Dancergirl (10 page)

I’m back on Clinton Street, in the sixth-floor hallway unlocking the apartment door, when my cell rings. “Sorry I didn’t beep, Mom. I just this second got home.”

“That’s not why I’m calling,” The wail of an ambulance interrupts so I know she’s near the hospital driveway. “I forgot to leave a note. Somebody left a bag for you on the mat in front of the door. I put it on your bed.”

“Okay, thanks.” I juggle backpack and keys, coat and scarf.

“Long rehearsal?”

“The longest.”

“Supper’s in the fridge,” she tells me.

“Got it. Thanks. Have a good night—”

“Ali? Don’t hang up.” She pauses to let a truck rattle by. “I’m sorry I’m not there to tell you in person, but I want you to know how proud I am of you.”

I sit at the kitchen table. “What did I do?”

“Didn’t you see the posters? I went to the market this afternoon and there they were. There you were! I am so excited.” She giggles. “I took down a couple when no one was looking.
I hope Lynette won’t mind. I’m keeping one and sending the second off to Baltimore. Maya will be
so
excited. How cute is it? ‘Dancergirls and Dancerguys.’ I wonder how Lynette came up with that idea.”

“Mom—” I start, but can’t quite bring myself to burst her bubble. “Never mind.”

“You don’t sound very excited, Ali.”

“Just tired. Had to ride herd on the little kids at tech so I didn’t get a chance to do my homework.”

“Don’t stay up too late. You want to be fresh for the performances this weekend. I reserved a ticket for Saturday night
and
the Sunday matinee—” A second ambulance screeches past. Mom sighs. “Gonna be a busy shift. Got to run. ’Night,
mija.
”

“’Night, Mom.”

Halfway through dinner, I remember the reason Mom actually called. I hurry into my room. Shake the plastic bag. Several pieces of fabric fall onto my bed. My costume! Obviously, Clarissa went home and finished it right after school. She left a note in her distinctive flowery writing. It’s a detailed set of instructions explaining how the pieces go.

Clarissa found a bunch of lacy thrift-store skirts. She sewed the tan one into a tight-fitting undershirt. Then she layered one of my old black leotards over it and made a bunch of “artistic” rips so tan lace peeks through black nylon. She sewed two skirts together in a torn, patchworky kind of thing. Then she punked the whole look up with chain belts from the seventies.

Watching myself in the mirror, I try a couple of moves. After seeing how the lights were designed, I’m pretty sure the costume will look great from the stage. If only I felt the same way about the dance. I can’t get what Sam said out of
my head:
I know for a fact that Lynette asked Eva to give you one of the spots.

The possibility that it’s true hurts more than I could have imagined.

My first thought, as always, is to call Jacy. I resist. If he blows me off, I’ll lose it. Instead, I text Clarissa to thank her for the costume.

Call online. Want 2 see how it looks on u comes the reply.

It takes a few moments to set up the laptop so Clarissa can see the whole costume.

“Turn around. Dance a bit.” On-screen, she bites her lip. “Do you want me to make the skirt a little shorter?”

“Uh-uh. I like how it swirls.”

She grins. “Me, too. I am soooo excited. My first dance costume. You better do good.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Just kidding. You’ll be great, I know it.”

“Yeah, well…” I feel myself deflate.

Clarissa catches the change. “What’s wrong? More creepy stalker stuff?”

“Not really. But at rehearsal today, Sam told me that I only got the solo because Lynette made Eva give it to me.”

Clarissa looks relieved. “That’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad? Don’t you understand? That means I don’t deserve it—the solo’s not good enough.
I’m
not good enough.”

She shakes her head. “You are. At least you are now. Didn’t you tell me Eva worked on it with you? She wouldn’t let you go onstage looking like a jerk.”

“Thanks. Again.”

“Stop wallowing, Ali. It’s what we told you when it all started.
Dancergirl
is going to help. It’s like having a rich
father, or an uncle in the business. Neither of which you have, in case you’ve forgotten that fact. Didn’t you tell me that Sam girl’s mother pays one of the teachers to coach her? This is your way of evening up the playing field.”

“Leveling the playing field,” I mumble.

“Whatever. People who have pull get places.”

“But—”

“No buts. Think of
dancergirl
like a grandfather in the business. Someone who gives you that extra little edge. You still have to live up to it. And I repeat—Eva would not let you go on if she didn’t think you’d do a great job. Just because something else helped you get it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

In homeroom Sorezzi stops by my desk. “Text me when you’re done with rehearsal.”

He called after Clarissa and I spoke last night. I couldn’t stall any longer so I said we could hang tonight. Sandwiched between first tech and dress rehearsal,
second
tech almost al ways goes quickly. The cues are set and it’s just a matter of running through.

“Probably be done by six,” I tell him.

When I arrive at Trinity, I sneak into an alcove high in the balcony to hide from Lynette and the rest of the dancers. I don’t want to get into it with any of them—nor do I want to play babysitter. Plus, I need to use the wait time to get my homework done. Luke wants to go into Manhattan, so I’ll be dead tired by the time the day ends.

The solo goes well. I hit the tape marks on the stage, feel the light. When it’s over, I slip into jeans, a pullover sweater and jacket. I’ve also got a green holiday scarf that I picked up at the secondhand store last year. I wrap it around my neck
using the jaunty-knot thing Clarissa taught me how to tie and imagine I look quite European.

As I walk down Montague, I keep my head down in the hope that none of my friends will notice me. I haven’t told anyone—and I mean
anyone
—that I’m meeting Sorezzi. It was an impulsive yes. Once the night is over, I will have kept my promise to go out and can just move on.

The subway entrance is packed with people coming home after work and I have a hard time finding him.

Someone taps me. “Behind you, Alicia Ruffino.”

“Luke!”

He pulls me toward the steps. “Come on. We’ve got lots to do before your curfew.”

I’d told him that I had to be home by nine o’clock. Mom will assume rehearsal ran late so I won’t have to get into the fact that I’m leaving Brooklyn on a school night.

We exit the subway at Herald Square and walk to Ma cy’s. The Christmas window displays are always fabulous.

Mechanical elves and dolls dressed in old-time costumes move smoothly inside detailed, complicated little Victorian sets. As we wait in the line for our turn to view the displays, I can’t help checking over my shoulder. I’m not sure how I think I’ll recognize the stalker in the middle of a bunch of tourists but glancing back has become second nature.

“Something wrong?” Luke asks.

I turn to face him. “Crowds freak me out lately.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t lose you.”

The line inches forward. Luke seems different. The cool ’tude that fits like a second skin has vanished. Eyes wide with excitement, stonerboy actually looks younger. Happier.

“Bet you used to come here with your mom,” I say—and
immediately want to kick myself. What a lame, insensitive thing—

Luke smiles. “How’d you know?”

Relieved that he’s not insulted, my hand slips into his. “Because I used to come with mine. Back in the day.”

“Back in the day,” he repeats. Then…silence…as we both remember clasping bigger hands in front of these windows, wondering if we can ever feel that safe again.

After we pass through the line, Luke buys two huge, salted pretzels from the cart on the corner. There’s another place he wants to go, but he won’t tell me where.

“It’s a surprise,” he says.

We head uptown, crossing streets and avenues crowded with tourists. The jangle of Salvation Army bell-ringers and a smoky smell fill the air—roasted chestnuts sold by street vendors. Luckily, we have the pretzels to munch as neither of us has much to say.

We pass Rockefeller Center. When I was little, Mom and I always made this our second stop. I tug Luke’s arm. “Let’s see the tree.”

I drag him around the corner so we can enter from Fifth Avenue. Rockefeller Center’s east border is directly across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Huge marble spires and stained-glass windows tower over the entire area. If you enter the plaza from that side, there’s an added sense of drama. A row of lit-from-within angels, spun from thick white straw, hold trumpets aloft. The huge creatures beckon.

I hop up to tightrope walk the long granite planter surrounding the angels.

“Follow the leader,” I call out.

Luke shakes his head, keeping his feet firmly on the ground. Stonerboy’s back but I don’t care. I’ve tightroped
that planter since I was been four and I’m not about to stop now.

After I’m done playing circus performer, Luke and I elbow our way through the throng. From the center of the plaza, a large, open square is set several stories below ground level. The famous Christmas tree is as tall as my apartment building. At least that’s how it seems. Thousands of colored lights strung along its branches create a magical glow.

“How pretty is that?” I breathe.

Beside the tree, the skating rink shines icy-white.
The Nut-cracker
plays through the speakers. I’ve seen the ballet lots of times with Mom, Maya and Tía Teresa. I hum along happily. It’s hard to stay focused on creepoids while listening to “Waltz of the Flowers.”

“Coming into Manhattan was an excellent idea,” I tell Luke.

On the rink, one man stands out. Trim, not too tall, not too short, starting to go bald—anyplace else he’d blend into the crowd. But out on the ice—he’s a star. He wears a red-and-blue snowflake sweater, topped off with a bright red scarf. The ends fly behind him as he whips across the rink. I know
he
knows he’s being watched—but he’s enjoying it. No, not just enjoying it—he relishes the attention. I remember that feeling. Moving beautifully, in another world, but happy to have the audience
with
you to share the glow. It makes me mad. I haven’t had a moment like that since I saw the stupid camera outside my window.

The skater nails a fancy jump, and then takes an easy spin that morphs into a perfect, moving arabesque. Wow! What must
that
feel like? Effortlessly gliding across the ice…

Luke’s breath tickles my ear. “Seen enough? We have a few more blocks to go.”

At the corner, I take one last, lingering look. This time, it’s not because I’m afraid I’m being followed. It’s just that I think I was wrong. Maybe the best way to see the angels is from afar. As wonderful white-and-light beings glowing from within. That way, you don’t realize they’re made from stiff curlicues of straw.

“Can I open my eyes?” I ask. “Please!”

“Ten more seconds.”

I am not a happy camper. It’s insane to walk through Central Park at night. Yes, there are streetlamps and paved paths but there are also plenty of places for someone to jump out at us. I finger my cell. 505—SOS. I wonder if I can text in the dark.

To make things worse, for the last hundred yards or so, Luke insists I close my eyes as he guides me down a path. Finally, he stops.

“Okay. You can open them now.”

It takes a moment to figure out what I’m looking at. “The Carousel?”

He nods. I’m not sure what to say. It’s a December weeknight. The thing is capital
C
Closed. How does Sorezzi not know this?

“Sorry to disappoint you but the Carousel never stays open at night. Even in summer.” I know this for a fact because I can read the sign: Open Daily. 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. “It’s a nice idea but, really, we should go. My mom would go into cardiac arrest if she knew where I was right now.”

“But she doesn’t.” He dangles a chain.

“What’s that?”

“The keys to a ride you’ll never forget.”

“You have keys to the Carousel? How did you— Did you steal them?”

Luke laughs, not the least bit offended. “No, I did not steal them. I borrowed them. My uncle used to work for Parks and Rec. He moved to Transportation a few years ago, but they never asked for the keys back.”

“How do you know they haven’t changed the locks?”

Luke gives me a wicked grin. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

He appears way too confident for the keys not to work. A click at the wrought-iron gate confirms the guess.

I don’t want to get into a fight. I also don’t want him to think I’m a total wimp but the night has ceased being fun. An image from one of my nightmares is way too present. The guy in the trench coat chasing after me in the park—

“We’ll get arrested!” I tell Luke.

“Be brave. I won’t turn on the lights. Or the calliope. You’ll just have to imagine music while you ride.”

“Are you insane? You’re going to actually start the thing up?”

He spreads his arms. “We haven’t seen a single person since we turned down this path. No one will know. We’ll ride for less than three minutes. Two times around, I promise. It’ll be awesome. Go choose a horse.”

The faster I get on the ride, the faster we go home.

At least fifty stallions are stationed around the platform. Each is unique, specially carved and painted but I’m not picky. I jump to the round, wooden floor and point to the first horse I come to.

“This one.”

Luke laughs. “Take your time, why don’t you? Okay. Saddle up. I’ll get on after I get her going.”

He takes a flashlight from his backpack and moves to the control box. Within seconds, the machinery inside the Carousel groans. My horse starts to move. Forward as well as up and down. Luke clambers onto the horse beside me.

“Woo-hooo!” he cries.

The lights of distant skyscrapers twinkle down at us. For maybe a minute, it’s truly unbelievable. The single most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me. Then I see something. A shadow, darker than the surrounding area, moves under an oak tree. I crane my neck, instantly afraid of what’s there—

“Everything okay?” Luke asks.

“I think someone saw us. We should get off, Luke. Please.”

He doesn’t argue. Less than thirty seconds after Luke jumps off, the Carousel grinds to a halt. I stare at the oak tree. Nobody’s watching us; at least no one I can see. Must have been the wind, I tell myself, brushing against the branches….

“Need help getting down?” Luke calls.

“I can do it.”

We meet at the gate and he locks it back up.

“That was fun,” I lie, “but we’ve really got to head back to Brooklyn.”

“I have one more surprise.”

“Luke!”

Honestly. The date that never ends. It might be funny if I wasn’t so uncomfortable. Why did I let him drag me into Central Park in the first place?

He seems completely unaware of my semihysterical state. I can’t stop shivering. Every tree we come to, I imagine that we’ll get jumped. Or My Own Personal Stalker will dash out, smash a rock over Luke’s head and steal me away….

An owl hoots. Startled, I look around but can’t find either
the bird or another person. Luke is totally calm. He finds a spot on the edge of the meadow next to a group of laurel bushes.

“Why are you stopping?” I ask.

“You’ll see.” He unzips his backpack, lays out a checkered blanket and unscrews a thermos. A picnic? In December. At night?

Luke pours a steaming drink into the thermos cup. He holds it out with the most innocent of smiles. “Hot chocolate,
dancergirl?
”

“Is this really just hot chocolate?”

“What do I look like, a drunk?” He smiles, then after a moment pulls out a joint. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you just got the extra-credit answer to Kuperman’s physics test.”

I laugh. “I was wondering how long it’d be before this came out.”

After checking one last time to make sure we’re not being watched, I give in. Luke and I take turns drinking hot cocoa and passing the j. It’s not long before I’m warmed up—and well on my way to getting wasted.

I hold up a hand. “I’m good.”

He grins. “So am I.”

Luke pinches the j and drops it into his pack. He screws the cup back onto the thermos and tosses that in, too. Using the backpack as a pillow, he stretches out, extending an arm for me. Silently, we stare at the heavens. We’re in the center of Manhattan so there aren’t any stars, at least none that I can see, but there is a moon. Not quite full, it hangs above us like an enormous Christmas ornament.

“Luke—”

“Shh, don’t say anything.”

“I have to see what time it is.” I pull out my cell. 9:17. “Omigod! I should have been home by now. Mom will flip. I’m supposed to beep her as soon as I get in.”

“So? Beep her.”

“But I’m not home.”

Luke laughs. “She can’t see you. What time does your mom get out of work?”

“7:00 a.m. She supervises the night shift at the hospital.”

“Excellent. Tell her you’re home. She won’t know the difference.”

This is not right on so many levels.
But I can’t wait until we get back to Brooklyn to hit the code or she’ll send the cops after me. I press 07 for OK.

“Don’t tell me you never figured that out before.” Luke grins. “Dude, you’ve got the perfect life.”

“Right. Except if something happens and she finds out—”

“She won’t find out. Relax.” Luke pulls me back down to the blanket. “It’s the same as the Carousel. No one’ll ever know we’ve been here.”

He shifts so that he’s facing me. With an incredibly smooth motion, he leans over to kiss me. It’s a little like kissing Josh—kind of sloppy. Unlike Josh, however, Luke immediately starts to grope under my jacket. I push his hand away. He brings it back.

“Come on, Ali,” he whispers. “It’s not like you haven’t done this before.”

I pull away. “What’s that supposed to mean? Is there some new
dancergirl
rumor going around? A secret video I haven’t seen—”

“Not
dancergirl.
Jacy.”

“Jacy?”

“Yeah. You and Strode had something going on last year for sure. Then, what? He dumped you when he went to private school?”

“No! I mean, he has new friends but so what? It’s not like we ever did anything. We’re friends—”

Luke shrugs. “Even better. Leaves things open for me—” He tries to pull me next to him but I won’t go.

“Unbelievable,” I breathe. An idea takes hold and won’t let go. “You
planned
this. Did you work it out with Charlie? Or
kurvasz99?
”

“Wha—who?”

Wild, I look round. “You didn’t happen to come to this spot. You scouted it out ahead of time—or maybe Charlie did. Yeah, this has Liu written all over it. The locations, the thermos. I bet it’s Charlie’s uncle who worked for Parks and Rec, not yours.” I point to a stand of maples. “Is he filming this with a zoom lens?” I raise my voice. “Come out, come out, wherever you are—”