The Strange Adventures of Team Alpha: Magickans, Teenagers, and Misfits!!

Chapter One: Summer Doesn't Turn Into A Bummer

" Live in the sunshine, swim in the sea, drink in the wild air. " -Ralph Waldo Emerson

I woke from a deep sleep, gradually regaining a sense of awareness. The silk sheets and down quilts of my bed encompass my entire body in a warm embrace, which makes my hair stand up on end. It reminds me of the way my fathers hug me. All engulfing, intimate, full of love. It's a comforting thought that pulls my lips up in a smile. After a restless night, just picturing my dads is enough to melt away the exhaustion that hangs over me like a dark shadow. With eyes crusted with sleep, I take in my surroundings. A soft morning breeze fills my bedroom, the hot pink sari curtains framing my window floating elegantly. Judging by the brightness of the rays of sun beaming into the attic space, I can only assume that it's late in the morning. Sure enough, after I raise my arm towards the nightstand and grope at everything on its surface, my suspicions are confirmed. The screen of my official Lightning McQueen brand clock reads exactly eleven forty-five in bold, pixelated red numbers. Out of surprise, I sit up straight in bed. Wow, that's really strange. I don't sleep this late on a weekday normally, even if it is a Friday. Usually, my timer gets me up, or one of my dads come and bang on my door until I shout at them that I'm awake. Clutching my clock, I stare down at it as I try to figure out why it didn't go off. Did my stupid ADHD brain forget to set an alarm? No, that's not possible. I distinctly recall doing that after I'd finished writing a couple songs. Maybe the batteries died, and either Lightning or Francesco noticed and switched them out with fresh ones for me, while I was zonked out. That could have reset it. Still, that's not like Lightning or Francesco, no matter how much I want to think so. Francesco is OCD over everything—germs, dirt, messes, the whole works—I won't hesitate to admit that. But barging into my room without permission while I was asleep, just to change the batteries? Or Lightning doing the same thing? That's what I call a long shot, in all honesty. Yes, my dads do get into my business when I don't want them to. However, they don't creep into my bedroom and touch my stuff. Sighing, I yawn. I guess the first scenario has to be what happened. Fuck me and my dumbass hyperactive disorder. Neither Lightning or Francesco are not going to be pleased to see me up this late. They weren't the last few times this happened. Despite the fact that I don't want to get lectured, I hoist myself out of bed with a groan. Come on, I was in a military training program with Sarge only last summer. I can't run from my consequences, or life's dealing of the cards of fate—even if they are absolutely ridiculous. I just have to grin and bear it.

A quick shower was on the docket for me, and that's just to start. I have to clean my room, which looks like Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the atomic bombs were dropped on them. If I don't, Francesco will go on a long tangent about tidiness, in Italian. My paper on the War of 1812 is due on Tuesday, along with my biology case study. That needs to get polished and submitted, if I'm hoping to go with McQueen to Radiator Springs this evening. Brutus and Agrippa need to be taken to the dog park, to get out all of their Golden Retriever and Bernese canine energy. Plus, on a less stressful note, I have to call my best friend. I haven't talked to Everest for a week, since he flew to Norway last Monday. I could use a debate over what the best race in Dungeons and Dragons is, an exchange of dirty adult jokes, or even a comedic monologue of everything going on in our fast-paced-in-the-spotlight teenaged lives. God, I miss him, even with his New-Age Buddhist rants and peculiar beliefs. Okay, so quite a long list of obligations. The lengthiest one this month. Nothing I can't handle though, I don't mind doing any of this stuff, I remind myself as I strip out of my Francesco Bernoulli NASCAR exclusive muscle shirt and NIKE short shorts. Hot water will be good for my aching muscles. Curse growth spurts. Curse all the inflamed acne on my face and back. Curse my period. You know what, curse puberty as a whole.

About twenty minutes later—after taming my mess of dark chocolate brown hair and changing into a vintage flannel and boyfriend jeans—I'm tromping down the stairs to the ground floor. Skipping several steps at a time, my feet are quite noisy against the designer Italian burgundy carpeting Francesco adored, and Lightning despised. If they didn't know I wasn't awake yet, they knew now. The smell of dark roast coffee, ravioli, and basil are thick and potent in the air, as I approach the downstairs floor. Dean Martin plays softly in the background, Francesco's operatic, heavily accented voice singing along to " That's Amore ". I will bet you a hundred bucks he's prancing around in the kitchen, holding a bowl of pasta sauce while dancing like he's in Swan Lake. Just give him a pair of ballet shoes and a sparkly Freddie Mercury leotard, and put him in the Royal Ballet. He'd fit right in. The actual likelihood of that idea makes me snort, as I turn the corner at the bottom of the staircase. The moment I step down on the floor, I lock eyes with Lightning McQueen. His baby blue orbs stare into my ice green ones, contemplating me with a sparkle of admiration. A father taking his nearly grown-up daughter in. He's kicked back in his leather recliner in the living room, his attention previously on the TV. Probably watching some testosterone pumped roid rage movie guys my age flock to see, with Vin Diesel or Arnold Schwarzenegger as the leading man. That doesn't take me aback. What does surprise me, is that he's still in his pyjamas, which is rare for him. His trademark spiky fiery red hair is in a dishevelled state, tousled and messily combed and standing up in all directions in a Sid Vicious style. A can of Red Bull rests in his hand, the other one buried deep in a bowl of zesty Doritos. Orange dyes stain the corners of his mouth, from him chowing down on chips. In nothing but a pair of red 80's track shorts and a tight-fitting novelty t-shirt from Radiator Springs, he looks comfortable and relaxed, the best I've seen him this week. Impishly he grins at me, pausing his movie.