Dancergirl (3 page)

My heart races. Breathing is quick, shallow. Adrenaline courses through my body—but not the good kind of performance adrenaline. It’s the get-out-of-here-quick kind. Fight or flight, the bio book called it.

But there’s no one to flee from and nobody to fight. Unless you count the ratty stuffed animals I share the bed with.

Why am I having nightmares? Even spookier is that I can’t always remember what’s in them. All I know is that suddenly I’m wide-awake, practically screaming because someone stares at me. Like I’m a jellyfish in the Coney Island Aquarium. Or one of
Los Desaparecidos,
The Disappearing Ones, in the Spanish III documentary on Argentina.

There was this part about torture that’s hard to forget. The police used electric prods and then buckets of water to fake-drown the prisoners. Sometimes they kept the lights on 24/7. Watched the captives constantly, waking them up whenever they fell asleep.

When we saw the film, the lights-on thing hadn’t seemed
so bad. At least not compared to other kinds of torture. Now I’m not so sure….

Being stared at 24/7? Oh, yeah, that would drive me nuts. I’d tell anyone anything just to get them to leave me alone.

Turns out, Brooklyn has its own
Los Desaparecidos.
Or at least three: Jeremy Carl Strode and his folks.

On the morning after Labor Day, I walk to WiHi alone. Jacy’s never missed a first day of school in his life. That, along with the lack of sleep, makes me crazy.

I get a bit distracted when I see the mob scene. The high school’s wide marble stairs are filled with nervous freshmen, high-fiving sophomores and juniors, cheek-kissing seniors. Everyone stalls, knowing that the instant you step through the doorway, summer is truly dead.

A whispered conversation catches my attention.

“That’s
dancergirl!
”

“Told you she goes here.”

Two ninth-graders eyeball me. Obviously, Charlie’s videos made the rounds of the new kids but someone should have told them that staring is so middle school.

It’s like that all morning. Seniors nod in the hall like they know me, people in class who I’ve never talked to before start up conversations. It’s wild to suddenly be Miss Popularity and
takes the sting away from the fact that I get nightmare Mr. Han for Algebra II. Even Jacy had a hard time understanding the guy when he got stuck with him for Pre-Calc.

I go room to room in the hope that Jacy will be in English or American History with me. I’m disappointed each time. His name is not on any class list.

At noon, Sonya and I meet at our usual place near the hot-lunch line. I pretend not to notice the nudges and stares-which-aren’t-stares that follow us as we carry our trays through the cafeteria to Josh’s table.

Sonya maneuvers next to him. Before I can ask if either of them have any classes with Jacy, Clarissa hops onto the bench. She must have spent hours putting together her first-day-of-eleventh-grade outfit: vintage designer jacket, scooped-neck tee, rocker jeans.

“I’ve been looking for you all day, Ali. The whole school has seen your dancing. It’s all anyone wants to talk about.”

“I checked during study hall,” Josh offers. “Over fifty thousand hits. You’re, like, famous and stuff.”

“
Totally
famous,” Sonya says.

Is that sarcasm, along with ketchup, that she’s squirting over her hamburger?

“And speaking of people,” she adds, “has anyone seen Jacy today? Is the dude even alive?”

“My question exactly.” I lean in. “It’s like he disappearado’ed.”

Clarissa’s polished fingernail slits open a juice container. “Luke Sorezzi told Laura Hernandez who told me in Bio that Jacy was arrested.”

“What for?” I ask. “Knowing all the answers to the math test?”

Josh waves a soggy French fry. “Maybe he’s pregnant. Back in the day, girls disappeared from school all the time.”

Clarissa smacks Josh’s head just as Charlie stops beside our table. He sets his camera on the edge. “If it’s Strode you’re discussing, I talked to him.”

“When?” Clarissa demands.

“Ran into him at the park yesterday,” Charlie says.

“He’s home?” My voice comes out squeaky, so I gulp some juice.

“Yeah. His dad’s making him go to some private school in Manhattan.”

I choke. Everyone stares until my coughing fit stops—but whether it’s because orange juice spurts from my nose or because I’m clueless about Jacy is anyone’s guess.

Clarissa leans in. “He didn’t tell
you?
”

Josh saves me from an embarrassing answer. He taps Charlie’s camera. “Were you taping us?”

Charlie shrugs.

“Omigod!” My hand automatically pats my hair. “You should tell me first.”

“Didn’t think you’d mind. We’ve blown up!”

“It still might be nice to know when you’re shooting.”

Josh grins. “It’s better this way. More natural, right, Charles? Did you get me in the shot? Can I pretend to be Ali’s boyfriend?”

The bell rings and the cafeteria explodes with movement.

Charlie grabs my arm. “We’ve got to talk. I have a bunch of ideas—”

“Dancergirl!”
The taller of the morning’s ninth-graders runs toward me.

Charlie swears. “Can’t be seen with you. I’ll call.”

He takes off.

“Was that
shyboy?
” the girl asks, breathless. “Did he finally talk to you?”

“Uh, no.”

“He had a camera.”

“Yeah. Lots of kids have cameras,” Clarissa offers. “There’s a film class. You can take it in eleventh.”

The girl seems disappointed but then brightens. “Can I get your autograph?”

“Seriously?” I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed for me, or her.

Clarissa nudges my arm.

“Um, okay. Sure, I’ll sign something,” I mumble.

The girl snatches paper from her folder, fumbles for a pen.

I start to write
Ali,
then stop. “Do you want my real name?”

She looks at me as if I’m the idiot. “Of course not. Just say, ‘To Tanya. Isn’t it cool we go to the same school? Love,
dancergirl.
’”

I write what she wants except instead of
love,
I scribble
from.

“Thanks.” She takes off, waving the paper. “Julie! Look.”

Her morning friend stands by the garbage cans.

I turn to Clarissa and Sonya. “Let’s get out of here before I have to sign Julie’s paper-bag book cover.”

“But I want your autograph, too.” Sonya makes a show of searching through her backpack. “I’m sure I have an unused tampon.”

Clarissa laughs. “You’d probably make a lot of money selling it on eBay.”

I shudder. “Don’t even go there!”

After the last bell, I head down Montague Street. Tony’s Pizzeria, two doors from the studio, has a line of kids waiting to get the “slice and soda” after-school special. To avoid the crowd, I swing into the gutter and almost trip over a biker dude.

“Sorry!”

“No problem.”

The guy leans against a chrome-and-leather Harley parked in the no-parking zone. He’s cut, forearms bulging with knotted muscle. Despite the cool September weather, he has rolled-up sleeves with a bunch of tats poking out, and his cheeks sport a day-old-shave thing. Startling blue eyes check me out.

He winks. “Break up with your boyfriend?”

“Excuse me?”

“Curly-haired bloke. Yay high. Haven’t seen him around lately.”

“Jacy? He’s not—” A warning flashes. “How do you—”

“Know who you are? Babe like you? Besides the fact that
I’m the one who pointed you out to Eva last spring, you’re all over Zube.” His blue eyes move down my body. “Pretty impressive,
dancerchick.
” He smiles. “What can I say? I’m like
shyboy.
Got a nose for dancers.”

Finally, I put it together. Eva Faus’s boyfriend.

Just then, Eva herself trots out of the studio. She gives the biker an exasperated look.

“Cisco, you busting Ali’s chops?”

A flash of Prussian-blue eyes. “Not me.”

“He’s an incorrigible flirt, Ali, but completely harmless.” Eva punches the biker’s arm before she swings a well-muscled leg over the bike. “Paychecks are in. See you in class tomorrow.”

I can’t help watching the motorcycle weave through traffic. Two blocks up, Cisco takes a right, but not before lifting an arm to wave. It’s as if he
knows
I’m following their progress. My cheeks grow warm as I hurry into the studio. What exactly did the dude mean when he said he
pointed
me out to Eva last spring?

A glance at the clock above the counter confirms my suspicion: I have less than five minutes before class starts. I tear into the teachers’ dressing room without a word to anyone, change as fast as I can and skid into Studio A just a microsecond before Quentin shuts the door.

Samantha’s blue eye is practically green.

“Little Miss Dancergirl,” she hisses as we line up at the barre.

“Have you figured out who
shyboy
is?” Keisha whispers. “Because I thought about it. He’s probably someone younger. That’s why he’s afraid to talk to you!”

“There’s not really a
shyboy.
” Blake laughs. “They’re scamming—”

Quentin raps the piano. “I said ‘fifth position.’ However, if certain
ladies
prefer to chat, the hallway is right outside the door.”

Blake’s face turns so red you’d think it was a piece of raw carne. He shoots me a look like it’s all my fault before he moves away. It reminds me of Jacy barreling into the street and then turning on me after I yelled at him. Which seems like the start of all my problems with him. Or maybe
his
problems with me. My breath quickens. How could he not tell me he’s at that private school—

Quentin raps on the front mirror. I look up, startled. I’d completely forgotten where I was.

“All right, luvies. Eyes on me!”

As soon as I get out of Moving Arts, I call Clarissa.

“That dude on the bike sounds pretty cool,” she informs me.

“I don’t know. He’s a lot older.”

“But cute.”

“In a Hells Angels kind of way. Don’t you think it’s creepy? Hooking up with the choreography teacher and hitting on her student at the same time? Because he was definitely flirting, despite what Eva thinks. He’s seen
dancergirl,
too.”

Clarissa laughs. “Everyone’s seen
dancergirl.
A hundred thousand views and that’s before Charlie uploaded the new one.
First Day of School.
I’ll send it to your cell.”

“That many hits? They’re not
that
good.”

“Sure they are! They’re going to get you from the back row to center stage, and Charlie into USC film school—or beyond.” Clarissa speaks quickly, which she does whenever she gets excited. “But the stuff that Blake kid said means we have to move before people catch on. You need a permanent
stylist. I’ll talk to Charlie and see what kind of look he wants. I’m thinking kind of retro—” She takes a breath. “Are you stoked?”

“I guess.”

I’ve reached the curve in the street and look up. Like a lighthouse beacon that either beckons—or warns—Jacy’s bedroom lamp is on.

I can hear them argue, even though I’m in the living room and Jacy’s mom is in his bedroom with the door closed. I tiptoe closer.

“I don’t want to see her,” Jacy says. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“Jacy, don’t do this.”

When the doorknob turns, I jump back to examine the photos on the wall. Mrs. Strode walks into the room.

“Go on in, Ali,” she says cheerily. “He’s happy you’re here.”

Even if she was an Oscar-winning actress, and I wasn’t an eavesdropping sneak, the lie wouldn’t fly. But I do the same thing she does. Pretend.

“Cool.”

Jacy’s bedroom is brightly lit. Although his hair is as wild as ever, something is different. It takes a moment before it sinks in.

The room. Jacy’s bedroom is always a zoo. Dirty clothes mixed with clean in heaps across the floor. Overflowing garbage can. Stacks of DVDs, notebooks. All kinds of crap piled on the dresser, the desk.

Now everything is neat. Nothing on the floor. Books organized on his shelf. At least two extra lamps.

“I had to clean my room,” he mumbles.

“Looks good.”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“What’s up? I almost went to the FBI to ask them to organize a search party like they did for that Montana teenager. Where’ve you been for ten days? You never told me you were going on vacation. Plus, Charlie said you left WiHi for a private school.” I plop onto his bed. “Is that true?”

He moves to the window and stares at the street. “My dad. He’s never liked public schools.”

I wait but Jacy doesn’t volunteer anything else.

That’s it? Dad never liked public schools?

Before I can explode again, a pair of old-school, amber-tinted sunglasses catch my eye. Jacy probably got them at the Shore, not exactly a hotbed of fashion innovation. Or a particularly pleasant place to be when you spend the entire week being pissed off at your father for making you leave high school during junior year.

“Do you hate it?” I ask softly. “Maybe you can convince your dad to let you come back.” I put on the sunglasses, hoping to make him laugh. “We all miss you, Jace—”

“School’s fantastic. I met a lot of new people, so don’t expect a call or anything.” When he turns, his cheeks pink up. “And put those glasses down. Who do you think you are?”

“Sorry!” I drop the sunglasses onto the desk.

“I’ve got homework—so you should go.”

“Yeah. Sure,” I say.

My eyes sting with tears as I stumble out the door.

“How could I lose her before I even know her? To this dope! This intellectual pea brain! He’ll never care about her the way I do. He will never understand her. But here I am, destined to be, forever,
shyboy101.
”

The footage is beautiful—Charlie found the first tree in the park to turn completely yellow—and the anguished voice-over is totally believable. Despite his outwardly geeky appearance, he’s a much better actor than I realized.

Too bad I can’t say the same for Josh. The kissing scene felt
so
awkward. Of course, with Clarissa standing around fixing our hair, and Sonya enlisted to keep people out of the way, it’s not like we were in a romantic situation. When we finally moved toward each other for the big smooch, Josh stuck his tongue into my mouth.

“Uggh! What are you doing?” I turned to Charlie standing in the bushes forty feet away. “Sorry.”

“Just try again,” he shouted.

I gave Josh my sternest look. “Actors don’t actually kiss. They brush lips.”

“Okay, okay. I get it,” Josh mumbled.

“Action!” Charlie called.

Josh moved toward me and we “kissed”—but then I cracked up.

“What now?” Charlie yelled.

“It tickled.”

“You told me to brush your lips,” Josh said.

“Brush, not sweep with a broom!”

We did the scene several more times. The more we “kissed,” the grumpier Sonya got.

“What’s wrong with that last one, Charlie? It looked fine!”

Now, as I watch
Park Date
in my bedroom, I wonder if I should talk about Sonya to Josh when she’s not around. See what he says. Although honestly, hurt’s written all over that one in capital letters. The dude is way too into himself to be a decent boyfriend to anyone. I’d hate to see Sonya’s heart permanently tattooed.

I click over to the newest comments on the site. It’s hard to get used to complete strangers discussing me.

She’s hot

Not. check out the fat ass.

So sick of boring girls tryin to get publicity. she cnat even dance.

dreamed she was my lab partner

Sleep on, chem turd. She’s mine.

Weirdest of all, though, are the grown men. I picture Cisco staring at his screen.

forgot how god h.s. chicks r