Dancergirl (15 page)

Mr. Ryan stands in the open doorway of his brownstone. “It’s too windy to talk out here and my apartment’s a mess. Head on over to the deli. I’ll get my jacket and follow.”

It takes less than three minutes to get to the restaurant. Jacy and I head for a corner booth. A table full of guys eating burgers nudge each other.

“Been looking for more video, gorgeous,” one of them says. “Something a little more fun than running off a stage.”

“How about lap dancing?” another hoots.

Jacy stops dead.

“Ignore them,” I beg. “Please! I don’t want a scene.”

I tug Jacy into the corner. Before he slides into the booth, he lifts his middle finger. Childish, but I appreciate the thought.

Mr. Ryan shows up. Doris, the deli’s longtime waitress, follows close behind. She carries plastic-covered menus, has a green pad in her apron pocket and a stubby pencil tucked behind an ear. After we order, Jacy tells Mr. Ryan about the Stalker’s latest activities—the concert freak-out video, the doll.

“Ali and I think he’s upping things. If he was only watching before, he might have crossed to the stalking side.”

“You do know I’ve talked to my copper pals, right? I asked them to keep it under wraps, not visit you and your mom so as not to worry either of you unnecessarily. The situation is being monitored.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I lean forward. “But like Jacy said, it feels like in the last week, he’s getting, well, bolder.”

Before Mr. Ryan can respond, Doris returns.

“Here you are, folks.” Deftly, the waitress slides three plates of apple pie onto the speckled Formica tabletop and sets out the drinks: cocoa for me, Coke for Jacy, coffee for Mr. Ryan.

“You want anything else, Tommy, just holler,” she says.

Mr. Ryan pours cream into his coffee, stirs thoughtfully. “Okay, I can see you’re upset. Let’s start with the easy stuff. What about someone from school? Has there been anything in your locker? Notes inside an English book?”

“Nothing like that.” I look at Jacy. “We actually ruled out a couple of people at WiHi. Like Charlie, the guy who up loaded the original footage.”

Jacy nods. “We thought maybe he was mad because Ali wouldn’t shoot any more videos for him.”

“Sounds smart. You’re absolutely sure he didn’t do it?”

“He has an airtight alibi,” Jacy says.

“Somebody’s watched a lot of TV,” Ryan notes drily. “Okay. I agree that it’s probably not a school chum. He’d have easy access at Irving and would have left something there. So that means it’s either a stranger—or someone else who knows you.”

“Like who?” I ask.

Mr. Ryan chews a bit of pie. “Someone who’s been inside
your apartment. See, it’s the doll that interests me. Why did he send that specific thing?”

I glance at Jacy. “I have a collection. Dolls from around the world.”

“Ahh! Okay. Okay. Who would know that? Who’s been in your room? Electrician? Uncle? An old boyfriend of your mom’s—”

“Hold on. The last guy my mom dated was in the apartment recently. Not my room. At least not that I know of.”

“Tell me about him,” Mr. Ryan says.

I go into the whole Andrew story. How Mom dumped him, the way he snuck in to get his jacket.

“He had keys?” Mr. Ryan asks.

I nod. “About six months after they started going out, Mom thought he should have a set in case there was an emergency. I told her I’d be okay if something happened when she wasn’t home, but she insisted. I guess she forgot to get them back.”

“Or he purposefully didn’t return them,” Jacy says.

“I made sure to get them before he left the apartment this time,” I say.

“Could he have decided to stalk Ali to get back at her mom?” Jacy asks.

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Not by a long shot.” Mr. Ryan pushes his plate away, pops a mint. “Okay, Alicia, here comes the hard question. When he was dating your mother did he ever do, or say, anything that might be considered…inappropriate?”

“Not really—” I stop midsentence.

Ryan leans in. “What?”

I feel my cheeks turn red. “Just one time. Modern got canceled because Quentin had the flu, so I got home earlier than usual. Mom was still working days, but she got stuck at
the hospital because the second-shift nurse was running late. When I showed up at the apartment, Andrew was there.”

“He had keys by then,” Mr. Ryan states, almost to himself. “Okay, so what did Andrew do when you showed up?”

“Not much. It’s just, after today—” Out loud, it sounds ridiculous.

“Go on,” he urges. “Anything could help.”

I stare at the napkin holder. “When I came in, Andrew was folding laundry.”

“His laundry?” Jacy asks.

I wish I were someplace, anyplace else, instead of at a table with two guys. “
My
laundry. My, like, private laundry. He said he was helping Mom out but you know, a man touching your private stuff is…”

A vision of the doll fills my brain.

“Sorry, Alicia,” Mr. Ryan says. “I know that’s upsetting, but no judge in the country will issue a subpoena because a guy was folding laundry. Do you have any other evidence? Anything at all?”

Jacy and I exchange another look. It’s been the problem all along. We haven’t found real proof for anyone.

Ryan takes the silence as an answer. “Did Andrew give you the key as soon as you asked for it?”

“Yes. But he could have made a copy before that, right?”

The helplessness in my voice is easy to hear. Perhaps that’s what makes Mr. Ryan decide to take action.

“Get me his address. I’d like to meet this Andrew fellow myself.”

Two days later, about half an hour after Mom leaves for work, the outside call button screeches. When I ask who’s there, a tinny voice announces, “Ryan.” I buzz him in and text Jacy. By the time Mr. Ryan gets out of the elevator, Jacy’s waiting with me.

Mr. Ryan nods approvingly at the brightly lit living room, the closed venetian blinds.

“Had a little chat with your Mr. Thomson.” Mr. Ryan settles into the wing chair across from the couch. “He won’t bother you anymore.”

“Ali’s right?” Jacy asks. “Andrew’s the stalker?”

“Well…” Mr. Ryan’s hand turns in a sort of wavering gesture. “He didn’t actually confess. It’s not like TV. Perps rarely do.”

“Then how do you know it’s him?” I ask.

“Have you ever been inside his apartment?” Mr. Ryan asks.

I shake my head.

“Cameras, pornography…pictures of you all over the place—”

I can’t help but shudder as I think about the times I was alone with Andrew.

“What about the smell?” Jacy asks. “Did you notice a peculiar smell in any of the rooms?”

Ryan gives him an odd look. “What are you talking about?”

“We forgot to tell you. I smelled a kind of woodsy smell. Like incense. Or maybe some kind of clove cigarette. Twice. Once when the guy broke in to Ali’s bedroom after the Baltimore trip, then again at the concert. After the lights went out.”

Mr. Ryan turns a questioning eye to me.

“I never smelled it. I wasn’t in the audience and if it was in my bedroom, it was very faint—”

“You never told me that.” Jacy pouts.

“It’s not that I didn’t believe you. Obviously, you have a better sense of smell than I do.”

“There wasn’t any unusual odor in Mr. Thomson’s apartment, but it would have been nice to know ahead of time.” Ryan shakes out a mint with more than a little displeasure. “Really, kids, you should have told me when it happened. There’s this survivalist guy who lives under the bridge…”

I pick at the hole in my jeans. “You’re right. Sorry, I’ve been so stressed-out.”

Jacy, however, is not in an apologetic mode. “What does it matter? You just said the stalker’s Andrew. Unless you got it wrong—”

“I didn’t,” Ryan snaps. “Andrew’s the perp.”

“Did he explain himself?” Jacy asks. “Like why he started stalking Ali now? After all those months of going out with her mom—”

“It has nothing to do with Mrs. Ruffino. Like I said, Mr.
Thomson didn’t own up to it all, but he did admit to watching those videos your friend shot. My assumption is he started thinking about Alicia in a different way.” Ryan’s eyes flash as he turns to me. “It’s not surprising you’re stressed-out. It was a very stupid thing to do. The internet is so much more dangerous than any of you kids ever think it is. You put personal profiles on websites, upload all kinds of footage—and then wonder why you lose privacy. You wouldn’t keep your front door unlocked, would you?”

I shake my head.

“Of course not. But you have no problem dancing around like crazy, opening that window to the world—”

I want to melt into the furniture. I pray that Mr. Ryan won’t break his promise and tell Mom. She’d be just as furious.

Jacy, however, is thinking logically. “How do you know Andrew’ll stop?”

Mr. Ryan gives us the steely-eyed, “I’ll slam you against the wall if you don’t cooperate” cop glare. “Because he’ll have to deal with me if he comes within two miles of here. Our Mr. Thomson assured me he understood. I
made
him assure me.”

Jacy nods. “That’ll work. Because I wouldn’t want to mess with you, either.”

The last day of school before winter vacation is a half day. Clarissa, Sonya and I stop at Tony’s for lunch and then split up. I continue down Montague. Finally! Time for a little Christmas shopping.

I’m on my way to the thrift shop to see if I can score a couple of good gifts when Samantha screeches out of Starbucks. “Ali? Ruffino! Wait up!”

I stop just to quiet her down.

“Where’ve you been?” she demands.

“Around…”

“Quentin had to re-block the dance, you know. Are you going to switch studios?”

I scrape the sidewalk with a toe. “I’m not dancing anymore.”

Samantha’s brown eye widens so that it almost matches the blue one for size. “Because of Cisco?”

“Excuse me?”

“Cisco and Eva,” she says. “Because of what happened.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You really are a slut.” She laughs. “Hooking up with Cisco—”

“Are you crazy? I didn’t—”

“Oh, come on. I saw him leave the studio that night.”

“What night?”

“Auditions. He came out the side and then it took you forever to open the front door. You looked all spaced-out. I didn’t get it at first. Then Eva dumped his ass as soon as Winter Fest was over, and I put two and two together. Did you do it in the dressing room? The studio?”

“Sam—”

Her motormouth keeps right on revving. “Doesn’t matter. I figured Eva must have found out what happened and reamed you out right before your solo. That’s why you freaked—”

“I freaked because someone was stalking me.”

Samantha blinks. “You mean
dancergirl
’s real? There’s an actual
shyboy?
”

I pull her into the alley so no one on the street can hear. “No, not
shyboy.
Blake was right. It was one of my friends. But then this…pervert started taping me in my bedroom. Without me knowing.
Then
he shows up at the concert and uploads the solo. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it.”

Samantha shifts her weight awkwardly.

You saw it! You watched a thousand times, laughed your head off. Must have been hard not to pick up the phone to gloat about the fact that you didn’t think I deserved it in the first place.

“That’s why I’m quitting. Not because of Cisco and Eva.”

Sam looks stricken. “Then you should come back.”

Something about her look makes me wonder if it’s happening to her, too. If somehow Andrew discovered Sam because of me. When he went to the show, he would have seen her.

“You don’t have to worry,” I say. “The guy’s not doing it anymore—”

“There is no guy.”

I stare at her. “What does that mean, ‘There is no guy’?”

“Maybe there is a guy, but he didn’t put the solo on Zube.”

“Of course he did—”

Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I did it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I put the solo online. My folks taped the concert…” Samantha blinks. “It was a joke, okay?
Dancergirl
was already on the net. How was I supposed to know it would make you quit?”

“Are you kidding? Like it wouldn’t totally embarrass me—”

“You didn’t seem embarrassed dancing in your panties,” she shoots back.

“That was private! It’s what I’m trying to tell you! Some perv shot secret video of me in my bedroom!”

She puts a hand on her hip. “Really? Oh, really? I’m sorry, Ali. I didn’t know.”

That’s when I totally lose it. I keep my voice down, but there is no doubting my fury. “You know something, Sam? If I hadn’t already left Moving Arts, I’d do it right this second. Who wants to be in the same studio as you?”

When I get home, Mom’s note is propped up on the kitchen table: “Shopping before my shift.”

I beep to let her know I’m home, then text Jacy.

Something new. Can you talk?

His reply comes quickly. Almost home. I’ll come to u.

He gets there about fifteen minutes later. He’s wearing black jeans, a long-sleeved pullover and his jacket. He takes off his sunglasses.

We automatically head to my bedroom where I tell him about Samantha.

“Just because Sam uploaded the solo doesn’t mean Andrew wasn’t responsible for the rest,” Jacy says. “It’s a coincidence, that’s all.”

“Not really.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“Every single thing that happened this year is because of
dancergirl.
”

“Oh, come on. Don’t let Mr. Ryan’s stupid lecture get to you. You had every right to do
dancergirl.
It’s putting the solo online that’s wrong. No matter how jealous Sam is—and that’s what this is about—it’s a sucky thing to do.”

“I know. But still, it’s my fault.”

“Ali—”

“You don’t understand! I liked it at first. Liked being the center of attention, liked everyone thinking I’m cool!”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There is. I was…tempting fate or something.”

Jacy sags back into the bed. “Maybe things would be different if I’d gone back to Irving.”

“You have to go to this other school.”

He picks at my quilt. “Not really. I could have stayed at WiHi, then gone to an after-school program. Mom gave me the choice.”

The thought that he chose to go to McAllister is mind-blowing. “Why would you want to leave WiHi if you didn’t have to?”

“Because I can’t bear the thought of everyone finding out about my eyes. Feeling sorry for me. All the ‘There goes the blind kid.’”

“Nobody would—”

Jacy pounds the wall. “Exactly. Nobody would
say
anything. But I know what they’d think. ‘Poor Jacy. His life is ruined—’”

“Would you stop? Your life isn’t ruined!” I shift my body so that I can look directly into his eyes. “You’re the most amazing person I know. That any of us knows. The smartest person in the room, always, but you don’t show off. You’ve never once made anyone feel stupid or like they’re one millimeter less than you. You’re a math whiz, a writing genius, interested in, like, everything—and the best friend any human being can have. Even if you do have totally crazy hair. And I
know
you’re going to do great things with your life, Jace. RP can’t stop you. I won’t let it—”

That’s when it happens. I’m not sure how. Maybe I pull Jacy toward me, maybe he leans in—but the next thing I know, Jeremy Carl Strode and I are locked in an embrace. Lips, and then tongues, press together…