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maybe they’d be able to help Skye devise a solution, or at least provide an umbrella during the storm.
    “So… you got back together with Syd and ditched Taz because of
Shira
?” Tweety shook her head sadly, her black-brown eyebrows knitting together in sympathy. “Poor Skye!”
    “I don’t want a pity party.” Tweety’s sympathy was nice, but Skye needed a practical solution. She had enough self-pity to last a lifetime. “I want help! What should I do?”
    A beat of silence passed in the steamy spa as each girl thought the question over. Skye stared miserably at thebillows of white steam surrounding her. The air in here reminded her of Syd—cloying and dense.
    “If
he
dumps
you
, Shira can’t kick you out,” offered Ophelia.
    “Uh-huh,” nodded Skye miserably. “I came to the same conclusion. But Syd is like a hungry puppy, and I have a porterhouse steak stuffed in every pocket.”
    “We can figure this out,” said Ophelia firmly, sliding off her massage bench to come sit next to Skye. “Boys always hate me. How hard could it be?”
    “Okay, got it!” chirped Tweety, grinning at Skye and Ophelia on the bench across from her. “Tell him he’s kissing wrong. Guys
hate
to be bossed around.”
    “Can’t,” cried Skye. “He’s too sensitive. He’ll just do what I say, or cry.”
    Ophelia sat up straighter. “Keep talking about how cute his brothers are!”
    “Can’t. Too sensitive. See above.”
    “Shave your head!” yelled Tweety.
    “Can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “He thinks I’m beautiful no matter what.”
    Both Ophelia and Tweety gasp-gushed. “Aw!”
    Then Tweety tried another angle. “Okay. What is he into? Other than you, I mean.”
    “Poetry.” Skye rolled her eyes. She never wanted to hearanother poem as long as she lived. Syd had ruined the English language for her. “Romance. Crying.”
    “Okay, I’ve got it.” Tweety jumped off her massage table and opened the door to the steam room. “You just need to be as un-poetic and un-dateable as possible.”
    Skye pictured the un-dateable girls she’d known back in Westchester. They’d had bad hygeine, bad grades, bad clothes, or bad attitudes. Skye nodded. She could become un-dateable. She just had to be as ugly and hateful, inside and out.
    “Tweety, you’re a genius!” Skye grabbed her spare towel and smiled as she wrapped it around her head, already coming up with gross ideas for her new un-dateable alter ego.
    As she followed Ophelia and Tweety down the pink leather-lined hallway to the locker room, Skye’s mind relaxed along with her limbs.
    Half an hour later, the three dancers stepped out of the Pavilion and into the still-bright late afternoon. Skye squint-smiled at her two companions. “Operation Gross-Syd-Out starts now.” She winked and high-kicked a sandaled foot gracefully in the air.
    “Good, because here he comes,” Ophelia whispered, chin-thrusting toward the gravel path in front of them.
    “Hey,” said Syd, shuffling toward them and clutching ahuge paper cup from the Alphas café. Skye fake-smiled at him, wishing for the millionth time that he had as much edge as his clothes did. His navy Alphas blazer looked like he’d run over it with a lawnmower, and dozens of safety pins sat clustered on his shoulders like punk epaulettes. Under the blazer, he wore a vintage Def Leppard T-shirt. “How was the spa?” His angular face crumpled into an eager smile, exposing the tiny gap between his two front teeth. His green eyes were stuck to Skye’s face like a set of cheap false eyelashes.
    “Great,” Skye muttered, shooting a half-guilty smirk at Ophie.
    “For my superstar.” Syd’s deep, gravelly voice didn’t match the cloying words he spoke, but his beaming smile did. He thrust the sweating cup into Skye’s hands. “I got you a strawberry-banana smoothie to rehydrate.”
    Here goes nothing,
Skye thought, channeling Milly Vanderhooven from back in Westchester. Milly spoke exclusively in acronyms and