Dancergirl (4 page)

I hear the name first. Behind me, in the park. The end of daylight saving time has brought dusk earlier than I expected, so I can’t quite see the guy’s features. He looks sinister in his long gray trench coat.

“Dancergirl—”
he starts. The roar of a bus cuts off the rest. I glance at the street. Yes! If I can get to the corner before the bus leaves, I’ll be safe.

My legs weigh me down. Heeled boots cover my feet and I can’t get any traction. I look over my shoulder. The guy is gaining….

The pneumatic hiss of the closing bus doors gets my attention.

“No!” I wail. “Don’t leave! Wait!”

The driver sees me through the side window. Gives an evil smile. A cloud of noxious smoke spurts out of the tailpipe as the bus pulls into traffic. The old man sitting in the backseat looks at me. His toothless grin mouths,
“Dancergirl…”

I wake up fighting for air. It’s 2:00 a.m.

“Mom? You home?” I yell, even though I know she doesn’t
get out of work until 6:00. It’s just that it feels like someone’s in the apartment. Someone who only seconds before stood beside my bed, watching me sleep—

I snap on the light. No one’s here.

A metal three-hole punch sits on my desk. It’s all I have for protection as I tiptoe into the living room. The apartment is empty, silent except for the occasional creak of a wooden floorboard. I pad into the kitchen. Check the locks on the front door. Everything is exactly the way I left it when I went to bed.

I don’t know what I expected. Some
dancergirl
freak sneaking into the apartment in the middle of the night? Mom installed a “guaranteed burglar-proof” lock on the door when we moved in, so it should be impossible for anyone to break in.

Still, I cannot get back to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, that creepy feeling returns.

In Choreography, everyone warms up on their own. Eva puts on whatever piece of music she feels like and we stretch how ever we want. She must be feeling particularly nostalgic be cause today it’s the Beatles. “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” segueing into “Norwegian Wood” is like comfort food for a modern dancer. Exactly what I need. I’m so tired from being awake half the night that I thought about skipping class to go home and nap. But then I’d have to answer a million Mom questions.
Why are you home so early? Are you sick? Did something happen at school?
I figured it was easier to go to class.

I’m doing simple stretches, butt firmly on floor. Blake slides over. He tilts his head toward Samantha. She’s at the barre, one leg hooked gracefully over the rounded wood. With the other securely on the ground, she pliés over and over, back straight, right arm arched royally over her head.

“Did you hear?” he whispers. “She’s got her Juilliard audition next month.”

A cloud of fear drifts over my heart. Next year, it’ll be me
praying night and day just to
get
an audition, never mind actually performing in front of judges.

“I heard her mom’s paying Quentin for private coaching,”

Blake adds. “Rich bitch.”

Before I can respond, Eva turns off the music. “Everyone warmed up?” Without waiting for a reply, she nods. “Excellent. Solos are due today so let’s not waste time. Who’s first?”

Samantha’s arm immediately hits the air. “I’ll go!” As one, we all turn. She’s not only a rich bitch—she’s a show-offy one, too.

Sam shrugs defensively. “I just want to get it over with.”

“Certainly, Samantha. That’s one way to approach it.” Eva gives the rest of us a raised eyebrow. “Since no one else is volunteering, the floor is yours. CD?”

CD versus iPod is a huge issue at Moving Arts, although no one in class knows except for Eva and me. For months, the staff lobbied for new sound systems in each of the studios. State-of-the-art docks, better speakers. Just before fall classes started, Lynette called an emergency meeting.

“Enrollment is down, folks. Rent is up. I can either not cut salaries or buy new sound equipment. Your choice.”

Which is why Eva’s now holding out her hand for Sam’s CD.

Blake and the rest of us settle along the back wall. Samantha rustles through her dance bag. She laughs nervously. “It’s here somewhere. I’m sure I dropped it in last night….”

“Maybe if you didn’t have so many leotards—” Blake snickers. I smack him in the arm. For once, I’m on Sam’s side. I’d be a perfect mess, too, if I were about to present.

She waves her arm in triumph. “Here it is, everyone!”

“Oh, goody,” Blake mutters. Eva bites her lip as she
drops the CD into the player. I swear she’s trying not to laugh.

“Tell me when you’re ready to begin, Sam.”

Samantha moves stage right. She takes a couple of dramatic breaths and does a few deep pliés before she nods.

The opening bars of a famous piece of classical music catch my attention. I know the name of it but my brain feels like the peas the cafeteria ladies dish out on the hot-lunch line. Soft, mushy and puke-green.

Suddenly, it’s Blake who’s nudging me. “Wake up. Sam’s about to cross in.”

I try not to yawn. “Got up early. Couldn’t get back to sleep—”

Jacqui, who’s taken Choreography for the past two years, leans over to shush me. Sam runs into the center of the room. She flings out her arms and does a strange series of twisting motions, which leads into a sort of hunched arabesque.

It wouldn’t have mattered one bit if I’d yawned. Everyone’s mouth opens in astonishment. Samantha couldn’t have picked a worse piece of music to go with her choreography. Or maybe she just chose awful movements. Either way, the display in front of us is pretty gruesome.

After what seems like an eternity, she freezes. The music, however, keeps playing. Sam looks up. “That’s it.”

Startled, Eva shuts off the player and begins to applaud. The rest of us eventually follow her lead. Sam takes a graceful, though nervous, bow.

“Comments?” Eva asks.

The hush is epic.

“Then I’ll begin,” Eva says cheerfully. “It was very brave of you to present first, Samantha. I liked the opening phrase
but wondered why you chose that particular piece of music. Perhaps you can tell us what you’re going for?”

That’s all Sam needs. She starts in about wood nymphs and fauns in the afternoon and the quintessential beauty of the forest—yes, she uses the
q
word. After twenty seconds of her mumbly-gook explanation, I space out. I didn’t like her solo but who am I to judge? I haven’t even begun mine.

I jerk back to earth when I hear my name.

“Alicia?” Eva asks. “How about you?”

“Oh, uh, it was pretty good. The music was pretty.”

Eva looks amused. “It should be. It was written by Claude Debussy. But we’ve moved on from Samantha. Pay attention, Ali. I asked if you want to present next.”

“Sorry. Mine still isn’t finished.”

Eva runs a hand through her spiky hair. “As long as it’s started.”

Charlie calls during dinner.

“I’ve got a list of this week’s locations,” he says. “We just have to figure out when we can meet.”

“Hold on.” I take the cell into the living room. “I can’t do anything for a few days. I’m drowning. There was a choreography solo due today that I haven’t even started. And if I tank another math quiz, it’s straight to remedial.”

“Screw school. This is the big time.”

“Yeah, screw school. My mom’s going to be thrilled with that attitude.”

“Don’t you like the new video?” Charlie asks. “My other ideas are even sweeter.”

“I’m sure they are, but I need a break. Just a few days. Maybe a week. I couldn’t sleep last night—”

“I don’t get it! The whole point of being a dancer is so people can see you. I’ve thrown you hundreds of thousands of views.”

“Yeah, but who’s doing the viewing? Have you actually read what people write about me?”

“Grow up, Ali. Ignore the things you don’t like.”

“Sure. You can say that because no one actually
sees
you. No nerdy fan boys discuss your butt. How would you like it if they called you a Tarantino wannabe, with stupid glasses and a pimply face— Omigod. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— It’s just weirding me out, Charlie.”

“We can’t stop now. Please. People suspect it’s not real.”

“It’s not!”

“Just a couple more days and I’ll leave you alone,” he pleads.

“Alicia!” Mom calls. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

“Later, Charlie. I’ve got to go.”

I’m pissed off the rest of the evening. At Charlie, for making me feel like a turd. And Jacy, who instead of helping with math like he’s done for the past six years, chucked me out of his life for no reason.

He hasn’t called, texted or shown up at the apartment since he kicked me out of his room. I haven’t done any of it, either—I’ve got some pride.

Still, I miss him.

After Mom leaves for work, I throw the algebra book at the door. Maybe I can clear my brain by working on Eva’s assignment. The rules are: no longer than two minutes, with a tempo contrast and three different directional changes.

After seeing the problems Sam had, there’s no way I’m going classical. I choose an old Clash song, sketch the first eight beats in my head and then move to the middle of my room.

Last winter, Jacy came up with the brilliant idea of pushing my dresser into the closet so I’d have wall-to-wall floor space in which to practice.

The sequence created in my mind, however, doesn’t feel
right when actually danced. I hit Replay, only this time I decide to improvise.

Split leap, plié, half-toe lift. Extend a leg to arabesque, step through lunge to chassé. Not good enough. Start again. Pounding pulse exhorts my body:
Don’t think. Mix styles. Take chances.
Hip-hop jump, Martha Graham contraction, grande battement. Change direction. Slow, then quick, quick.

I work until every conscious thought is erased from my brain. I become a true creature of the wild. A faun, not of the afternoon, but of the night. Time stretches, then dissolves….

This is why I dance, Charlie.

Not to count how many views I get on Zube. Or to think about how famous that’s supposed to make me. Or even to show off how good I am. For me, it’s all about the inside. Dancing fills me up in a way that nothing else does, but it’s awfully hard to explain that to anyone.

The texts start after midnight Friday night.

Keisha: Wow. Top ten Josh: You slut!

Clarissa: How could u do this to us?

What’s going on? And what on earth did I do to them? Josh, Clarissa and Sonya planned to go to the football game that evening. They weren’t at all mad when I told them I needed to work on my solo some more. My friends understand my passion. That’s why they’re my friends.

And
slut!
What’s up with that? I’m about to call Josh when something occurs to me. I recheck Keisha’s message. Top ten?

The top ten that comes to mind first is the Zube list of featured videos.

The site is bookmarked on my computer so it comes up quickly. I scroll down the day’s list. My breath freezes the instant I see the picture. Number seven.

For several moments, all I can do is stare in confusion. It’s me all right, but what freaks me out is that I’m not at the park.
Or Sonya’s roof—or any other location Charlie shot over the past several weeks. I’m in my bedroom. Alone.

The title of the video taunts me:
Hot Diggity.
Time: 1:08.

My finger has a will of its own. It hits Play. Wearing only a tank top and a pair of old Hello Kitty panties, I dance around the bedroom as if I haven’t got a care in the world. After the initial brain freeze, I realize the footage was shot two nights ago. That’s when I started the solo. I’d taken off my jeans, but hadn’t bothered to put on tights.

The only other thing I know for sure is that it’s been edited. Most of the footage is from the end after I went crazy, but the beginning section came from when I first started choreographing.

My face burns hot as a chili pepper. I tap a key and the video cuts off midleap. How the hell did that get taped?

I glance around the room. Besides the bed on the far wall and my desk, there’s not much cluttering up the space. The chair I’m sitting in, the bookcase in the corner. There’s no camera on any of the shelves. I check the closet. Nothing but clothes.

That’s when I feel it. Back of the neck prickle. Goose bumps across the skin.

I whirl. A bloodcurdling scream fills the air.

Sitting on the fire escape, on the other side of the window-pane, is a tiny camera. The lens points straight at me!

For a moment, time stops. There’s nobody on the fire escape. Just the camera. It stares at me, I stare at it. Then several things happen at once.

The camera jerks upward. My cell rings but I ignore it. Rushing to the window, I lift the sash and stick my head out.

The Minicam is attached to a snakelike cable. I watch in dis
belief as the camera rises and then disappears over the building’s cornice.

Nobody’s on the roof, at least no one that I can see.

I remember the phone. The call I missed was from Jacy.

I hit his number and he answers on the first ring. “You okay? I thought I heard you yell.”

I eyeball the floor as if I could see directly into his bedroom. “You can’t believe what just happened!”

“Be up in two minutes.”

With a click, he’s gone.

The doorbell’s chime makes me jump even though I expect it. Jacy goes directly to the living room, turning on every light that he passes. The burst of electricity comforts but immediately the vibe turns awkward. Neither of us knows how to begin after not talking all these weeks. But with a quick flick of the WiHi handshake, the moment passes.

“Did the video make you scream?” he asks.

“Who sent you the link?”

He looks uncomfortable. “No one. I was checking to see how many views the others were up to. I don’t see why you’re so freaked. If you let Charlie shoot it, what did you expect?”

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think he’d put it out on the internet?” Jacy interrupts.

“I didn’t let him shoot this one.” Miserable, I fold onto the couch and tell him what’s been going on.

“Let me get this straight. Charlie wanted to shoot more stuff, you said no, so he goes up to the roof Wednesday night, drops a camera and shoots through your window. Takes a day and half to edit and then, after he uploads the finished piece,
decides to do it again tonight.” Jacy shakes his head. “What an asshole.”

“Tell me about it!” I can feel my cheeks flush all over again at the thought of being half-naked on the net. “How could he embarrass me like that?”

“Let’s find out.” Jacy pulls out his cell but Charlie doesn’t pick up. “Show me where you saw the camera, Ali.”

We head into my room. I keep the blinds only partway down to let in daylight. Since the buildings across the street are three stories, not six, it never occurred to me that anyone could see in through the bottom half of the window.

“It was hanging down from the roof. On some kind of cable. But he reeled it up the minute he heard me scream.”

“Dude’s gone off the deep end,” Jacy mutters.

With a vicious tug, he pulls the venetian blinds. The metal slats hit the sill with a bang. The outside world disappears from view.

“Time for a field trip!” he announces.

“To Charlie’s?” It’s after 1:00 a.m. “Mom’ll kill me if she finds out.”

“We won’t leave the building. You have a flashlight?”

There’s one in the kitchen junk drawer. I flick it on. Batteries are good.

Jacy grabs it so I can lock the door on the way out. He marches past both the elevator and the stairwell. Stops in front of a metal door at the end of the hall. Block letters painted across the front announce Roof Access Only.

“What are you doing? There’s no way Charlie will still be up there,” I say.

“I didn’t hear anyone bolting down the building’s steps, did you? But even if Charlie’s gone, I want to see how he did it.
And he might’ve left something to prove it’s him. You know, in case he denies it.”

“Like what? School ID? A note? ‘Sorry I’m such a creep. Love, Charlie.’”

Jacy pulls the door open. The narrow stairwell is made of unpainted concrete blocks. From past experience I know there’s a filthy hatched skylight at the top of the well. At night, the only illumination filters in from the fluorescent light in the hallway.

Jacy flicks on the flashlight. “I’ll go first, then turn and light it for you.”

“It’s okay. I can see.”

I follow him up five steps to a narrow landing. He hits the push bar.

The squishiness of the tar-paper covering the roof is disorienting after the hard concrete of the stairwell. It’s actually a bit brighter than I thought it would be. The not-quite-full-moon and distant Manhattan skyline create a hazy semidarkness. I glance at the spot above my apartment, but Charlie isn’t stupid.

“Told you nobody’d be here,” I say.

No answer. Jacy leans against the open door. Despite the chilly night air, beads of sweat sprout across his forehead. His breath is shallow, the panic in his eyes real.

“Jacy? What’s wrong?”

“Can’t go any farther,” he whispers. “Why not?”

“I’m afraid of heights,” he says.

“Since when?”

Jacy won’t look at me. “It’s gotten bad lately. I have to do this weather project for school and it’s freaking me out.”

“Then why bring us up here?”

“I thought the flashlight would make it okay.”

“You look terrified. Let’s go back.”

“No!” He hands me the light. “Check the area above your window. Look for, I don’t know, empty beer cans. Carton of takeout. Anything Charlie might have left behind, since he probably had to camp out, waiting for you to dance.”

I move toward the edge.

“Be careful!” Jacy shouts.

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. The low edge wouldn’t stop a soccer ball from falling to the sidewalk.

I find an old antenna, torn clothesline and wire left over from a cable TV installation. Graffiti, spray-painted across the ledge, is a mess of scrawled, ugly lines. A small circle of rocks has some ashes inside.

“Jesus. Looks like either a gang or the local crack den has relocated to our building.”

It’s bizarre what happens on a roof. But I don’t find anything that proves Charlie—or anyone else—spied on me.

When we get back to the sixth floor, Jacy grabs my arm. “You won’t tell anyone what just happened, will you? I mean, with me. On the roof.”

“’Course not. Lots of people are afraid of heights.”

Back in the apartment, my cell buzzes. I glance at the text.

“Charlie wants to meet at the Promenade in the morning. Ten o’clock. Will you come with me?”

“Are you kidding?” Jacy says angrily. “Pick you up at 9:30. Can’t wait to talk to the douchebag.”

After he leaves, I lean against the locked door.

Did Charlie see me naked?

Sick to my stomach, I race into the bathroom. When I’m done, I slip Mom’s ratty old bathrobe, hanging on the back
of the door, over my sweats. If I had a fur coat, I’d probably put that on, too. Anything to take away the chill that’s settling deep into my bones.