Dancergirl (2 page)

We enter Prospect Park at Ninth Street. A group of Dominican men are heavy into a soccer game, children swarm all over the playground and barbecued meat perfumes the air.

My stomach growls so loud Jacy laughs. “And you call me a beast!”

The crowd follows the asphalt path around the ranger station. The white band shell sits at the bottom of a natural amphitheatre. A Celebrate Brooklyn! banner spans the lighting rig. People are everywhere; blankets laid out end to end create a giant chessboard. The spicy scent of weed drifts on the breeze.

“Jacy!” Sonya shouts. “Over here!”

I spot her first. She and Clarissa have staked out a prime spot under a tree. Jacy and I thread our way up the hill.

Sonya’s soft, pillowy skin reminds me of the Pillsbury Doughboy. She counters that with some major body piercing: nose, tongue, belly and, at last count, seven earrings on each lobe. Her eyes, lined with dark makeup, are huge.

But not as huge as her appetite. “What did you bring?”

Jacy sets the grocery bag on the blanket and removes a dozen doughnuts, six-pack of Coke and the grapes I insisted we buy at the corner market.

“Awesome,” Sonya says. “Clarissa and I got hummus, pita and cucumber salad from that Middle Eastern place on Fourth. And a box of Mrs. B’s cookies.”

A true-blue fashionista, Clarissa is doing a Guatemalan-peasant thing: white embroidered blouse tied to bare her midriff, low-slung jeans. She has a deal with a stylist in the Village and gets free haircuts if she lets the guy experiment. This time, her hair is a mixture of lengths—real short on the right side, longer on the left. Not one of the better cuts, but not as bad as the one where her scalp looked like it got caught in a blender.

Someone jumps Jacy from behind. “Strode!”

Josh Tomlin, who was Banquo in the school’s hip-hop version of
Macbeth,
does the WiHi handshake: palm slide, fist smack. Not quite the pretty boy he thinks he is—his jaw is way too square—he might actually have some acting talent underneath all that ego. Charlie Liu, on the other hand, is skinny and hyperactive, with square-framed glasses that are a little too big for his face. Video camera in one hand, he rattles a bucket of Kentucky Fried with the other.

“Jace the Ace,” Charlie says. “Join the fiesta?”

Clarissa, Sonya and I make room on the blanket.

“You didn’t tell me it was a party!” I whisper to Jacy.

He gives me a wicked grin. “Didn’t know who would show.” Now I
really
wish I’d showered—but as soon as the band begins to play, I forget all about it. Sinewy bass, syncopated drums. By the time I finish eating, Clarissa moves to the groove.

“Dance with me,” she cries.

She doesn’t have to ask twice. I start small to allow reggae’s seductive rhythm to settle into my bones, and then let my body go where it wants. Doesn’t take long before the world melts away. Just me, the music and—

It.

Back of the neck prickle, goose bumps on my arms. I swivel around. Everywhere, people are mellow. Lying on blankets. Getting high. Batting a beach ball through the crowd.

My friends are occupied, too. Sonya, still sitting by the food, laughs at something Josh says. Jacy leans against the base of the tree, talking to Laura Hernandez. She came to the concert with Luke Sorezzi’s stoner crowd.

At last, I notice Charlie farther up the hill, channeling Spike Lee, Minicam trained on me.

It’s exactly like my dream, only this time someone really
is
staring. It totally weirds me. Performing onstage is one thing; being secretly
observed,
like I’m some kind of zoo animal, is something else.

Busted!

Charlie sees me staring, hands on hips. Immediately, he turns the camera toward the stage. My groove broken, I walk over to Jacy and Laura Hernandez.

“Yo!”

“Grab the cookies,” Jacy tells me.

I toss the box into his hands. Laura gives me a “Get lost!” stare. She’s got raven hair and flashing eyes, but I don’t like the way she’s practically sitting in his lap. Way too pushy.

When I don’t move, she stretches in a way designed to show off her considerable rack. She’s wearing a spaghetti-strap tank that she’s practically busting out of. “Guess I’ll bring that record over tomorrow.”

Jacy nods. “Sounds good.”

She gives me a triumphant glare and waltzes back to Sorezzi.

I nibble a pecan sandie. “Score a hot date?”

Jacy shrugs. “Whatever. Are you having fun?”

“Yeah. This was a good idea.”

“Told you.” He gropes the cookie box and surfaces with the last one. “Want to hear my news?”

“You have news?”

“You are now looking at the
Voice
’s fall intern,” he an nounces.

“No way.”

Jacy was a finalist for the summer one but lost out at the last moment, which explains his slacker vacation.

He grins so wide, his dimples look as if they’re chiseled into his cheeks. “Let’s dance.”

Now
that’s
almost as amazing as the internship. I’ve never seen Jacy volunteer to dance with anyone. The band segues into a Marley song and the crowd begins to sway as one, so sweet it’s like floating in a bowl of caramel syrup. Jacy catches the mood. He leans forward, an odd gleam in his eye.

Omigod! Is he going to kiss me?

Just as the question forms, a beach ball comes at us from the left. Instinctively, I move back. The ball smashes Jacy’s nose.

“Ooof,” he breathes, more surprised than hurt.

“Why didn’t you duck?”

With a laugh, I bat the ball down the slope. By the time I turn around, Jacy’s back against the tree, looking extraordinarily pissed off. At the ball? Himself? Me?

I shouldn’t have laughed. Immediately, however, my mind skips from shouldn’t to couldn’t. As in: he
couldn’t
have been
about to kiss me. I know he’s happy about the internship but nobody, and I mean nobody, kisses their best friend, for the very first time, in public.

I wake up the next morning convinced I’m crazy. There’s no way Jacy was about to kiss me. He probably leaned forward to make some comment about his own dancing.

That’s when a truly horrible idea strikes. Maybe Jacy thought
I
was about to kiss
him
and that’s why he sat back under the tree.

My worry deepens when he doesn’t show up at the stoop. I wait as long as I can but end up walking to work alone. He doesn’t text all day, doesn’t return mine. When I leave the studio, there aren’t any voice messages. The front steps are empty.

I crowd into the elevator with the Russian computer geek, old Mr. Detwiler, his brown Chihuahua and a packed grocery cart.

The Russian is reading the newspaper. He’s mastered the NYC subway accordion; three long folds. A headline pops out: Massive Manhunt for Montana Teen. Guess Brooklyn’s not the only place you need a 505 trouble code.

I almost jump out of my skin when Mr. Detwiler pats my shoulder. His hand lingers a bit too long for my liking.

“Did you have a nice day, dear?” he asks.

His wife died recently, so everyone in the building feels bad for him.

“Yes, thank you,” I lie. “Did you?”

I don’t listen to the answer. My index finger hesitates at the five button but then moves to six. Nothing happened last night so it’s not like I can knock on Jacy’s door and apologize. I can’t bring up the subject of kissing. Ever.

Both the Russian and Mr. Detwiler exit at three. I come back to earth long enough to say goodbye. At six, I hurry down the hallway. Sometimes, Jacy comes up to the apartment to wait for me. He doesn’t mind talking to Mom.

After unlocking the door, I yell, “I’m back.”

The “no one’s home vibe” is obvious. Mom’s note, sitting on the kitchen table, confirms that I’m alone: “Covering a shift. Dinner in fridge.”

I eat in front of the TV, and then move to my room. It’s the smaller of the two bedrooms but it’s at the front of the building so I’ve got a view of Clinton instead of the back alley. My bed hugs the wall opposite the window. Next to the bed are my desk, clock radio and computer. Above the computer is a shelf with a collection of dolls wearing traditional costumes from around the world.

Jacy hasn’t added anything to his blog since the day before yesterday. He posts every night but for some reason, he hasn’t gotten around to writing about his internship—or the concert.

Charlie, however, sent a Zube link. The outlaw share site is the coolest thing on the net—no corporate commercials masquerading as someone’s “home” videos.

The film starts with a low shot of the band. Next, Char lie alternates wide angles and close-ups. The camera pans the crowd. Ooh—there I am, dancing. Charlie zoomed in so close you can’t see Clarissa and cut away before I flipped him off.

I click Replay and watch myself critically. Really good rhythm and a nice Martha Graham contraction I don’t remember doing. I reach for my cell but it rings before I can grab it.

“Hey, Charlie. I was just watching the video.”

“You like?”

“Yeah, actually. It came out pretty good.”

“Excellent. Want to do another? Just you.”

“You mean, only me dancing?” I pause to consider. “Jacy said that was the last concert.”

“It doesn’t have to be at the band shell. I can shoot some place else. A party. One of your classes.”

“You sure?”

“Are you kidding? This video’s going viral. Five hundred views in the last hour. You could be famous.”

“I guess. If you really think it’s a good idea…”

“Awesome!” he says. “Let me get back to you when I figure out what I want.”

I’m so pumped, I skip the elevator and charge down the stairwell to Jacy’s apartment. No one answers the doorbell so I knock loudly.

“Anyone home? It’s Ali.” The inner chain unhooks. “Mrs. Strode!”

Jacy’s mom looks terrible. Her honey-blond hair, usually tastefully combed, is a mess. Streaks of black under her eyes mean her mascara has run but she hasn’t bothered to fix it.

“Is everything okay?” Dread smashes into my stomach like a dodgeball I haven’t dodged. “Is Mr. Strode—”

“I’m fine.”

Now Mr. Strode comes to the door. A senior accountant for a large downtown firm, he never leaves his office before 8:00 p.m.

“We just got in ourselves.” His voice sounds hollow, as if the charcoal business suit he wears has turned to tin. Even his skin looks gray.

Uh-oh. Parental fight.

I want to get out of the way, quick. “Jacy home?”

The Strodes exchange a look.

“He’s in his room,” Mrs. Strode says. “But—”

“Thanks.”

I scoot through the living room. Jacy’s bedroom is directly below mine. “Jace? It’s Ali.”

At the sound of a grunt, I open, and then close, the door. I half expect him to be watching the video, assuming Charlie sent him the link, too, or working his blog. Instead, Jacy sits on the windowsill, staring at the fire escape.

“Turn on your—” I stop when he swings around. His eyes are rimmed with red. “Hey! Don’t take it so hard.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Your folks. I know they’re fighting, but they’re not like Mom and Andrew. When Mom and Andrew were together, that is.” I sit at Jacy’s desk. “I want to show you something—”

“My parents aren’t—”

His laptop is so fast the footage comes up in seconds. “Look! I’m on Zube.”

Jacy kicks his bed. “You are unbelievable. Always thinking about Alicia Ruffino.”

The tone is clear. He is seriously pissed off.

“Right,” I tell him. “I’m the selfish one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Who drops everything because you feel like going to a concert? Who saved you from being squashed by a car? You didn’t even bother to tell me where you were going, did you? And who came up with an answer to that stupid question yesterday—”

“Is that what you think I am?” he shouts. “Stupid?”

The bedroom door swings open.

“Jeremy?” Mr. Strode says. “Everything all right?”

My face grows hot with embarrassment. Jacy’s obviously in one of his moods, and I know better than to try and reason with him.

“It’s okay, Mr. Strode. I was just leaving.”

Back in my apartment, my cell buzzes. The texts don’t stop until after midnight. The video was linked all over the place. Everyone thinks I look great.

In the morning, though, it’s Jacy that’s on my mind. Something was wrong last night, and not letting him talk first was rude. I text him: I’m an idiot. Call me.

He doesn’t. I check online. Not a single blog entry since the day before the concert.

Again, I skip the elevator and take the steps. No one answers when I ring the bell or after I knock. I press my ear to the door but all is quiet.

It occurs to me that Jacy might have been telling the truth about his folks. Which means that if the Strodes weren’t fighting, something was bothering them, too. Perhaps Mr. Strode found out about the
Voice
internship and he won’t let Jacy do it if he has to drop Discrete Mathematics, which maybe ten other kids in the history of high school have taken.

Or Mr. Strode’s company got downsized and he lost his job. Or Jacy’s grandmother died. Whatever it is, Jacy re
fuses to return a phone call, text message or email the rest of the week.

I do some detecting. That means hanging around the building lobby to ask the postman if the Strodes filled out a “hold the mail” vacation card—they didn’t—and then calling Josh and Charlie to see if they heard from him. Neither of them knows what’s going on. It’s like Jacy, and his family, dropped off the face of the earth.

Charlie calls ten minutes after the invite goes out on the net. Sonya’s having an end-of-summer party and he wants to make sure I’ll be there.

“It’ll be on the roof,” he tells me. “The footage will be awesome!”

City roofs are amazing. You can watch a sunset, secretly smoke or just plain hide out. When parents are on the war-path, they never think to check the roof.

Sonya’s is better than most. The perfect party place. Unlike my building, with its two-foot lip, her roof has a five-foot wall surrounding the edge. No matter how wasted someone gets, they’d have to try really hard to fall off.

The day of the party, Clarissa decides to play stylist. She brings over a bunch of clothes from her closet. We go with a pretty V-neck and short skirt. Makeup and hair take another hour but in the end, I’m happy with the look.

By the time we get to Sonya’s, the party is in full swing. Word obviously got out on some site or other because I don’t even recognize half the people. They’re packed together like at
the Thanksgiving parade when the Snoopy balloon floats by. Cell phones and cameras snap as people dance and clown—a last hurrah. Clarissa and I elbow our way through the crowd, searching for Charlie. When we finally meet up, he gives me the once-over.

“Blue’s an excellent choice for the camera,” he pronounces.

“Hi to you, too,” Clarissa says. “And thanks. I picked out the shirt.”

I look from one to the other. I might as well be uncooked tofu for all they care. A little annoyed, I spot the cooler, grab a beer. Charlie follows. He points to an empty spot near the ledge.

“I like the lighting over there. Very end-of-the-world sci-fi.”

Suddenly, I’m extremely thirsty. I slug some beer. “What do you want me to do exactly?”

“Just dance, be natural. And make sure not to look at me.”

Before I can move, Luke Sorezzi strolls over. He’s dressed all in black and his hair has that “I don’t give a crap so I finger-comb” look.

“Yo, Ruffino. Saw the video on Zube. You looked good.”

He hands me a joint and I toke deeply. Even if I wasn’t worried about the video, there’s something about Luke that brings out the nerves in me.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know anyone was taping me,” I mumble.

“Riiiighht.” Luke smirks.

“I’m serious.”

“Then it’s just natural talent. The best kind.”

Over in the corner, Charlie’s giving me the “hurry up” sign. I hand Luke the joint. “Thanks for the hit. Umm, nice talking to you.”

“Hold on. The school’s best dancer deserves a little extra.”

Luke tokes deeply and pulls my head toward his. As my mouth opens in surprise, he blows smoke into me. I blink, not sure whether it’s the weed or the fact that his lips are so casually pressed into mine. Then he strolls away like he’s done that every day for a month instead of the truth—before the Zube video, he never even noticed we breathe the same sooty Brooklyn air.

“Alicia!” Charlie has come to get me. “I’ve been waiting.”

A final gulp of beer before we move to the chosen spot.

“Hold on, Charlie. You want me to dance by myself? Who does that?”

“You do. Well, not you, but the girl in my video. She’s a free spirit—think Audrey Tautou in
Amelie.
”

“Never saw it.”

Charlie waves it off. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t think you. It’s just…a dancer girl. And remember, don’t look at me.”

He backs off so you can’t even tell what—or who—he’s shooting. Not that anyone would notice. There’s a surge over by the cooler. Someone, I take it, has managed to scam more beer and the crowd is ecstatic.

Clarissa gives me an encouraging smile. I take a breath, about to start, when a window curtain shifts in the tall building across the alley. At least I think it does.

“Ready when you are,” Charlie announces.

Chills crawl down my spine. “I feel like I’m in a Macy’s window display right here. Can’t we move?”

“Fine!”

Charlie picks a different spot, still on the far end of the roof, but not so close to the alley. Just as I start, he yells, “Wait up.”

He motions Josh over, placing him and Clarissa so there’s a
barrier between me and the party. That’s so no one can stumble into the shot.

I begin again. Being videotaped is like being onstage. Nerve-racking at first but then the movement, and adrenaline, of performance take over and something magical happens.

Two songs later, Josh approaches. “Can I join you? Or does that mess with your concentration?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Charlie give me the thumbs-up. “Guess not.”

Josh’s face lights up. Did he do this on his own—or did Charlie send him? Either way, I worry that my freestyle is boring, so I kick it up a notch by double-timing everything. Josh sweats buckets trying to keep up.

After another song, I’m done. I head for the Styrofoam cooler and check out the party. Sorezzi’s in the southeast corner, surrounded by a circle of “admirers.” Clearly, he came to the party to do a little business of his own.

Clarissa bustles over. “Charlie let me see the playback. The outfit’s perfect. I’m sure he’d let you see—”

“Yo!” Sonya weaves over to us, well on her way to getting trashed. “Having fun?”

“Sonya!” Clarissa squeals. “Did you see Charlie shooting Ali?”

“Uh-uh. I was talking to Laura Hernandez. Why? What happened?”

She spots Charlie but it’s Josh, intently watching the playback, who makes Sonya’s face turn brittle. It suddenly penetrates that she spent most of the reggae concert talking to Josh.

Uh-oh.
Sonya has a habit of crushing on the wrong guy and getting scorched in the process.

“Nothing happened,” I inform her. “And to answer your question, it’s an awesome party.”

“I guess.” Sonya’s buzz is gone. She ducks down, roots through the cooler. “Laura asked about Jacy. Is he coming?”

“Haven’t talked to him since Wednesday. We sort of had a fight.”

Clarissa’s eyes widen in expectation of a gossipy score. “What about?”

“Who knows? You know how Jacy gets. I stopped by the apartment earlier today, but nobody was home. Again.”

Sonya pulls a forty from the cooler. “Maybe he went to the Shore. Don’t his parents have a place in Wildwood?”

“Yes, but you’d think he’d have mentioned he was going. Or texted back. I’ve left, like, three messages.”

“It’s Jacy we’re talking about. He probably left his phone charger under a heap of dirty laundry.” Clarissa shudders. “I don’t know how he gets away with that.”

“If they’re at the Shore, why didn’t his folks hold the mail?” I demand.

“Because they forgot?” Sonya pops the top from the forty before she and Clarissa head off to find chips.

I think about Jacy’s red eyes, Mrs. Strode’s mascara-streaked cheeks. The kiss that wasn’t a kiss. Something’s going on, and I want to know what it is.

It takes two days for Charlie to edit the party footage. After he posts, I watch it in the privacy of my bedroom.

Charlie invented a character.
Shyboy101.
He saw me at the band shell but was too afraid to approach. Then he shows up at the party. The camera pans across the back of Sorezzi lighting up and there I am. As I dance, drink beer and talk to my friends, we hear
shyboy
’s voice-over.

“There she is—
dancergirl.
But she doesn’t even notice me. To her, I’m invisible. Should I go up to her, say something? Not a chance! All I can do is watch from afar. Hoping that one day, she’ll see me.

“Until next time, this is
shyboy101.
”

It’s surprising how real it looks. Like there’s truly a
shyboy
who never met
dancergirl,
let alone talked to her. The fact that I didn’t look at the camera really does make
shyboy
seem invisible. And since everyone, well, everyone except maybe Luke Sorezzi, has felt like a nobody at one time or another, the audience can’t help but root for
shyboy
to talk to the cool girl.

Cool girl being…me?

Which is a joke. I‘ve never been anyone’s idea of cool, unless you count the Fairy Tale Dance kids. The little ones think I rock, but that’s not saying much. Still, it’s fun to see myself on the screen—although I spend the next four views critiquing my dancing. Not bad, but I could do better.

The only drawback is that I can’t show Mom. She’ll kill me if she discovers both the weed and the beer. She has a
serious
thing about underage…well, underage anything.

Then there’s Strode. Wherever he is, if he doesn’t have his cell, I certainly hope Jacy’s got his laptop—and a decent connection to the net.