Dancergirl (11 page)

Luke clasps his hand over my mouth. “Stop! Someone might hear you—”

I struggle to push him away. Luke whispers, frantic. “Please, Ali. I’ll let you go but don’t scream.”

When I nod, he cautiously removes his hand. “Listen—”

“No!” Childishly, I put my hands over my ears, and then take them down. “What are you guys going to call this? Not
Park Date.
Charlie already used that.
Perfect Date?
Yeah, I bet that’s it. How far are you supposed to go with me?”

“You’re not making sense. How could anyone shoot this? It’s dark—”

“I’m sure Charlie figured something out.” I shove my green scarf under Luke’s nose. “Maybe he’s got some kind of night
camera. I saw it on TV. It shoots in green, but you can still see everything.”

“Ali, I swear, no one is taping this.”

A humongous sense of betrayal fills me. “Then it’s you!”

“What’s me?”

“Took you all this time but you finally got me alone, didn’t you? No one around…”

Crazed, I get to my feet and scoot down the path. After a few moments, footsteps follow. When Luke gets close enough, he grabs my arm. “Ali, listen. It’s the weed.”

That stops me. “What’s the weed?”

“This…paranoia. I did not make any kind of deal with Liu. Why would I? I don’t even like the dweeb.”

That, actually, is the first thing I believe. I’ve always suspected he had something against Charlie. “But—”

Luke talks to me slowly, cautiously. As if I’m a two-year old who might throw another tantrum any second. “I brought the good stuff tonight. Most people get really off on it but it makes others totally paranoid. Think everyone’s out to get them.”

“I know what
paranoid
means,” I snap.

Luke tries a laugh. “See, now you think I think you’re stupid. I don’t. But we should get out of here. You might— Never mind.”

“Might what?” I ask. “Never mind what?”

He shoulders his backpack. “Uh-uh. Don’t want to give you any more crazy ideas than you already have. Let’s get you a water. The worst of it should wear off by the time we hit Brooklyn….”

Neither of us says much the whole way home. I lean against the subway window, pretend to fall asleep. Secretly, I watch
the people on the train through half-closed eyelids. No one appears to be following us.

When we get to my building, I refuse to let Luke inside. I don’t want him to know which apartment is mine. It’s not until later that I realize all he has to do is check the buzzer buttons.

“You sure you’re all right?” he asks. “I don’t mind staying—”

“That’s okay. I’d rather be alone.”

He shrugs. “All right but, you know, if you freak again, you can call, or text.”

“I’ve got Jacy. He lives right below me.”

Luke’s eyes dim. “Right. Strode. Tell him I say yo.”

Sorezzi takes the stoop stairs quickly. For a moment, I feel a tinge of…something. Pity? Sadness? I wonder where
his
mom is right now, why she’s not worried about him. Is she passed out on the couch in their living room? Sitting on a stool in the old-man bar on Lemon Street? The one that smells like stale beer and cigarettes no matter what time you walk past.

Once inside my apartment, I carefully lock the locks. Then I beep Mom. At the very last second, I remember I’ve already done that and disconnect. Awkward! I can just imagine the conversation when she called to find out why I double-beeped her.

Just making sure you know I got home. Two hours ago. When I beeped the first time.

Clearly, I am not cut out for a life of crime.

Just before school the next morning, I check the internet. No new video. There is, however, a photo on the fan site. The camera caught me looking down at the skating rink in Rockefeller Center. There’s a spotted: dancergirl in NYC caption. Strange but it doesn’t freak me that much. It feels sort of innocent, captured by a
dancergirl
fan who noticed me in the crowd. Not something stalker-ish.

I shut the laptop and grab my messenger bag. No way do I want another run-in at the attendance office with Jelly Roll Gribaldini. A quick double-check to make sure the solo costume is inside the bag before I scurry off. Dress rehearsal’s in the afternoon, opening night on Friday. As if that isn’t stressful enough, I have to face Sorezzi in less than half an hour. What am I going to say? Now that I’m not high, I feel pretty stupid about the way I acted.

I needn’t have worried. Sorezzi’s back to pretending I don’t exist. He doesn’t glance at me in Homeroom or Physics, the only class we have together.

Dress rehearsal is a mess. Missing props, lost tights, late en
trances. If I were Lynette, I’d be in tears. But she looks quite cheerful.

“Bad dress rehearsal, good opening night,” she trills. “I want everyone onstage at 6:00 tomorrow for the group warm-up. Show starts at 7:00 on the dot. Get a good night’s sleep, dancers. Ali, did you give out the tickets?”

I spent most of the rehearsal handing out envelopes. Each dancer gets one comp, but when I open my envelope, I see that Lynette gave me
three
free tickets—compensation for putting my photo on the poster without asking, I assume. Since Mom already bought her tickets, I can get both Clarissa and Sonya in for free. That leaves one comp unclaimed.

At home, I find a sticky note in Mom’s desk. I write, “Just in case you change your mind,” press the note onto the ticket and scribble a name on the envelope. After taking the steps down to the fifth floor, I slip it under 5B’s door, and hope Jacy takes the hint.

A whirlwind of activity fills the girls’ dressing room, which is actually a third-grade classroom. Opening night.

Costumes in rainbow colors hang on movable clothing racks. A portable, full-length mirror leans against the wall. Smaller mirrors are scattered across desks so dancers can do their makeup. Everyone chatters a mile a minute.

Except me. I wish I could Zen out but it’s hard to find a quiet place. I’m not the only one. I nod to Samantha, who has also moved into the corner. She and I take a similar approach to our bad behavior: mutual amnesia.

Tonight, she’s so nervous she’s actually nice. “I really like your solo costume, Ali.”

It isn’t the costume I’m wearing now, however. The first outfit is a leotard and short, green dance skirt that Quentin wanted the girls in the ensemble to wear.

I know my line. “Thanks. You look beautiful in yours.”

Samantha wears a long blue chiffon skirt, several shades lighter than the giant eye. “You don’t think the skirt makes me look fat?”

That’ll be the day.

Before I come out with the required response—
Of course you don’t look fat
—Lynette jogs over.

“Looks like Ali’s got an admirer!” She hands me a bouquet of buttery sunflowers. “Five minutes to curtain, everyone!”

Screeches from the little kids.

Sam leans over. “Are the flowers from your mom?”

The card, computer printed by the florist, is tucked inside a small envelope. The first sentence makes me smile. Leave it to Jacy to understand just how nervous I’d be.

“Not my mom.” I drop the note into my messenger bag. “She has to work tonight. She bought tickets for tomorrow.”

When it’s clear that’s all I’m going to say, Samantha humphs toward the other end of the room. Keisha stops brushing green eye shadow.

“They’re pretty, Ali.” She lowers her voice. “Come on, who sent them?
Shyboy?
”

“My friend Jacy. He lives in my building.”

“Wish I had a friend like that.” She sighs.

Lynette sticks her head in the doorway. “Places for Fairy Tale Dance! Ali, can you help?”

I stand in the hallway and herd little girls. All wear pastel-colored princess dresses with satin tops and puffy skirts. All really excited—except for one. She has the mournful eyes of someone who thinks she might puke. Even though I can definitely relate, I play big sister.

“You’ll do fine, Janella. Once the music starts, it’ll be a breeze.”

“Promise, Ali?”

I cross my heart. “Don’t forget to smile.”

“Okay…”

There isn’t much else to do but stay limber until Lynette calls for Quentin’s piece.

When she does, we quietly take our marks onstage and wait for our cue. After worrying about my solo for so long, dancing in the ensemble is a snap. I feel myself relax as the group moves, completely in sync. We keep the spacing that Quentin drilled into us, and the off-kilter patterns he dreamed up work like a charm. His artistry flows through everyone of us, energizing the ensemble the way really good choreography can. Samantha and Blake are right on, too. We are all awarded a huge round of applause at the dance’s end.

“This is so fun!” Keisha whispers. “Glad we have two more performances!”

Back in the dressing room, I change into my black costume after the jazz dancers leave. There are so many of them, the noise in the room drops at least a hundred decibels.

Jacqui, who choreographed the trio that’s programmed ahead of my solo, stretches on the floor. “How’s the house?”

“Real good. I’m sure Lynette’s thrilled.”

A knock on the door.

“Choreographer’s Showcase,” Lynette calls. “Break a leg, ladies.”

After checking the mirror one last time to make sure no stray hair escaped my bun, I follow Jacqui out of the dressing room. From a darkened wing, I peek into the audience.

The place is packed. Programs rustle. People speak in
hushed voices while they wait for the houselights to dim again. Someone laughs. Video cameras are everywhere.

The small balcony above the main audience area is filled with dancers who’ve already performed. Lynette has a rule: no one is allowed back in the dressing room, lest they change into street clothes before the entire show is over. Otherwise, parents leave after their kid performs, and the dancers at the end present to a mostly empty house.

Jacqui’s trio creates her opening tableau. As soon as the music begins and the stage lights up, people in the house stop shifting.

I scan the audience. White-haired grandparents, bored brothers, proud parents. A man seated audience right catches my attention. I’ve seen him before but can’t place him. Jacqui’s dad? Sam’s uncle? I stop trying to figure it out, how ever, as I catch sight of Jacy in an aisle seat.

Something pink is in his lap, but my focus slides to Clarissa and Sonya seated next to him. Yes! The three man aged to hook up in the lobby and find seats together.

Now I’m really nervous. I move to the edge of the wings and stand beside the sandbags, ropes and levers that control the fly space. I try to mark my piece, but grow panicked when I can’t remember the count. Is it three spins after the contraction—or four?

You’re listening to someone else’s music. It’ll be fine once the Clash comes on.

I plié a bunch of times and wait for the applause that signals the trio’s end.

The curtain-call lights come on and the trio bows. The stage dims once more, which is the cue for me to head for the first glow-in-the-dark tape that marks my opening position.

“Break a leg,” Jacqui whispers, as we pass each other in the dark.

Deep breath. Music pulses through the speakers. All across the stage, tight areas of light appear, streetlamps in a midnight city. I begin the opening section by moving in and out of darkness: now you see me, now you don’t. Each time I hit a light, I strike a different pose. Hand across tilted cheek. Fist into stomach. Arms clasped overhead.

The chains on my costume catch the light. Beams flash into the audience. After two high battements, I glide into the arabesque—
hold, hold
—ready for the tempo change—when it feels like I’ve been hit by one of the sandbags in the wings.

Pink! Jacy has
roses
in his lap. So who sent the sunflowers to the dressing room?

Not Clarissa and Sonya.

The note told me that.

Not Friends, plural, but Friend. Singular.

My standing leg wavers.

Every synapse in my body screams
Run,
although my muscles, conditioned by years of dance training, whisper
Keep going.

The tempo changes. I’m supposed to start the Martha Graham contraction that propels me across the stage, but I can’t move.

He’s here. Sitting in the audience. Watching from behind a camera lens…

Lynette’s whisper hisses across the stage. “Ali! Catch up to the count!”

A nightmare come true. After the initial paralysis, adrenaline kicks in. I can’t move fast enough. I dart off the stage. The shocked faces of Jacqui and her two dancers, huddled in the wings, are a blur. I barrel past Glen and his duet partner.

Down the hallway into the dressing room. Lock the door behind me, glance at the desk where I put the sunflowers. The bouquet isn’t there.

Who took it?

I catch a glimpse of yellow. The flowers are beside my coat, neatly folded on a desk at the far end of the room. Only I’d swear I hung the coat on one of the costume racks.

Did someone go through my things while I watched Jacqui’s trio? What if that person
didn’t
go back to the audience to see me dance? Is he in here? Hiding in the closet? Standing behind one of the clothes racks, ready to make his move any second…

I stick bare feet into my shoes, grab my coat and get out of Trinity the fastest way I can. The door at the end of the hall.

A screeching alarm sounds. Too late, I notice the sign that says Emergency Exit.

I sprint down Montague, sliding in the dusting of snow that covers the sidewalk. Does the alarm mean everyone in the building will evacuate? Which would include the
guy.

See you after the show.

Like a hunted deer, I search for a way to blend in. Starbucks!

Steam coats the windows. Once inside, I won’t be able to see out but it also means no one can see in. My right leg jiggles uncontrollably as I wait in line. Cappuccino is out of the question, so I order cocoa. I check the door to make sure no one followed. A tap on the counter startles me. The bored barista blows strands of hair from her forehead.

“Name? I need to write it on the cup.”

“Sorry. Al—Bob.”

“Clever.” She looks as if it’s anything but. “Don’t tell me I gotta serve the Forty Thieves, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“Alibaba. That’s the name you gave, right?”

“Just Bob.”

“Okay, Just Bob.” She rings the cash register. “Two ninety-five.”

Oh, no! My wallet is in my messenger bag—inside the dressing room. Along with my cell. ChapStick. The keys to the apartment!

“You want the drink or not?”

I shake my head and move away.

See you after the show.

Just as I feared, the stalker knew exactly where I’d be. But staying secret didn’t keep him happy for long. Now he wants to talk—or worse—watch me undress in person! Despite the fact that all I have on under the coat is my thin costume, my face feels flushed. He’s closing in on me….

I made a huge mistake. I should have stayed with Lynette, explained why I ruined the concert, let her protect me. In stead, I’m alone.

My finger shakes as I wipe a tiny bit of condensation from the window. I’m not sure who I expect to appear in front of the glass. A stranger, standing in the newly fallen snow, holding a sign: I Am Your Stalker.

The circle is so small, however, that I can’t see anyone unless they pass directly in front of me. An instant later, they disappear into the steam. Like a magic trick. Now you see ’em, now you don’t. Or someone with no peripheral vision.

Jacy!

I let out a moan. When the fire alarm rang, Lynette must have turned on the lights so everyone could see to get out.

Is Jacy waiting in front of Trinity with Clarissa and Sonya—
extremely cold, unbelievably pissed off? Then there’s Glen and his duet partner. Bet they’re furious with me, too.

The window’s narrow view seems way too wide.