Dancergirl (7 page)

Blake’s right. Only one thing’s worse than auditions: waiting for the cast list to go up. All you can do is second-guess yourself:
I shouldn’t have let my nerves get the better of me. I ought to have controlled the arabesque better. Why did I wobble on the turn?

Jacketless, I throw myself into the bitter wind. Loose garbage lids rattle against the cans. A stray cat meows piteously. A thin woman, face almost entirely wrapped in a wool scarf, nods in miserable silence as she exits the subway—
Fellow traveler of the Yukon, I salute you.

Clinton Street is vacant, the deli closed for the evening. The only good thing about the arctic weather is that it’s impossible for anyone to hang out on a roof. Even Cisco, with his heavy motorcycle jacket and leather gloves, would freeze to death. Perhaps that’s why he followed me to the studio where it’s nice and warm—if he
did
follow me.

Omigod! Maybe I’m actually paranoid. Truly crazy. Turning an innocent encounter into something…sinister. With my mind spinning, I let myself into the apartment. Take a breath. The smell of bean soup simmering on the stove is the first
normal thing I’ve encountered all day. At the same time, it reminds me I’ve barely eaten anything since last night. I beep 07 to let Mom know I’m safely in, pop some French bread into the toaster, then check the messages on my cell.

Clarissa: Call me

Clarissa: Where r u?

Clarissa: Call when u get this

Clarissa: Imp. Call!

She picks up on the first ring. “Did you hear?”

“Hear what? I just got home.”

“They found the kid,” she says.

I set the serving spoon on the counter. “What kid?”

“The girl that went missing in Montana. It’s all over the news. You must have heard about her.”

“Is she alive?”

“Yes. But it looks like she’s in bad shape. They arrested some guy.” Clarissa is totally freaked. “There’s this list. Any person who’s ever been convicted of an actual sex crime with kids is supposed to register their address when they get out of jail. I saw it on the news.”

“I know. The police have a copy at the station.”

“But here’s the thing. You don’t have to be a cop to see it. Anyone can check it out online. There are thirty-seven in our zip code, Ali. Thirty-seven registered sex criminals! I keep thinking about the guy who taped you from the window….”

My stomach tightens.

“There’s pictures,” she tells me. “Sign on and see if you recognize anyone.”

“What’s the website?”

“Do a Google search for
sexual predators
—I forget what it’s called but the list thing should come up.”

Clarissa’s right. Thirty-seven people on the National Reg
istry Alert list live in our zip. Not only do their names and photos pop up, but addresses, offenses, identifying marks, and aliases are there, too.

My stomach flutter-kicks my ribs. I half expect to see Cisco’s face but he’s not there. I don’t recognize anyone else. They all, however, live in my well-kept and supposedly safe neighborhood.

I click each person’s offense.
Lewd or lascivious acts with a child under the age of 14, lewd or lascivious acts with a child 14 or 15, rape by force, annoy or molest children, indecent exposure, kidnapping to commit 261, 286, 288(a),
whatever that means.

Even without understanding it all, it’s the sickest thing I’ve ever read.

Mrs. Strode opens the door in response to my pounding fist. “Ali! Everything all right?”

“I’ve got to talk to Jacy.”

He comes out of the kitchen, chocolate-chip cookie in hand. “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll go to my room.”

I follow him into the bedroom and close the door. “Mr. Ryan was wrong—there are real sex offenders in the Heights. And Cisco broke in to the studio but he’s not on the list—”

Jacy pulls me to his bed. “Start from the beginning. Don’t skip anything.” I take a breath and tell him everything that happened.

He looks confused. “Mr. Ryan doesn’t know about the online list? Isn’t it the same as the one the cops have?”

I shake my head. “I’m not sure. He never told me about anyone in the neighborhood. I figured it’s like doctors. Mom always says that they don’t get back to you unless there’s bad news. Should we go talk to him?”

“Now?” Jacy asks.

“Yes. I don’t want to go by myself and I didn’t get his phone number. Stupid.”

“I can’t.”

It’s a little after ten, late for a school night, but that’s never mattered to either Jacy or his mom.

“Are you grounded?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“What on earth did you do, Strode?”

As if in answer, Jacy’s computer beeps. Automatically, I glance at the screen. A tiny picture of a cute girl and a screen name—
quiksilver
—pops up. I’m baaaack.

“Who’s
quiksilver?
”

“Nobody you know,” Jacy snaps.

Not “
quiksilver
’s a girl from school.” Or “my long-lost cousin in Vermont.”

It doesn’t take very long to figure it out. What Jacy didn’t say, but probably should have.

Quiksilver’
s my girlfriend. That’s why I can’t go to Ryan’s apartment. I’d rather stay here and chat with her.

On my way to school the next morning, I glance at the deli window. Yes! Mr. Ryan is in the corner booth, eating break fast by himself. His laptop leans against the napkin dispenser.

He glances up as I approach his table. Politely, he closes his computer. “Don’t tell me the guy came back! Because I’m watching the street.”

I slide into the opposite seat. “That’s not exactly why I’m here. My friend Clarissa discovered a list of sex offenders on line. There are thirty-seven in this zip code alone.”

Ryan sighs. “Would you like something to eat?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got school.”

He nods. “I’ll try to make this quick, then. I was hoping you
wouldn’t
see the list, Alicia, for this very reason.”

“Because I’d freak? You got that right.”

“What you have to understand is that the list, for the most part, is useless.” He holds up a hand so I won’t interrupt. “Half the people don’t really belong there. And the other half are too old to harm anyone.”

I slip my messenger bag off my shoulder. “I don’t understand.”

“Once you’re a convicted sex offender, you’re on the list. So, let’s say you’re nineteen and having sex with your seventeen-year-old girlfriend. Then you break up with her, and she presses charges to get back at you. Happens more than you think. So you cop a lesser plea than statutory rape. You never had any intention of hurting anyone, past or future, but still, you’re put on the list. Or you got out of jail thirty years ago, and excuse my French, couldn’t get it up if your life depended on it. Still, the law is the law. Once on the list, always on the list.”

“Most of those people didn’t look that old.”

Ryan gives me a patient look. “Come on, Alicia. It’s not like they update their photos on a regular basis, right? The site uses old booking pictures. I’d venture to guess that very few people actually look like their photos no matter when the picture was taken.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“Mostly, it’s a bone thrown to the public to make them feel safe. I’m sorry, but you want me to tell you the truth, right?”

“Yes.”

His eyes flicker toward the window. It’s morning rush, and the sidewalk is a beehive of activity. “Have you seen anything else suspicious? Someone following you? A second camera?”

I shake my head.

“See, that’s good. And now that we’re being honest…”

Immediately, my nerves tingle. “Yes?”

Mr. Ryan takes a sip of coffee. “I didn’t want to mention this that afternoon you stopped by with Jacy, but most times a stalker turns out to be an ex-husband or old boyfriend. Obviously, ex-husband doesn’t relate to you but…”

“You think
Jacy’s
doing this?” My voice comes out an octave higher than usual.

Mr. Ryan’s eyes do not leave my face. “What do you think?”

“Not a chance! Besides, he’s not an old boyfriend.”

“You’re together a lot.”

“We’re friends. That’s all. Just friends.” I grab my messenger bag. “Sorry to bother you during your breakfast. I have to get to school now.”

I hustle outside, shocked at the thought that Mr. Ryan considered Jacy a suspect. Although, after I calm down a bit, I realize it would explain Jacy’s secrecy. His moodiness when I’m around. Still…I just can’t see it. There’s no way Jeremy Carl Strode is spying on me.

But, I can understand how Ryan came up with the idea. The Wiki entry did say there are three kinds of stalkers. The first are the ex-boyfriend types, like Mr. Ryan mentioned. There are also fantasy boyfriends—people who think a random smile or a “hi” at the video counter means you’ve fallen in love with them. The third type is a stranger who sees you on the street, at a dance concert—or on Zube—and gets fixated. Which means practically anyone in the city could be a suspect.

My cell rings.

“That guy Cisco lives with your choreography teacher, right?” Jacy asks.

It’s as if
quiksilver,
and my abrupt departure from his room last night, never happened. I take the hint and don’t bring it up. “Yes. At least he lived with Eva until last week. Why?”

“I want to check the registry to see if he’s on the list. The names are listed by zip, so all you have to do is find out her
address. Can you ask at the studio without it seeming suspicious?”

I consider telling him not to bother, the list is bogus, but then I’d have to bring up the conversation with Mr. Ryan. And when Jacy asks me to tell him everything, which he undoubtedly will, I’d end up blurting out Ryan’s Jacy-as-stalker theory.

“I don’t have to ask, Jace. Contact info on all the teachers is in Lynette’s computer. I can just look it up.”

“Is your address there, too?”

My stomach drops. “Yeah.”

“What else?”

“Phone number, email—”

“Which means anyone at the studio could have it,” he says.

“But only Lynette, me and Mallory, the other receptionist, use the computer.”

“Still—if the back door was unlocked last night, it could have been unlocked before. Anyone could sneak in and look up your address. Unless the computer is password protected.”

“It’s not.”

The silence over the phone tells me Jacy thinks that’s a really bad thing.

In junior high, being fifteen minutes late was no biggie. At WiHi you have to get a pass from the office if you enter less than a minute after the bell rings. Mrs. Gribaldini, the attendance lady, is proof positive that witches are not an urban legend.

I glance at the bank clock. At this point, there’s no way I can get to school on time by taking my usual route. If, however, I cut through the alley behind the large apartment building on Henry, I might be able to make it on time. For the
most part, I avoid walking that way because the long row of garbage cans and Dumpsters alongside the building wall smell no matter what the weather. Or maybe the never-ending stink comes from street people peeing in the corner.

The best way through is to take a deep breath right before entering the alley—and make a mad dash. Halfway down, I hear someone yell. When I see who it is, I duck behind a Dumpster. No way do I want to get in the middle of that fight.

It’s the neighborhood drunk, or rather, one of the neighborhood drunks. The woman. She’s got dark frizzy hair that makes her look like a werewolf with a bad perm. She claws through a garbage can, screaming at a skinny man whose back is toward me.

“You had no right to do that. I paid good money for that liquor—”

“You promised, Mom.” Long, thin hands swing the woman from the can. Now it’s the guy who’s facing me. Luke Sorezzi. Only he doesn’t look at all cool. He looks furious. And hurt.

I should have backed out of the alley as soon as I heard them. But now I can’t move because Luke will see me. I’m stuck listening to the rest of the awful argument. Finally, Mrs. Sorezzi collapses in tears and tells Luke she’s sorry, she won’t do it again, and yes, she’ll find an AA meeting as soon as he goes to school….

Even I don’t believe her and I haven’t heard the promise a million times. But Luke’s voice betrays his willingness to grasp at any straw he can.

“You swear?”

His mom sways. “Pinkie swear.”

Like little kids, the two cross fingers.

“Go on,” Mrs. Sorezzi tells him. “You’ll be late for school.”

That’s an understatement. First bell rang at least twenty minutes ago.

The instant Sorezzi is out of sight, I reverse and exit the way I came in. I cannot bring myself to pass his mom. Already, she’s back to pawing through the trash, pinkie promise completely forgotten.

Although Luke took the shortcut and I walked the long way, I run into him in the crowded attendance office. He must have stopped to toke up because I can smell the weed on him. Ironic, considering the morning’s events. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure he’d say he just needed to relax a little.

He’s back to cool. Gives me his smirky smile. “Up late last night, StripperGirl?”

Unbelievable! I could cut him down with one simple question:
Isn’t that drunkard I saw pawing through the trash related to you?
Before I open my mouth, however, something changes. Maybe Luke sees the fury in my eyes—or maybe he has some kind of sixth sense about what I’m going to say.

He holds up a hand. “Sorry. I can be an idiot sometimes. You prefer
dancergirl.
”

“Actually, I’d rather go by my real name.”

He laughs. “Done! Alicia Ruffino, would you go to the movies with me?”

I blink. “What?”

“The movies? You heard of them, right? Or do you only dance? We could go to a club I know—”

I shake my head. He lowers his to mine. “I could get you a fake ID if that’s the problem. No worries.”

“I don’t know, Luke. I’m kind of busy right now. You know, school stuff. And I’ve got to fix my choreography solo because the end doesn’t work…” I realized he has no idea what I’m babbling about. Luckily, I’m saved from my own idiocy by Mrs. Gribaldini’s shout.

“Next!” The jelly-roll fat lines around her neck wriggle as she glances up. “Luke Sorezzi, what a surprise. What’s the excuse today? Cat ate your socks?”

He leans jauntily over the counter. “Dog, Mrs. Gribaldini. Got a hungry pooch at home.”

“Don’t suppose you also got a note.”

“That would be a no. Same hungry animal.”

She cups her pudgy fingers around her mouth as if to whisper. But it has the opposite effect. The Megaphone Voice. Everyone in the room hears her loud and clear.

“What with all the lateness and unexcused absences, you’re heading straight toward the legal limit, Mr. Sorezzi. Fair warning—if that happens, I call the truant officer and you might have to repeat eleventh grade.”

Ouch!

Luke sticks out his hand, takes the pass and exits without a glance at anyone. Including me.

“Next,” Mrs. Gribaldini yells. I move to the counter. “Name?”

“Alicia Ruffino.”

She extends a hand. “Excuse?”

“Um, I had to see someone. About, um, a problem.”

Now she gives me the jelly-roll neck shake. “You still got
to bring a note. Even if it’s a female problem.” Mrs. Gribaldini brings up the fingers. Megaphone Voice blares. “Next month, take a Midol like the rest of the girls and get here on time.” I feel my cheeks flush as she hands me a pass. “It’s going down as unexcused. Next.”

I flee. Head down, completely mortified. Behind me, someone snickers. I can practically read the note on the fan site. Breaking news: dancergirl’s on the rag. Ha-ha.

Ha-ha, indeed.

Later that afternoon, the studio is surprisingly busy. Young kids, mothers and nannies mill about. They check the lost-and-found box, stand in line. The January schedule has just come out. Lynette, alone at the front desk, issues class cards and collects payments as fast as she can.

In addition, auditioners from last night trickle in to see if the cast list is posted.

How could I forget? I start toward the bulletin board, heart thumping with anxiety.
Could I possibly have gotten the duet?

One of the Fairy Tale kids streaks out of the bathroom, TP stuck to her foot. “Lynette! The toilet won’t stop. Water’s pouring over the top.”

Lynette groans. “Ali! Would you mind handling the desk for a minute?”

Instead of telling her the truth,
Yes. I would,
I take Lynette’s place. “Go!”

She hurries into the bathroom.

“Who’s next?”

With one part of my mind, I do registration. With the other, I realize I have a golden opportunity to check the computer without anyone knowing.

The instant there’s a lull, I click Lynette’s address book.
Scroll to Faus—and discover that Eva lives in Red Hook, near the waterfront. Tenement buildings, low-income housing and old factories rehabbed into artist lofts.

The telephone interrupts my snooping. “Moving Arts Dance Studio. Alicia speaking.”

“Hey, Ali, it’s Eva.”

Yikes. Does the woman have ESP?

“How did you do last night?” she asks. “What?”

“The list.”

Eva truly has psychic power if she knows I saw the registry.

She laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re at the studio and didn’t check the cast list.”

“I didn’t check the cast list. Lynette had an emergency and I haven’t left the desk since the moment I came in.”

“You’re a better person than I am. I would run to that list even if my own mother needed help. Anyway, I’ve decided which choreography pieces I want in the show. Will you post? I won’t be in until tomorrow.”

Lynette keeps pens in the first drawer. “Go ahead.”

“Glen’s duet,” Eva says. “Jacqui’s trio—”

“Nice. I really like that one.”

“And your solo,” she says.

“Really?” My stomach tightens. “I don’t know, Eva. The ending’s not any good.”

“You’ve got several weeks to fix it.”

Lynette taps my shoulder. “I’ll take over. I have to call the plumber. Landlord wants me out so he can raise the rent even further, won’t fix a single thing…”

I gladly hand desk duties over to Lynette and head down the hallway with Eva’s list. At least five students crowd the board. Necks crane upward, eyes scan a printed sheet. A dis
appointed moan comes from someone, juxtaposed against a happy cry.

Tall as I am, I’m able to see above their heads. Samantha’s name jumps out at me. And Blake’s.

Just as I thought, the duet was Sam’s to lose. Obviously, it didn’t matter what anyone did last night, so why did Quentin make us go through the hassle of auditions?

He named me to the ensemble, along with Keisha, Lorenzo, Denny and Riya Stirb—the usual suspects. I text Jacy.

Me: Eva at 612 Van Brunt St.

Jacy: Got it

Me: She gave me choreography solo.

Jacy: Awsm

I’m not so sure. At this point, I’d much rather work with someone than dance alone. I’ve had more than enough of that.