to take in their surroundings.
Hammered silver coated the convex egg-shaped walls, reflecting prisms and rainbows all over the cabin.
“I’m made from sixty thousand recycled aluminum cans,” the wall announced in a woman’s warm British accent when she ran her
fingers over its warped surface.
She Purelled immediately.
Still, Allie never would have known that she was flying “green” if the plane’s automated voice didn’t remind her every time
she touched anything. She sank into her womblike recliner made from recycled tires. Allie liked that everything on the plane
used to be something else—everything here had a fresh start, a second chance, and now, thanks to Alpha Academy, so did Allie.
She took a sip of wheatgrass lemonade, Allie J’s favorite.
“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,”
Hammered silver coated the convex egg-shaped walls, reflecting prisms and rainbows all over the cabin.
“I’m made from sixty thousand recycled aluminum cans,” the wall announced in a woman’s warm British accent when she ran her
fingers over its warped surface.
She Purelled immediately.
Still, Allie never would have known that she was flying “green” if the plane’s automated voice didn’t remind her every time
she touched anything. She sank into her womblike recliner made from recycled tires. Allie liked that everything on the plane
used to be something else—everything here had a fresh start, a second chance, and now, thanks to Alpha Academy, so did Allie.
She took a sip of wheatgrass lemonade, Allie J’s favorite.
“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,”