her routine was more stunning than she’d thought. Ending her drop-and-recover with a head snap was brilliant. Funny how the dramatic could become exquisite with a few simple tweaks.
When virtual Skye vanished, Mimi crossed her lithe arms over her ribby bird chest. “Thoughts? Ophelia, please begin.”
“Good turnout?” She tugged nervously on one of her braids.
“Yes. In general, her form is decent.”
Decent? Decent was how her father described the mileage on his new Audi.
“What about her style?” Mimi gazed at her pupils. “Andrea?”
Triple bristled at the sound of her real name. “Cheap.”
A few of the girls giggled.
“I was referring to her dance style.”
More giggles.
“Which was wonderful…”
Skye beamed.
“… if she were dancing for a crowd of tourists in Times Square subway station, or perhaps the overly appreciative residents of a senior center. But highly inappropriate for a professional hired to execute a routine with perfection.”
Humiliation tingles stung Skye’s skin, and no one dared laugh this time. “I was just trying to—”
“To what?” Mimi barked, a faint trace of her Eastern European accent escaping. “To distract us with your flashy wrist warmers?”
“Distract?” Skye’s ears began to ring. She felt like she was shrinking more than her fading hologram. If only…
“You’re here to dance, not play dress-up, so lose the sleeves.” Mimi’s voice took on a hard edge. “Besides they’re in violation of the uniform code.”
Lose the sleeves! The words ricocheted through Skye’s body and stabbed her in the heart. Fighting tears, she peeled them off slowly. Her arms felt naked and exposed. Her identity stripped.
Mimi held out her hand like a gum-hating teacher. Skye released the sleeves sadly.
“Let’s go again. Follow the routine, not your impulses. Music on. Ah-five-ah-six-ah-sev-uhn, eight.”
Skye began, but could feel herself a split second behind everyone else. A Rorschach pattern of sweat spread under her arms.
With an exasperated sigh, Mimi stopped the music again. “I guess it wasn’t the sleeves causing the drag.”
Skye’s lips began to twitch. Why was Mimi picking on her?
“No sulking. Don’t think. Feeeeel. Keep dancing… Andrea, promising lines. Soften your face… Prue, more hips, less lips… Ophelia, neutral spine… Less butt, Lacey! In fact, all of you can use less butt. I can’t see your muscles with all of that flesh.” Mimi curtsied, swung a gold tote over her shoulder, and exited without another word. “Practice on your own, girls. If you need to work through lunch, so be it.”
For the first few seconds, no one spoke. A volatile dance teacher, no lunch, and the possibility that they were fat were a lot to process.
Finally, Ophelia broke the silence. She pinched a leg warmer, showed it to Skye, and whispered, “It could have been me.”
Skye smiled appreciatively and then noticed her sleeves hanging over the barre. Lifeless and empty, they looked like anorexic sock puppets.
“Lunch will commence in five minutes,” announced the Brit through the speakers overhead.
“We better go, Triple,” Skye said to the campus below as it filled with alphas on their way to the Pavilion.
“Go where?” Triple released her bun. Her hair fell like a velvet curtain.
“The spa,” Skye said with lots of duh. “The Jackie O’s are scheduled for welcome treatments at noon today, helloooooo?” She leaned forward and whispered: “Our lunch will be served there, remember?” Skye winked at their good fortune, but Triple still looked confused. “Thalia told us about the change during breakfast.”
“Oh yeah.” Triple’s light brown eyes flickered like a faulty lightbulb. Then she shrugged. “Oh well.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“We obviously can’t go.” She air-swept her arm like she was about to plié. “Look around. Everyone is practicing.” Triple brought the hand back to her hip. “And it seems like you need all the practice you can get.”
“Opposite. I over-delivered.” Skye narrowed her turquoise eyes.
“Can you lead us in a routine, Triple Threat?” Prue called from across the room. The girls were forming a line. All they needed was a leader. The others nodded. Those nods looked familiar. They used to belong to Skye.
It was more painful than tendonitis.
“I’m outta here.” Skye turned on her heel.
“Where are you going?” Ophelia called from her place in line.
“The spa.”
“What about practice?” Lacey asked, her giant head and small body reminding Skye of Tweety Bird.
“I’m gonna loosen up at the spa instead. We’re all probably a little stiff from our flights yesterday.”
Ophelia, Lacey, and Sadie exchanged glances.
Skye squinted, noticing their potential interest. “Wanna come with me?”
“They can’t!” Triple shouted.
“Why?” Skye kept her cool. “No one will know they’re gone.”
The girls nodded enthusiastically.
“Mimi will!” Prue insisted.
“Are you gonna tell her?” Ophelia butted in.
“No. I wouldn’t do that. But she’ll find out.”
“Hey.” Tweety leapt through the air. “Aren’t we supposed to be fighting with our bodies?”
Skye and Ophelia cracked up.
“I’m in,” Ophelia announced.
“Me too,” chirped Tweety, landing.
“You’re taking a big chance,” Triple warned.
“You dance it and we’ll chance it.” Skye smirked.
Ophelia and Tweety grabbed their bags and followed Skye out of the studio. They weren’t copying her moves yet—but at least they were following.