Movers and Fakers Read Free Page A

skirt. Skye chin-thrust a
     greeting in return, quickly shedding her sweatsuit and revealing her silver dance cami and shirred silver boy shorts. Showing
     off her glutes made her feel powerful and confident, something her elephant-size ankle bandage did not. She suppressed a smile
     as all six eyebrows at the barre shot up in appraisal of her missing ankle brace and butt-hugging outfit.
    Prepare to be jealous, girls.
    With Skye’s regulation Alpha-issued dance attire, there was nothing out of place. Her bun was the tightest and slickest in
     the room, preventing her white-blond curls from whipping around and inspiring her to attempt crazy feats of experimental self-expression
     during class. Her dance sleeves, the trademark accessory of the old Skye, were now charred around the edges, tucked away in
     a shoebox under her bed. She’d tried to burn them on the beach one night as part of her commitment to impressing Mimi, their
     instructor, who had a drill sergeant’s soul wrapped in the body of a world-class choreographer. Unfortunately, the sparkly
     lycra/viscose blend refused to burst into flame, so she’d watched the sleeves smoke and smolder for a while before stamping
     them out and giving up. Her body was toned and trim from weeks of salmon, egg whites, greens, and five hundred sit-ups a day,
     and thanks to countless hours of strengthening exercises, her ankle was good as new—better, even.
    She looked around at her fellow dancers lunging in deep quad stretches against the barre, picturing herself dancing among
     them, her moves just as tight as her severe bun. Today, she was sure she would finally impress Mimi, who would applaud her
     for sticking to the routine, for memorizing it perfectly while sitting on the sidelines. In just a few minutes, she’d finally
     get the praise she so desperately needed to regain her confidence.
    “Lookin’ serious, Sleeveless!” joked Prue, winding an errant strand of red hair around her messy bun. “You’re like Britney
     on her comeback tour.”
    Skye glared at the Nicole Kidman wannabe. The comparison to Britney hit her like a punch in the stomach; she’d sprained her
     ankle, not shaved her head and lost her mind! She made a mental note never to ask Prue to dance backup for her once she’d
     made it big.
You have no idea how seriously I’m about to dominate this studio.
    “We’ll see,” smirked Triple. She rolled her eyes like she knew something Skye didn’t… like Skye had been the butt of every
     joke among the bun-heads during her ankle-healing absence.
    Triple, short for Triple Threat, was Skye’s bunk-mate in the Jackie O house along with Charlie and Allie J. Skye wished she
     could undo whatever computer error was responsible for housing two dancers in the same dorm; putting up with the Goody Tap-shoes
     “mo-dan-tress” day and night was like wearing a pair of too-tight toe shoes: uncomfortable at best, scream-inducing at worst.
    “That all you got?” muttered Skye, turning her back on Triple and surveying the room. She wasn’t in the mood for the girl’s
     mega-negative vibes.
    She had been running through the steps of Mimi’s latest in her head all morning, along with some of Shira’s inspirational
     Alpha phrases like “there’s nothing prettier than hard work paying off,” and “when in doubt, be the best.” For the last two
     weeks, ever since Shira had quadrupled the number of surveillance cameras on the island, it had been all dance and no fun
     for Skye. But today it was finally going to pay off. Skye had been doing everything possible to honor her HADs (Hopes and
     Dreams), which she’d written on slips of paper and stuffed inside the lavender ballet slipper her mother, the once-famous
     prima ballerina Natasha Flailenkoff, had given her the day she had received her acceptance package from school.
    HAD No. 1: To stay at Alpha Academy.
    HAD No. 2: To stay on Charlie’s good side (no more blabbing Jackie O secrets to