Dancergirl (13 page)

We decide to meet at Sonya’s in an hour. Clarissa’s priority is getting home so she can change out of the clothes she slept in. For the rest of us, it’s not a new outfit but a hot shower that’s high on the list of life necessities.

Last night’s snowfall didn’t leave much on the streets. With the clouds gone from the sky, however, the weather is frigid. I pull on a thermal before sticking my head through a ribbed-neck sweater. Jacket, hat, scarf—I’m as warm as I can be.

I text Jacy: Ready?

His reply is brief: Meet you there.

I’m anxious to see if Sonya found the photo so I text back: don’t b long.

Halfway out the door, I remember Mom. She’s fast asleep so I prop a note against the sugar bowl: “Went to Sonya’s. See you soon.”

The air is so cold it hurts to breathe. But it also means that everyone I see hurries, too. No one lingers, no one’s watching me. At least not on the street.

Sonya lives on the other side of Montague so I take my
usual path through the Heights. I’m thinking about the person Charlie was with—
tall and thin
—when I practically bump into someone.

No way! It’s Lynette, hurrying toward the studio. “Ali! Are you coming to see me? Did you change your mind?”

“No. I’m not doing the show.”

“Alicia, please talk to me. You at least owe me an explanation.”

I sigh. “For a minute. I’m supposed to be someplace.”

The studio is dark and cold. The dancers have been at Trinity all week, so Lynette turned the heat off. She flips on the lights and fiddles with the space heater beside the counter. It’ll be at least half an hour before the place warms up, not that I plan to be here that long.

Lynette pulls off her gloves, although she leaves her coat on. I don’t mess with a single article of clothing. She sits on one of the two tall counter chairs. On the wall behind her, a Winter Fest poster stares down at us.

“Ali, what happened last night?” Lynette asks gently.

I ignore her question to ask one of my own. “Did you make Eva include my solo in Choreographer’s Showcase?”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“The solo. Eva had three spots to give out. The dance wasn’t even finished when she chose it. There were other pieces she could have picked. Finished ones. Better ones—”

Lynette eyes me curiously. “Just because the solo needed work doesn’t mean Eva didn’t see the potential. That’s how choreography works. It gets better as you rehearse and make changes.”

I don’t have to look at the poster to see myself. “Why don’t I believe you?”

She picks up a pencil thoughtfully. “Is that what happened?
In the middle of the performance you decided you didn’t
deserve
it? That doesn’t make sense. Unless someone said something just before you went on. Told you that you only got the solo because I insisted.” I refuse to look at her. “Who was it, Ali?”

I shake my head, even as my cheeks burn. I refuse to finger Samantha because it’s not as if I hadn’t played the same evil game.

“Fine,” Lynette murmurs. “I bet I know who it was.”

“That’s not even the point.”

“Then what is?” When I don’t respond, she taps the counter. “I don’t understand. You’re a serious dancer, Ali. You’ve been in lots of shows so it couldn’t have been a terrible case of stage fright. I know you want a career. I think you’re good enough or I wouldn’t have encouraged you. But you’ve got to understand that this is part of a career. Backbiting, jealousy, auditioning for things and not getting them
not
because you aren’t good enough—but because you don’t have the look the choreographer wants. Or getting something because of your look.” She shakes her head. “If it’s too hard to deal with, you’re probably right. You really should consider doing something else with your life.”

“I can deal with that part. I mean, I think I can. It’s the stalking part that makes me want to puke—”

Lynette gives me a sharp glance. “What stalking part? Is someone— Oh, Lord! Is that why you were so upset about the posters? Somebody’s
stalking you?
”

All I can do is nod.

“Do you know who it is?”

I shake my head.

“When did it start? Have you actually seen the person?” Her hand hits the counter. “Did someone touch you—”

“No. And it could just be a Peeping Tom. A Peeping Tom doesn’t…touch anyone.”

“Beside the point. Did you go to the police?”

It’s too much to get into the fine details of whether or not Mr. Ryan is actually a cop at the moment, so I just nod.

“That was the problem last night,” I say. “The stalker was in the audience. Watching—”

Lynette sinks back into the chair. “Oh, Ali, I am so sorry.” She bites her lip as she tries to process what I’m telling her. “How did you know the guy was there if you don’t know who he is?”

“The flowers you brought into the dressing room. And there was other stuff.”

A piece of the puzzle falls into place for her. “So that’s why your friend asked about the delivery. I wondered about it after I hung up. Then I figured you wanted to thank who ever sent them—and for some reason you needed the reservation list to figure it out. Are you sure it isn’t someone you know? I thought I read somewhere that stalkers go after people known to them.”

I fiddle with the ends of my scarf. “Not always. It could be a stranger who saw
dancergirl
online.”

She lowers her eyes guiltily. “I had no idea.”

That’s when I decide that maybe she knows something that might help. I pull a chair next to hers. “But you’re right, too, Lynette. It could be someone I know. Someone
you
know.”

Lynette grows still. “Who?”

I watch her closely. “Cisco.”

She recoils as if bitten by a poisonous snake. “That’s absurd.”

“Why? He hangs around here an awful lot. He designed
the poster and picked my picture to put on it. He came to rehearsals and was at the performance last night.”

“He’s doing me a favor. I’m the one who asked him to tape the show so I can sell DVDs. Cisco has no reason to stalk anyone. He’s got plenty of women—” She stops herself, blushes and reaches for the phone. “You have to decide right now. If you’re not going to dance tonight, I need to call Quentin so he can re-block the ensemble without you…”

I press the hang-up button on the phone console. “Are you creeping around with Cisco, Lynette?”

She bristles. “Ali—”

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you even hear what you said? ‘He’s got plenty of women.’ Not ‘He’s got Eva.’” I back away as if that poisonous snake just reared its ugly head at me. “Blake heard him and Eva fighting about someone in the alley behind Moving Arts. Does Eva know it’s you?” I stare down the hallway and let out a breath. “That explains it. Cisco came in to find
you
audition night. Not me. Or her. But I was here, so he lied—”

“What are you talking about?”

I point down the hall. “Cisco came in the back door when I was holding down the fort before auditions began. He saw the lights on in Studio A and thought you were here. The back door had been left unlocked. And here I went and spent weeks worrying he was after me all because of that night—”

“Ali—”

“Don’t make excuses, Lynette. I don’t want to know what you all are doing.” With a quick pivot, I head for the front door. “I have way too much sleaze in my own life, thank you very much.”

By the time I get to Sonya’s, Jacy is beside himself. Worried more than Mom would be.

“Where were you?”
he barks. “Don’t you pick up your cell? I called at least three times—”

“I’m sorry. I ran into Lynette and went to talk to her in the studio. I didn’t hear anything. My phone’s on vibrate because of the show last night—”

“It’s okay, Ali,” Clarissa soothes. “We just thought—”

“I’m so sorry. I can imagine what you thought. But you won’t believe what I found out.”

I give them the highlights of the Lynette conversation.

“Gross!” Sonya shudders. “Isn’t she a lot older than Cisco?”

“Yeah, but that isn’t any of my concern. The good news is we can pretty much knock Cisco off the list of possible stalkers because he wasn’t at the studio to see me.” I turn to Sonya. “Did you find the photo you took at the game?”

“Yep. It’s exactly the way I remembered.” She holds up the copy she printed. “It’s not the best color quality but you can see that Charlie’s talking to the guy while he exits.”

A quick glance confirms she’s right. I can’t, however, tell who he’s leaving with.

I stand. “Well, which of us is calling Senñor Liu?”

Charlie looks totally confused when the four of us pile into his bedroom. “What the—what are you guys doing here? I thought only Clarissa was coming over.”

Sonya nudges me and then glances meaningfully at the walls. Charlie’s room is covered in movie posters. Mostly horror flicks.

Quietly, Jacy closes the door. Charlie glances at him suspiciously. “Okay, if this was
The Godfather
you’d be showing
me the severed head right now. Or asking me to go for a little ride. But since none of you can drive—”

“Quit clowning,” I say. “Show him the photo, Sonya.”

Charlie opens his mouth to sass me back. Nothing except a squeak comes out, however, because Sonya has shoved the photo under his face.

He swallows. “What’s going on?”

“I think you should tell us,” Jacy says. “We’re especially interested in why you lied to me and Ali.”

“First, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Second, where did this photo come from?”

“My dad’s camera.” Charlie looks mystified so Sonya adds, “He didn’t take it. I did. At the football game. But you asked—”

“I know what I asked. Do you have any more photos of me?” Sonya shakes her head. Charlie lets out a breath. “So why are you here? You took a picture three months ago and show up now, all pissed off for some reason. I don’t get it.”

“This was taken the night that
Hot Diggity
video was up loaded to Zube,” I explain. “The next morning, Jace and I met you at the Promenade. You insisted you couldn’t have been the one who did it because you were at the game. Except you weren’t.”

Charlie gives me a “you’re crazy” look. “Except I was. This proves it.”

“What this proves is that you left the game. Right after kickoff. And you never came back.” Sonya holds up a hand. “Don’t try to deny it, Charlie. ’Rissa and I sat a few rows above you. I’m positive that you never went back to your seat. The very next day you lied about it to Ali and Jace.”

Charlie waves at the photo. “So somehow this is supposed
to prove I made the stalker video? I told them then—and I’ll tell you now. I didn’t. I swear.”

“Who’s in the photo with you?” Jacy counters. “Maybe he did it.”

“How should I know who it is?”

“Because you’re talking to him,” Sonya says.

“Maybe I bumped into him so I’m apologizing. What does it even matter?”

“It matters because you could have shot the video Wednesday night,” Jacy says smugly, “edited it and slipped it to this guy to upload on Friday.”

Charlie laughs. “And people think I see too many movies. Who am I supposed to be, some kind of superspy?”

Clarissa has been uncharacteristically quiet. Now, she sits next to Charlie and points to the mysterious skinny dude. “I don’t think you’re a spy. But why don’t you want to tell us who this is? If you didn’t go home to upload the video like you said, then he can be your, um, whatchacall it?”

“Alibi,” Sonya says.

Charlie pounds his fist against the bed frame. “How many times do I have to say this? He can’t be my alibi because
I don’t know him.
”

Despite his adamant protest, something doesn’t ring true. Before I can figure out what it is, Charlie folds his arms. “Anyway, I don’t need an alibi because I can prove I didn’t shoot that video.” He points to his computer. “Check my hard drive. All the footage I have of Ali is footage she knows I shot.”

“You could have deleted it,” I tell him. “After uploading.”

He shakes his head. “No director deletes footage. You never know when you’re going to need something you shot.”

“Sounds like a load of bull to me,” Jacy says.

“Believe what you want, Strode, but I am not Ali’s stalker. Which means you all are wasting your time.” He opens his bedroom door. “Get out!”

The small table is littered with torn packets of sugar, drippy wooden stir sticks—and four lattes. After leaving Charlie’s apartment, Sonya, Jacy, Clarissa and I needed caffeine in the worst way. Not one of us got much sleep.

Clarissa stirs the milky drink. “Something isn’t right.”

“You think?” Jacy tastes his coffee, adds more sugar. “He’s a lying sack of doo-doo.”

Sonya does an odd snort-laugh. “What are you? Three years old?”

Jacy motions to the table next to us, where a frazzled mom and her toddler share a cup of hot chocolate. “No, but he is.”

“Very considerate,” Sonya says. “If only Charles were as considerate and told us the truth.”

“Everyone thinks he’s lying?” I ask.

Three heads nod.

“And you all think the skinny dude has something to do with this?”

Again, the simultaneous head nod. They could work up an act, take it out on the road.

Over at the next table, the mom and toddler make “get up and go” noises. She bundles up the kid, and he squirms. My gaze returns to my friends.

“Where does that leave us?”

Jacy grimaces. “In the same place. With almost the same questions. What is Charlie hiding? And who is that guy?”

There’s nothing more we can do at the moment, so we separate. I let myself back into the apartment as quietly as I
can. Mom’s still asleep. I’m relieved because I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

I throw myself on my bed. But every time I close my eyes, the videotape of me running offstage loops obsessively. Finally, I head over to my computer. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.

I find the video on Zube and hit Play. Instead of the Clash, though, different music plays. A bunch of out-of-tune violin strikes, like something from a Hitchcock movie. Confused, I stare at the screen.