Dancergirl (14 page)

That isn’t the tape I saw last night.

My heart skips a beat. It’s a remix. Someone downloaded last night’s video to their own computer and overlaid different music. I scroll over to the Related Videos list. Other remixes are posted, too.

Shocked, I click the next one. A short guy, wearing a wig and skirt—his hairy legs stick out instead of tights—mimics me. He freezes dramatically, does a fake scream and runs off-screen.

People think it’s the funniest thing.

I expect my cell to buzz. Somebody will send a link. The phone, however, stays silent. Clarissa, Jacy and Sonya must have dozed off when they got home so they haven’t seen all this crap. Or they did—and are afraid to tell me.

No one that I know calls or texts, which may be the worst sign of all.

Too agitated to stay in my room, I pad into the kitchen for a glass of water. I’m startled to see Mom at the table. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

She holds a cup of strong, black coffee. “Your door was closed so I thought you were taking a nap before the show tonight. I saw Jacy and the girls when I got home this morn
ing. Figured you had a celebratory party.” She pats the chair next to her, smiles. “Come,
mija,
tell me all about it.”

Instead of sitting down, I move to the sink. Fill a glass with water. “It didn’t go too great. The fire alarm went off in the middle of the show and the audience had to evacuate.”

Mom blinks. “Was there an actual fire?”

I shake my head. “Electrical malfunction.”

“Ay, pobrecita!”
She gives me her patented, sympathetic nurse tsk-tsk. “It’ll go better tonight, I’m sure. I can’t wait. Miranda from work is coming. And on Sunday, Gerald and Annie—”

I try not to look horrified. It never occurred to me that Mom might bring her friends. “You have to call them. The show’s not happening.”

“What do you mean?” Mom stops midsip.

“Lynette phoned. Because it’s the weekend, she can’t get the alarm fixed.” The lie rolls off my tongue so smoothly I almost believe it myself. “She can’t let anyone in until it’s figured out.”

“But you all worked so hard!” Mom protests.

“She’ll try to reschedule but not till January. All the private-school kids get off this week and a lot of them go away for Christmas.”

“That’s terrible,
mija.
”

I break off a piece of bread, shred it into pieces. “Doing the show is too stressful, anyway. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a dancer.”

Mom laughs. “That’s just a horrible first performance talking. And maybe a little case of stage fright. You’ll get over it—”

“How would you know?” My anger flares like one of those California wildfires. Quick, hot, out of control. “You’ve never
gotten onstage in your life! Lynette told me everyone— Oh, forget it.”

I stalk out of the room.

“Ali, wait!” Mom cries. “What did Lynette say?”

I can’t explain. Any of it. I’m in so deep, I wouldn’t know where to begin.

When I get to school on Monday, hidden deep in my hoodie, it’s Dawn Chevananda who’s the hot topic instead of me. Whispers circulate all morning. She was whisked to the emergency room Sunday afternoon. If she hadn’t gotten there when she did, she might have died.

Laura Hernandez shows up late for American History. She and Dawn have been friends since forever. After a whispered conversation, Mrs. Fegarsky raps her knuckles on the white-board.

“Listen up, people. Laura has news.”

“I just talked to Dawn’s mom,” Laura announces. “The doctors have been pumping her with antibiotics since yesterday and her fever’s down. They think it’s bacterial meningitis but won’t know until the test comes back.”

A murmur goes around the room.

“Is it catching?” Josh yells.

“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Fegarsky says. “Make yourself useful, Josh. Get on the computer in the back and find out.”

“Can we make get-well cards?” Elora asks.

Although that’s a little second grade-ish, everyone, including Mrs. Fegarsky, is more than ready for vacation.

“Excellent idea, Elora. I’m sure Dawn will appreciate it. I might even have some construction paper in the back closet….”

Mrs. Fegarsky hunts for scissors, colored pencils, markers. The class dissolves into excited chatter. In the middle of the confusion, there’s a knock on the door. A familiar voice calls out.

“Mrs. Fegarsky, Ali needs to go to the office.”

I look over, surprised. Sonya’s not an office monitor. When the teacher nods, I grab my messenger bag and slip out the door. “What’s going on?”

She moves quickly down the hall. “I want to show you something. Someone, actually.”

We scoot down the steps to the first floor. Sonya takes the left archway and pushes through the double doors that lead into the annex. The tile floors are brighter, the rooms newer. She points to a glass window set into a closed door. “Peek in.”

Sonya moves so no one in the room can see her. It’s the computer lab. Even before I peer in, I know exactly what I’ll find. Rows of computers with headsets. Kids working on projects, Mr. Marcus, tall and thin, leaning over to help someone—

“Is that
him?
” I gasp.

“Yep,” Sonya breathes. “Charlie’s mystery man.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“That’s my class. I asked for a bathroom pass so I could get you. See, Logan was on the computer to my right and needed help. Mr. Marcus went over. I was curious, because Logan’s, like, the biggest computer freak in the world. When I checked
to see what was going on, I was in the same position as Charlie was in the picture. Looking
up
at Mr. Marcus.”

My head reels. Computer geek as stalker makes sense. Still…

“This isn’t proof, Sonya. A million people are tall and thin.”

“But a million people don’t have a weird, brownish mole shaped like a whale on the back of their hand.” She takes out her cell. “I snapped a picture when Mr. Marcus wasn’t looking.”

“I still don’t get why you think he’s the guy.”

“I spent most of yesterday afternoon blowing up parts of that photo. It was killing me that we didn’t know who Charlie was talking to. When I enlarged the guy’s hand, I saw the mole. Same as the one in that room.”

“What do we do now? Confront Mr. Marcus?”

Sonya shakes her head. “We should talk to Charlie first.”

“Why?”

“Because he lied—and I want to know why. There’s no way he didn’t know who it was.”

Down the hallway, a door opens—and closes. The new French teacher exits his classroom. Immediately, Sonya and I turn to the nearest locker. Teachers are supposed to ask anyone they see in the hall for a pass, but the guy’s on his cell. After he walks by, I turn back to Sonya.

“Maybe Charlie really didn’t know who it was when he looked at the picture. None of us did.”

“But you aren’t volunteering in the computer lab.”

“And Charlie is?”

Sonya nods. “Yep. He switched his schedule in October. He works second period because no one else signed up and Mr. Marcus needed someone to help.”

“Wow.” A pair of giggling sophomores walk past us. Sonya
and I don’t bother to turn away. “Let’s talk to him right after school. Get back inside, Sonya. Mr. Marcus might wonder what’s taking so long.”

Charlie dumps his backpack onto the cracked leather seat of a back booth at the pizzeria. Clarissa slides next to him, blocking him in. Sonya and I sit across from them. I’d texted Jacy but he’s stuck in Manhattan.

Go ahead without me was his response.

So we did.

“You have fifteen minutes,” Charlie tells us. “I’ve got an after-school job at Heights Videology. They wanted someone who knows movies for the holiday rush. The kind of stuff you can’t find online.”

“That’s you,” I say.

“Yeah.” He eyes me warily. “What’s up now? Did you find another photo of me taken, oh, when I was eight?”

I pull off my gloves. “Don’t like it, do you? Having someone take pictures of you without asking permission.”

“Old news, Ali. I got your permission and you know it.” Charlie leans forward. “Are you going to hold this against me for the rest of my life?”

Sonya moves a glass shaker filled with Parmesan cheese out of the way. She pulls the shot of Mystery Man’s hand from her backpack and places it next to her cell, set to the photo she took in the computer lab.

“Like you just implied, Charlie, let’s not go round and round.” She points to her cell. “That’s Mr. Marcus’s hand. I took it in the computer lab today. The photo you see before you was blown up from the shot I took at the football field. We know you know him. Here’s your chance to clear things up. Before Ali goes to the police—”

Charlie straightens. “Whoa—you can’t do that. He didn’t do anything wrong. And he’s not the stalker, if that’s why you’re here.”

“How do you know?”

Charlie looks like he’ll be sick. “If I tell you something, you cannot tell anyone else.”

The three of us exchange looks. Sonya nods. “You’ve got our word as long as it has nothing to do with Ali.”

“It doesn’t.” Charlie plays with the pepper mill. “You guys are right. I lied. I went to the football game with the sole purpose of—” he makes quotes with his fingers “—
running into him.
”

“Mr. Marcus?” Clarissa asks.

“His name is Leo. In case anybody saw us, we planned to say that we went to the game separately, got bored and happened to leave at the same time. We got to talking about computers….”

“Why didn’t you tell us this in the first place?” Sonya demands.

Charlie hesitates.

“Because
that’s
the lie,” Clarissa says. “They didn’t just talk about computers. It was a date.”

“With a teacher?” I gasp.

“He’s not. He’s a teacher’s assistant. WiHi can’t afford a real computer teacher so they hire him for four hours a day. He goes to Queens College at night.” He looks at me, pleading. “He’s not even an adult. He’s nineteen. That’s only three years older than me.”

Sonya leans back in the booth. “And you’re worried he could lose his job if someone in the office finds out, right?”

Charlie nods. An awkward silence falls over the table. Talk about secrets. A whole lot of information just got dropped
into our laps, although none of it has anything to do with the stalker.

It’s not as if the news comes as a total shock. Clarissa, Sonya and I have wondered if Charlie was gay ever since tenth grade. But not even Clarissa had the guts to ask—and Charlie wasn’t exactly blasting the news around school.

“You should have trusted us when we first came to you,” she tells him gently. “We wouldn’t have said anything. Ali’s been worried sick trying to figure out who the peeper is. We’ve all been worried sick.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just—I was shocked when you showed up with the picture. We thought no one had seen us.” He looks down. “It was my first real date.”

Clarissa gives him a motherly pat on his shoulder. “Did you have a good time?”

He nods shyly.

“Cool!” She grins, delighted that one truth, at least, is finally out in the open. “You know, Charles, I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since we got to high school!”

“So have I.” Charlie returns the grin, then looks at me. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk about
dancergirl.
If you want me to help find the creep, I’m down.”

“I have no idea who it is. Or what you could do.”

“Think about it,” he says. “I will, too.”

When I let myself into the apartment, Mom is putting on makeup. She wears a red satin shirt and short black skirt.

“You look pretty,” I tell her. “What’s the occasion?”

“X-ray’s having a holiday party. Thought I’d stop in before my shift. Oh, before I forget. You got a package. I put it in your room.”

“Who’s it from?”

“I’m not sure.” She leans into the mirror to finish brushing mascara. “Did you buy a Christmas present for someone that had to be shipped?”

I shake my head although Mom doesn’t notice. She’s busy choosing a lipstick. With a jolt, I realize I haven’t even started Christmas shopping. Someone could have bought something for
me.
Jacy? Clarissa? She finds stuff online all the time.

The box is white, the kind you get at every post office in the country. My name, address and apartment number are on the front—although there’s no return address. The box rattles a bit when I shake it. I know I should wait for Christmas morning but curiosity gets the better of me.

Using the sharp end of a pair of scissors, I slit the tape. Inside the box is a bed of pink tissue paper. A ballerina doll with Barbie-style tits stares up at me. A printed note sticks out from under the tutu.

Just a suggestion.

With an equal mixture of horror and disgust, I stare at the doll’s privates. She’s wearing thong underwear.

Mom walks in. Instinctively, I pull the tutu down.

She glances at the box. “Cute. From Baltimore?”

“I’m not sure.”

“No card?”

I shake my head. “Not even a return address.”

“That’s strange.” She shrugs. “Maybe Teresa forgot to put in a card. Or she ordered it online and it didn’t come with one.” She wags a finger at me and smiles playfully. “You probably should have waited to open it.”

If I had, Mom would have gotten the shock of her life. I close my eyes at the thought of
that
scene.

“Something wrong, Ali? You look…upset.” Mom settles beside me. “Having those shows canceled on you is rough, isn’t it? Listen,
mija,
I don’t have to go to the party. I can eat dinner here. We haven’t spent much time together lately—”

“No!” The last thing I need is to feel guilty about messing up her life. “Go to the party, Mom. Really, I’m okay.”

She puts her arm around me. “You sure? I don’t mind.”

“I’d much rather think of you having fun than sitting with me all night.”

She gives me a squeeze. “You’re a treasure. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different. We’ll have a good time on Christmas, I promise.”

“Go on, you’ll be late.”

We air-kiss so as not to mess up her lipstick. With a sharp click of her heels, she’s gone.

Jacy’s furious. I half expect him to heave the doll through my window. “What kind of idiot sends something like this?”

“The kind that’s stalking me. We’ve got to be realistic, Jace. This guy is definitely not a Peeping Tom. Maybe he started that way, but now he’s doing more and more pervy stuff. Showing up at Winter Fest, sending this…horrid thing. I can’t take it anymore.”

Jacy kicks the box the doll came in.

“Point being,” I continue, “we can’t keep playing detective. We’re not getting anywhere and we could screw things up royally for someone else. Can you imagine if we’d actually accused Mr. Marcus? Then everyone finds out he’s hooked up with a student. We would have ruined his life.”

“It’s not your fault. Charlie shouldn’t have kept it secret.”

“Oh, right. Like you’re not keeping anything from your
friends. I sort of think that you, of all people, would understand why Charlie didn’t tell.”

Jacy is quiet.

“I’m scared, Jace. We have to go to the cops. Even if Mom finds out. I don’t care if I’m grounded. I’m afraid to go anywhere.”

“That’s a lie,” Jacy mumbles bitterly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were at Rockefeller Plaza the other night. Luke Sorezzi stood right beside you. I don’t think that was coincidence.”

Apparently, I can’t keep any part of my life private. “You saw the photo on the fan site?”

Jacy shrugs. “I’ve been checking the internet.”

“Did you see those horrible remixes?”

“Yes. But I was hoping you hadn’t.”

“Well, I did. And don’t think I’m keeping much from you. The night with Luke was a disaster. Which I do
not
need to be reminded about.”

“Okay, then.” Jacy cheers up—until his gaze falls on the doll. “Let’s go talk to Mr. Ryan one last time. See if he has any ideas. If not, we go to the cops.”