Dancergirl (9 page)

Jacy waits in the open doorway of his apartment. He has on a pair of torn jeans and a wrinkled, dirty shirt.

“What’s wrong?”

“Not here,” I warn. “Not unless you want your folks to know what you’re doing.”

I charge into his bedroom.

“What am I doing?” Jacy asks.

I pull open his closet door. “Where’s the camera?”

“Camera?” For perhaps the first time in his life, Jacy is slow on the uptake. “Ali, you’ve gone completely schizoid.”

“Yeah. I’m the crazy one. Which extension did you use? Your dad’s line?”

Jacy’s eyes narrow. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong or do you want to play twenty— Omigod! You think I’m the person who shot the video—”

“Took me long enough. You’ve been screwing with me the whole time. The roof! ‘Oh, I’m afraid of heights.’ Hell no. You were up there with the camera when I started screaming. That’s why you got to me so fast. And that whole show
of checking the registry for Cisco’s name. Bet you had a good laugh when I told you about him.”

“Why would I stalk you?”

“How should I know? You’ve been weird ever since you left for that rich-kid private school. Is it some kind of hazing ritual? Stalk an unsuspecting girl and join Skull and Bones?”

Jacy walks toward me.

“Don’t touch me, you friggin’ creep. Even Mr. Ryan knows you’re stalking me.”

“Unbelievable!” Jacy moves past me to his window. He stares at the street below.

“He tried to tell me but I was too stupid to listen.”

Night has transformed the glass into a mirror. The reflection that stares back has tears running down its cheeks.

Uh-oh.
I have this premonition. Like something awful is about to occur.

“Jac….?”

“Retinitis pigmentosa,” he says.

In a million years I couldn’t have guessed that would be his response. Whatever
that
is. “Excuse me?”

“Retinitis Pigmentosa. RP, for those of us lucky enough to be in the know.”

“What are you talking about?” My stomach drops into my knees. As usual, my body gets it before my brain.

“It’s a disease. Means I’m losing peripheral
and
night vision. It’s why I don’t go to WiHi anymore. That fancy private school you’re so hot about? McAllister Institute.”

My throat tightens. “Are you…?”

“Dying?” He spits the word out. “I wish I was. My life is over. I’ll never be able to get a driver’s license. Never find a decent job. The reason I canned the
Voice
internship has nothing to do with my father. It’s just—why the fuck should
I bother?” He kicks one of the standing lamps. “I couldn’t stalk you at night even if I wanted to. I can barely see anything once the sun sets.”

“What about glasses?”

Jacy’s laugh has an insane edge. “That’s the irony. Middle finger of God. Cosmic joke.” He slams the wall. “The part that still sees has perfect vision. But
that
part’s going to get smaller and smaller until…”

My legs can’t hold me up. I sink onto his bed. “God, Jace. I am so sorry.”

His body is tight, angry. “You can’t tell anyone.” His voice—and my heart—break at the very same moment. “Not Sonya or Charlie—or anybody.”

I need air. As soon as I get upstairs, I lift the living room window as high as it’ll go. It shocks me that the brownstones across the street are the same three stories as yesterday. The traffic light blinks the same pattern. Green, yellow, red. Green, yellow—

Pink. I remember the roses that Jacy, Clarissa and Sonya gave me opening night of the spring concert. They were a delicate, cherry-blossom pink. Clarissa presented the bouquet but it was obvious Jacy chose it. He knows roses are my favorite.

Later, we walked to Josh’s. His parents were at the opera, and the party was
on
. Pulsing music. Smuggled-in beer. High on performance energy, I snagged Jacy and insisted he dance. When he caught his foot on a stool, everyone assumed he was drunk.

Tripping downstairs. Getting clobbered by a beach ball. Stepping into the street without seeing a car coming. How long had he known something was wrong?

The night his mom cried. The week he disappeared. That’s when they found out for sure, he told me. His dad insisted they fly to Minneapolis to see another specialist.

It’s why he won’t come to my dance concert. He hasn’t been out of the building at night since August. He’d have to use a cane if he wants to go himself, and he refuses.

I’m the stupidest, most awful person alive. How could I have considered, for even one second, that Jacy’s a stalker?

My body can’t stop shivering. I close the window, shut the blinds and do a Google search for
RP:

A rare genetic disorder of the retina characterized by night blindness, diminishing peripheral sight and eventual loss of vision.

From Bio, I know that
genetic
means RP isn’t catching. The definition also tells me that Jacy’s right. Ultimately, he won’t be able to see anything. Not even me.

Apparently the fun-house hall of mirrors that is my life is endless. While I was accusing Jacy of being a stalker, elves, or maybe gremlins, were out slapping Moving Arts Winter Dance Fest posters on telephone poles, in store windows and across the construction barrier at the rehabbed brownstone near school. Seven posters, to be precise, are splattered across the plywood. I count in disbelief—because everyone of them has my body, and face, plastered on it.

In Person! Dancergirls and Dancerguys! the poster shouts above the list of performance dates and times.

I’m furious—and horrified—and scared. All at once and all jumbled up so I can’t even think straight. The posters on the street make
dancergirl
so very public. It’s not some underground Zube thing anymore. Now it’s a presence in the adult world. Open for everyone—and anyone—to comment upon. Have an opinion about. Make fun of.

The cafeteria is abuzz when I walk through during lunch. It’s been weeks since the last
dancergirl
video went up on Zube—and interest at WiHi died down. At least I thought it
did. But now I’m getting the same kind of stares and whispered conversations as I got then.

Clarissa pushes her sandwich aside when she sees me. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed your costume for a photo shoot? I would have rushed it.”

“It wasn’t a photo shoot. Lynette watched a bunch of rehearsals last week and took shots of everyone. I had no idea she’d use one of me.”

“You would look so much nicer wearing my costume.” Clarissa sniffs. “It’s coming out awesome.”

“I’m sure it is. Don’t be mad, ’Rissa. Please. I had
nothing
to do with this. You’ve got to believe me.”

The instant school is over I go to the studio to call Lynette out. She didn’t even ask if she could use the photo. But I forgot it was tech rehearsal until I read the sign on the door: Tech at 3:30. Meet at Trinity. No Costumes.

That means it’ll be hard to talk to her. She’ll be crazy. Tech rehearsal is all about setting light cues and telling the sound guy which music goes with what dance piece. It takes forever. Lynette also makes sure that no dancer gets too far downstage. Rumor has it that at her first show as studio owner, a whole line of Fairy Tale Dance kids took a collective nosedive right off the edge. It was before my time, and Lynette will never talk about it, but now she insists that every piece is choreographed several feet upstage of the edge. She’ll stop the rehearsal dead in its tracks if a dance isn’t set right.

The bank clock reads 2:45. On the off chance that Trinity’s auditorium is open, I head on over. Not surprisingly, the door is locked. Mostly, I imagine, so Lynette can get ready for the rehearsal in peace because she obviously doesn’t ever consider security issues.

Instead of waiting by myself, I return to Montague Street.
I’ll need major fortification to get through the afternoon. I order the after-school special at Tony’s. When it comes, distracted by attempting to figure out what to say to Lynette, I sprinkle way too many red-pepper flakes on the slice. Blotting it with a napkin, I try not to dwell on the disgusting grease that comes up with the flakes, or the Moving Arts poster which stares at me from the pizzeria’s community corkboard. A horrible notion strikes. I scoot over to the stack of copies of the
Voice
in the magazine bin. Just as I feared, Lynette took out an ad the way she did last year. This one’s a resizing of the poster into a smaller square. All me. And you can still read every word of the original. If the stalker lives anywhere near the city, he’ll know exactly when—and where—I’ll be practically every hour during the next weekend.

My appetite gone, I fold the paper plate around the slice. Just before I drop it in the trash, however, I look around. No one is watching, so I snatch the poster off the corkboard, wrap it inside the paper plate and toss the whole greasy mess straight into the can. Stupid, I know, because there are a hundred posters like it—but it makes me feel a tiny bit better.

“Ali! I’m so glad you’re on time.” Lynette’s arms are filled with props. “Can you take these? It’s the lollipops for Jazz I.”

I grab the bags while she unlocks the door. “Thanks. Put them in the girls’ dressing room please—”

“Can I talk to you first?”

Lynette pulls the hat from her head. “Not right now. I spent the entire morning doing lights and the afternoon with the sound guy. I have to—”

“Please. It’s important.”

She sighs. “Okay. Follow me up to the booth.”

Her dancer’s body is still in great shape and she takes the back steps two at a time. “I had to give Max a late lunch break—”

“Max?”

“The sound guy. And Fred. You know Fred. He’s worked for Trinity for years. He’s doing lights again—” Her voice trails off as she opens the door. The small booth has lights and soundboards set up behind a wide glass panel that overlooks both the back of the auditorium and the stage. Several head sets and a walkie-talkie sit on the table beside the cue sheets. Crumpled candy-bar wrappers are evidence that Lynette and the crew spent the entire day working.

“I can’t afford a separate follow-spot operator this year so we added more light cues—”

“Lynette! Stop. For a minute, okay?”

She sinks into a swivel chair. “You’re right. I’ve been moving at warp speed since 6:00 a.m. I’ve got to breathe—”

“Exactly.”

Although I planned most of the conversation in my head, I can’t quite figure out how to start. In the split second that I use to think, she starts in again. “Wait until you see the lighting for your solo. The opening alone has five cues. I still have to tape the stage so you’ll know where the marks are. You have to hit them precisely to get the full effect of each cue.”

I shift nervously. “Lynette, that’s kind of what I want to talk to you about.”

“Your solo? Is something wrong—”

“Nothing’s wrong with the solo. It’s just, I can’t believe the posters!”

She grins. “It wasn’t me. It’s Cisco. Aren’t they great? He’s a graphic designer for film, you know. He does the open
ings. Anyway, he told me if I took the photos, he’d design the poster.”

“And you let him use
me?
”

“You don’t like the picture? I think you look great. Your battement is perfect. Toes pointed—”

“You didn’t ask if I want my face posted everywhere.”

Lynette looks confused. “I don’t get it—”

“It’s embarrassing, okay? And, um, dangerous.”

“Dangerous? How could it be—what’s really wrong, Ali? Performance nerves? You’ll be fine. Everyone gets anxious before a show.” She grabs a stack of CDs. “I have to go through the music to double-check the order—”

“You didn’t get my permission to use the photo,” I say stubbornly.

Lynette bristles. “Actually, I did. When you first signed up to take classes. Every student’s parent signs a release. You know that. I keep them in the cabinet.”

She’s right. I’ve filed the papers myself but completely forgot about them until now. Still… “Who said you could use all that ‘Dancergirl and Dancerguy’ stuff?”

“Afraid I’m horning in on your success?” Lynette taps the cue sheets pointedly. “You owe me, Ali. I’ve let you take classes for free all year. And if we don’t sell out, there will be no more Moving Arts.” She swivels in the chair, clearly dismissing me. “Please lead a warm-up when we’ve got critical mass. I’m starting the run-through exactly at 4:00. Oh, and make sure that nothing except water bottles are in that aud. Anyone with sticky drinks or food eats in the lobby. No exceptions.”

By 6:00, I’m sick of playing cop. I don’t care who’s drinking what or where they’re snacking on chips. The little kids,
at least, are gone. They were the hardest to police. They’re not allowed to run around by themselves, so I had to spend the past two hours escorting them back and forth to the lobby and bathrooms.

Exhausted, I slink into the seat next to Blake. “Why wasn’t I born rich?”

He looks up from
Ethan Frome.
Apparently, every eleventh-grade English teacher in the state assigned the book during the month of December—the plot nothing but a series of depressing events. I’ve got twenty pages to slog through, too, when I get home.

“Not rich, starlet. Just famous.”

“Don’t start. I didn’t ask Lynette to put my picture on the poster—”

A chill runs down my back. It’s the same sensation of being watched that I’ve felt so many times before.

“What is it?” Blake asks.

Eva’s boyfriend is at the edge of the auditorium, video cam era screwed onto a tripod. “What’s Cisco doing here?”

Blake shrugs. “My guess is he’s watching rehearsal so he’ll know how to shoot the actual performance. For the DVD sales to the parents.”

“Except the camera isn’t focused on the stage. It’s focused on me. Us.”

I’ve had it. Like a jack-in-the-box, I pop up. I’m going to talk to Cisco once and for all—

Before I can take a step, however, Blake pulls me back down. “Don’t get so upset, Ali. Cisco’s adding backstage stuff this year. You know, like the extras in a real DVD, so Lynette can sell even more copies. I overheard her talking about money trouble—”

“I don’t care what she’s in. I don’t want to be photographed, or videotaped, without being asked. I’m sick of it.”

“
You
might be, but I don’t think you should say anything at the moment.”

I turn to face Blake. “Why not?”

“Dude’s got a wicked temper. I heard him and Eva behind the studio one day. My dad, a champion brawler from way back, wouldn’t have come close to winning that one. Don’t know why she stays with him.”

“What were they fighting about?”

Blake shrugs. “The usual. She accused him of hooking up with someone. Or maybe he accused her—I’m not sure. I hear enough of that crap at home, so I left quick. The dude’s bad news. Don’t get him riled up right now, ’k?”

I sink low into the cushioned seat. “It’s not just him. Lynette didn’t even ask if she could use that photo on the poster. I’m really pissed—”

Blake laughs. “You’re not the only one.”

I look to where his eyes are focused. “Did Samantha say something to you?”

“Whatever.”

“Oh, come on. Now that you and she have the duet, you can’t dish? What did she say about me, Blake?”

He remains stubbornly silent. Samantha has finally stopped stretching in the center of the aisle. That meant that for the past two hours everyone had to squeeze
around
her. She catches my look and stalks over.

“What are you staring at,
dancergirl?
” She shifts her gaze to Blake. “You, too,
dancerguy.
How stupid do you feel?”

“Not very.” He lifts his arms for a lazy stretch. “I heard the phone at the studio’s ringing off the hook with people reserving seats.”

That information is new. Then again, I didn’t give Lynette much of an opportunity to tell me.

“They’re not coming to see you dance, that’s for sure,” Sam informs him.

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll see me no matter what they come for. And you. Maybe we’ll get reviewed in the paper. How awesome would that be? Really, we should give Ali a big cheer—”

“What on earth for?” Sam blinks rapidly. Her giant eye appears to move at a different rate than the brown one. It’s a little disconcerting, to say the least. “The only reason Ali got the solo is so Lynette can publicize it.”

“Excuse me! In case you two haven’t noticed, I’m sitting right under your noses. For your information, Sam, Lynette had nothing to do with me getting into Choreographer’s Showcase. It was Eva’s decision.”

Samantha laughs. “Believe what you want, Ali. I know for a fact that Lynette asked Eva to give you one of the spots.”

“Did not.”

“Did, too.”

Blake puts up a hand. “Stop it, children. Do I have to separate you two?”

“Can it, Blake. The only reason the great Samantha Warren got the duet is Mommy pays Quentin on the side.”

Sam’s and Blake’s mouths fall open at the same time. “Everyone knows, Sam, so I wouldn’t be so quick to throw stones.”

With that, I’m in the aisle. I keep my head high and manage to get all the way into a bathroom stall, door locked, before the tears come.