Dancergirl (8 page)

By the time I get home, Jacy checked not only the Red Hook zip, but also most of the zips in the city. Cisco didn’t appear on any list.

We sit in his living room, decorated completely differently from the scruffy Ruffino look. Mrs. Strode went contemporary: chrome-and-leather couches, abstract art, geometric area rug. The ultra-thin TV hanging on the wall fits right in.

“The registry doesn’t mean all that much,” I say lightly. “Cisco might not be his real name. It could be some kind of biker tag. Or he could have been released from prison in another state and moved here without telling anyone. That’s what happened with the Montana guy.”

Jacy looks surprised.

“I watched the eleven-o’clock news last night,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about how stupid this list is in the first place. Besides the fact that half the guys are older than your grandfather, it depends on a bunch of lowlifes to actually follow the rules and sign up. I mean, half the kids at school don’t do what they’re supposed to and they’re not even criminals.”

Jacy grabs a handful of M&M’s from the coffee table. “Well, yeah, I guess. And it’s not like you have proof Cisco did anything.”

“I know.” I tap my foot restlessly. “It’s probably not him. But when you’re alone in a building and someone sneaks in and acts all creepy, it makes you suspicious. It was scary, Jacy.
He
was scary.”

“You just have to be more careful. Check the back door whenever you’re at the desk. Don’t assume Lynette’s done it. And never, ever get caught alone with the guy.” Jacy nudges me in a not-so-subtle attempt to change the subject. “Show me your dance.”

“Heck no! It’s not finished.” I make a face. “Even Cisco said the ending’s rough. That’s what I was working on when he showed up.”

“Everybody’s a critic. All right. You can show me when it’s done.”

“Don’t you want to be surprised?”

He shuts his computer, peers into my messenger bag. “Need help with algebra?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not coming to the concert! I’m planning to ask Clarissa if she’ll make the costume. You have to see that at least.”

“I don’t have to do anything!”

He glares at me. I glare back. Honestly. One minute Jacy’s a superspy, checking zip codes in the National Registry. With the next tick of the clock, I’m the last person on earth he wants to be with.

I sling the messenger bag over my shoulder. “For your information, Strode, I am Mr. Han’s student of the month!”

Right. A couple of hours later, I’m sweating the homework and cursing myself for being so stubborn. If I’d taken
Jacy’s offer, I’d be done with this crap. When my cell rings, I glance at the readout. Pray it’s Strode calling to tell me “of course I’ll go to the concert” and begging me to come back downstairs so he can save my algebra-hating butt.

No such luck. The number is totally unfamiliar.

“Hello?” I say cautiously, half expecting a
dancergirl
freak on the other end.

“Hey, Alicia Ruffino.”

“Luke? How did you get my number?”

He laughs. “You’re on the WiHi class list.”

I’d forgotten about that. Now I’ll have to ask Jelly Roll Gribaldini in the attendance office to change my listing to “do not publish.”

“Did you think about which flick you want to see?” He laughs in that lazy, stoned way of his. “Or are we clubbing?”

“I don’t know—” As I shift, uncomfortable, the math book falls from my lap. Although I stare at the cover, what I see is Jacy and
quiksilver
chatting on the computer. And hear something he’s said a hundred times: seize the moment.

“Let’s do it,” I tell Luke. “We just have to work out a time.”

Eva and I are alone in the studio. She’d agreed to stay after class to go over the choreography in my solo. She watches silently, and then chooses her words carefully.

“It seems so much more…pulled back than when you first brought it in, Ali.”

I uncap my water bottle. “Not sure I know what you mean.”

“Fair enough.” Eva thinks for a moment. “Here’s a specific example. What happened to the split leap? I remember that specifically and it worked really well. You had that nice, big extension and now you’ve replaced it with a perfectly executed, but boring, glide.”

I can’t meet her eyes. “I wasn’t sure I could make it every time.”

Eva snorts. “Of course you can. You asked for my help, Ali, so here it is. The choreography’s gotten too closed off, too internal. Be bold. Go beyond what you know you’re good at.”

“Fine. I’ll put the split leap back in.”

“Excellent. In fact, I’d love to see you be more aggressive
with the entire piece.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “It’s almost as if you’re afraid to get out there and really perform.”

“I’m not,” I say defensively. “It’s just…I think the real problem is the ending. It’s never worked, no matter what I try.”

She moves to the CD player. “What do you want to say? Not just at the end, but with the whole piece.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“You chose the song for a reason.” Eva holds up a hand. “I know. The assignment said a tempo change somewhere in the music, but that was a nudge. There are a million tunes with time changes but you picked this one. Why?”

“I like it. Isn’t that enough?”

She shakes her head. “You need to dig deeper, know
why
you like it. Is it the way the bass line sneaks in and out that turns you on? The dissonance of the chorus, the words? Making a dance is about taking what’s unseen in the world and giving it form. It’s not about pretty steps.”

“I thought it was.”

Eva laughs. “The piece doesn’t have to end nicely, either. Life isn’t pretty—why should every dance be?”

“Quentin’s always are.”

“Ahh. Then perhaps Quentin is making a specific statement.”

I think about the fact that he chose Samantha for the duet. Either Sam really is a better dancer than anyone else—which could be—or the Cranky Brit was looking for something the rest of us couldn’t give.

Eva presses me. “What feeling do his dances trigger in the audience? In you?”

I shrug. “They look good. They look perfect.”

She stretches a graceful arm. “Would it make a difference if I told you that AIDS decimated the dance companies of the
eighties? The love of Quentin’s life was one of the first people to die. Most of his close friends followed soon after.”

“That’s awful! My mother’s first nursing job was at an AIDS clinic. She told me that seeing all those young men suffer was the hardest thing she’s ever had to do. After a couple of years, she couldn’t go to one more funeral, so she quit.”

“Quentin expected to be dead by now, too, but he got lucky.” Eva reties the sweater around her waist. “We all have more inside us than we’re willing to share. Sometimes it’s heartbreak, or fear, that drives us to reach our potential.”

I nod as if I understand but, really, I don’t. If Quentin is so full of heartbreak, why aren’t his dances sad?

Eva grabs her music case. “We’re out of here.”

“I thought you were going to help with my piece.”

“I just did.”

I follow her into the teachers’ changing room. Ever since the camera on the fire escape, I’ve been fanatical about not changing if anyone is in the room. Slowly, I work my lock.

“Can you move a little faster?” Eva asks. “We need to leave together so I can lock up.”

“I usually throw my clothes over the leotard.” I try to sound nonchalant. “Saves time.”

“It’ll take me a little longer but not much.”

I slip my cords off the hook. As I slide them over the tights, I realize this is the perfect opportunity to ask the questions I’ve wondered about for days. But what, exactly, do I say?

Did you and Cisco fight because you found out he’s a pervert? Did you move out because you’re afraid of him? Is he stalking me?

“Ready, Ali? I’ve got someplace to be.”

I slam my locker shut. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“Always a good sign.” Eva pulls on a rainbow-colored cap
and matching mittens. Cold weather brings out the ski bunny in everyone. “We’re out of here.”

We shut off lights as we go. Eva locks the front door behind us as I surreptitiously check for strangers. No one’s watching.

“Doing anything special over Christmas vacation?” she asks.

“Nah. Mom works most of it—extra pay. What about you?”

She gives an impish smile. “Visiting my folks in Florida. Miami Beach.”

“Nice! Is Cisco going?”

“He has to work,” she says.

I can’t read anything into it. Can’t tell if they’ve gotten back together or broken up permanently. At the subway station, we part. Eva skips lightly down the stairs and I hurry across Montague to Clinton.

Francis Whatever, the bodybuilder, is at his window, working out. He winks at me from underneath his barbell. Is that his version of a friendly hello, or a hint that Mr. Ryan put him on Neighborhood Watch duty? At first, I’m relieved. But as I feel his eyes on my back, I wonder if Francis has fantasy-boyfriend complex.

I can’t help glancing over my shoulder. Now, he’s out from underneath the barbell, toweling off. Oh, God. At least that’s what I hope he’s doing.

I scurry home. It’s not until I’m behind the apartment’s locked door that I can relax. I’d called Mom after Choreography to tell her that Eva and I were staying late, so I know she put a covered plate in the fridge. I stick the dinner in the microwave. After it’s heated, I find myself picking at the pork chop, forcing myself
not
to think about stalkers. Instead, I go over the conversation with Eva. Quentin never says anything to Samantha during rehearsals except “Shift all the weight to the back leg before you kick” or “Tilt your head more during
the chassé.” Nothing about what the dance means—to him or anyone else.

Obviously, I don’t get it. So I do what I always do when I don’t understand something. Call Jacy.

“Is it important?” He sighs.

“Not really.”

“Okay. Talk to you tomorrow.”

I toss the phone onto the table. Honestly, how much do I miss my old life? When Jacy’s humongous intelligence burned through whatever crisis I had—and a chick named
quiksilver
wasn’t important enough to blow me off.

The good old days. I could walk home after rehearsal without looking over my shoulder every two seconds. The only people who recognized me were my friends—and no one got mad if I didn’t do exactly what they wanted.

Eva’s right. Life sucks. For most people. That poor girl in Montana. Quentin’s friends, dead of AIDS. Terrorist attacks, hurricanes, oil spills, car accidents on the BQE. All the things that appear out of the blue to wreck lives.

I put my dish in the sink. It doesn’t matter whether or not I understand Quentin’s dances. I’ve finally figured out what I have to do. If Eva wants aggression, I can certainly give it to her. Just not the way she’s expecting.

The solo’s end should shock. The audience needs to feel outrage, confusion, dread. The helplessness, and frustration, of not being able to change anything.

Everything I feel.

Half an hour later, I think I’ve got it. I re-cue the music to run through one last time. Just before I press Play, a door squeaks. At least I think I hear a squeak.

“Mom? That you?”

I grab the hole punch—
got to get a baseball bat
—and tiptoe to my bedroom door. No one’s in the living room. The front door is closed. Everything is exactly the way it was an hour ago.

I really am going nuts—

The scream comes before I realize I’ve opened my mouth. A man has stepped out of my mom’s room. I raise the metal thing in my hand.

He startles. “Ali—”

“Andrew! What are you doing here?”

The guy’s balder, and chubbier, than the last time I saw him. “Sorry I scared you. I knocked on the door but no one answered. I figured you were asleep.” He holds up a man’s jacket. “I left this in your mom’s closet. Didn’t want to come by when she was here.”

My heart has almost, but not quite, quit trying to claw through my ribs. I take deep breaths. I didn’t hear him knock.

“How is she?” Andrew asks. “Your mom, I mean.”

“She’s fine. We’re both fine.”

With a move that he probably practiced in front of a mirror a million times because he thinks it’s macho-cool, Andrew flings the jacket over one shoulder. “I’m glad I got a chance to see you, Ali. You look good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Honestly! Does every guy living in Brooklyn have to be a sleazeball? It’s no wonder my mom can’t find anyone even halfway decent to hook up with.

He shrugs. “Just that you’re all grown up. You look more like your mother every day.”

I roll my eyes and stomp to the front door. “You should go. Right this second.”

Andrew sidles past. Before he gets too far, I extend my hand. “Keys?”

He won’t look at me directly as he reaches into his pocket and hands over his set.

“Don’t come back, okay? Because Mom’s not going to be the least bit happy when she finds out about this!”

The apartment phone rings at 11:35 p.m. I’m on the couch, eating ice cream, watching the cheapo sci-fi channel. I’ve seen this unintentionally hilarious swamp-monster-eats-virgin flick before but after everything that happened—walking past Francis’s window, finally finishing the solo, Andrew’s “visit”—I’m too wired to go to bed. Without thinking, I grab the phone.

“Hello.” No response. “Hello?”

All I hear is breathing. I slam the receiver so hard, it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack.

Someone dialed the wrong number and didn’t want to admit it.

Yeah, right.

Funny thing about breathing. It’s not distinctive the way a voice is, unless it wheezes. And the person breathing into the phone didn’t wheeze.

Ringgg!

My heart pounds like a punk-band drummer. This time I check the readout. Private Number. The machine beeps its message signal and I hear a whisper:
“I know you’re there….”

The whispered voice is male. It feels…familiar somehow. That’s when what Mr. Ryan wanted me to understand hits home…the shock of recognition blasts into my heart. It’s not Francis, not a
dancergirl
freak, not Cisco.

The Strodes have an unlisted apartment number. Jacy would use the landline because his cell would show on the readout. He’s too smart for that mistake.

Like the final step in a dance, Jacy as stalker really does explain an awful lot. His weird behavior. The ability to access the roof so he could drop a camera in front of my bedroom window. Knowing when I’m home and when I’m not.

I punch my cell and start yelling before he barely even says hello.

“I’m coming down. And you better open the door. Otherwise, I’ll pound so hard, it’ll wake not only your parents, but every person in this building!”