Dancergirl (19 page)

I take my last final exam on a beautiful summer-solstice afternoon. Algebra II. Jacy made me study forever, so I’m confident I passed.

It’s also the day we find out Ryan will, indeed, be sentenced to prison. Charlie’s video was more than enough proof for the police to search the apartment. The cops found plenty of footage of me, and my room, on both the desktop computer and the laptop. He even shot the calendar where I wrote
BALTIMORE
across the weekend, as well as some of my dolls.

After examining the angles on Ryan’s monitor, the police found the second camera in the smoke detector. They ripped it out, and took down the street cam, too.

The district attorney told us that Mr. Ryan’s windpipe will never be the same. Nobody, including Mom, seems at all upset by that news.

The oddest thing of all, however, is what happened to my friends after Ryan was arrested. It’s like everyone felt this need to try something new.

Clarissa not only helped make costumes for the school’s
production of
The Tempest
—she got a tiny part as a member of the shipwrecked crew.

Sonya came out of the intellectual closet in Ms. Hebenstreit’s English class. In answer to a question about the damaged characters in
Ethan Frome,
she gave a mini-lecture that startled everyone. The way Clarissa tells it, Josh got into it with her and Sonya brought him to his metaphorical knees. Guess she’s not crushing on him anymore.

Luke dropped out. Laura Hernandez told Sonya he’s planning to take the high school equivalency test and head out to California. Alone.

Charlie decided it would be smart to stop volunteering in the computer lab. Second semester, he took Creative Writing to fill the time. Instead of shooting stuff for Zube, he’s writing a screenplay about gymnast thieves who break in to apartments.

“It’ll be epic,” he assures us.

Nobody doubts him.

Jacy wants to celebrate the last day of school with a picnic on the roof. “Just you and me, Ali. Nobody else.”

It’s the first time I’ve been there since
that night,
but it’s turned into his favorite place. Carefully, he lays a blanket on the tar paper, places his cane on the edge so he can find it when it gets dark and sets down his laptop. I busy myself with the food.

“Música, por favor!”
I say.

Jacy clicks his computer. I hand him a fresh mozzarella-and-tomato sandwich.

“Bread’s from Fondue Junction. The olive kind you like so much.”

“Cool.” He eats half the sandwich before clearing his
throat. “I’ve got news. The
Voice
is giving me the summer internship. I pitched an idea about advances in gene therapy and they want me to research it. There’s a chance it could work for a couple of different eye diseases.” His dimples deepen as he grins. “Plus, I’ve decided to go back to WiHi next year. I want to graduate with everyone.”

“Yes! Homecoming, prom—”

“Hey! I’m not agreeing to do everything.”

I take a delicate bite of sandwich. “Whatever.”

He eyes me. “You’re not going to argue?”

“You’ll do it all. You’ll see.”

I snuggle into him. I’ve become quite a good kisser over the past six months. Then again, I’ve taken lessons from the best.

We listen to music, finish our sandwiches and watch the sun deepen its glow—until a song comes on that I haven’t heard in months. The Clash. A punch in the gut. I fumble for the laptop’s stop button.

“If I’m going to school in the fall,” Jacy says softly, “don’t you think you ought to go back to the studio?”

“I told you. I’m never dancing again.”

“Why? Ryan can’t bother you anymore.”

I turn away. The topic is not up for discussion.

“If you don’t go back, he’s won,” Jacy says. “You know that, right?”

“I don’t care.”

Jacy stops me from packing up the food. “Ali? Can I ask for one favor?”

“What?”

“I never got to see the whole solo.”

“Jace—”

“Please.” He gives me the puppy-dog pout I’ve never been able to resist. “I won’t ask again. Promise.”

“You want me to show you now? Right here? I haven’t stretched in ages.”

“So stretch.”

The water tower becomes a barre. As I warm up, I try to keep my heart from racing. The events of
that night
are in sharp focus.
There
is where Ryan tossed the mints,
that
is where I was afraid he’d push Jacy off the roof—and
this
is where he threw me to the ground.

I freeze midplié. I can’t do it. When I turn to tell Jacy, he’s making another sandwich. His head is bent low so he can see.

Sometimes one person’s courage is greater than another’s fear.

If I’m going to do the solo right, I need the chain belt. By the time I get it from my room, however, it’ll be too dark. Right now, the sky makes a perfect backdrop—a tapestry of red, orange, purple.

I look for something to use as a substitute. The only thing close is a piece of cable. I hesitate—that’s what Ryan tied Jacy up with—but there’s nothing else. I make Jacy turn around, wrap it around my waist and mark the piece. Funny the way I remember every step.

When I’m ready, he taps the computer’s keypad and the song fills the air.

I hit the beginning poses with precision, do my two grande battements and slip into the arabesque to hold for the tempo change. When it comes, the music propels me into the Martha Graham contraction—and the part I never performed.

I dance with abandon. For Jacy. And maybe, just maybe, for myself.

The song draws to a close. The way it was originally cho
reographed, I turned my back to the audience before the final chord, wrapped the chain around my face and then revolved to face front.

Prisoner, slave, caged animal.

But this time, as I make the turn, what has been hidden for so long becomes clear. Eva is right. Quentin’s dances have nothing to do with pretty steps. He’s saying something with them, far deeper than I realized. Despite despair and frustration, grief and disease, fear and longing, the heart keeps a steady beat.

That’s when I understand why I dance. For some people, it’s the only way to make sense of the past, to get to the meaning behind the present. To find your true self.

I slip the cable from my waist. Instead of wrapping it around my face, I hold it up and spin forward. The wire spans the multicolored sky. Arch. Rainbow. Bridge. Whatever the viewer sees is what I want them to see. What I allow them to see.

The audience of one explodes into applause. With a graceful bow, I savor the knowledge that I’ve just given the finest performance of my life.

Deep down, I know it won’t be my last.