dancergirl. Carol Tanzman M.
Lee, Minicam trained on me.
It’s exactly like my dream, only this time someone really is staring. It totally weirds me. Performing onstage is one thing; being secretly observed, like I’m some kind of zoo animal, is something else.
Busted!
Charlie sees me staring, hands on hips. Immediately, he turns the camera toward the stage. My groove broken, I walk over to Jacy and Laura Hernandez.
“Yo!”
“Grab the cookies,” Jacy tells me.
I toss the box into his hands. Laura gives me a “Get lost!” stare. She’s got raven hair and flashing eyes, but I don’t like the way she’s practically sitting in his lap. Way too pushy.
When I don’t move, she stretches in a way designed to show off her considerable rack. She’s wearing a spaghetti-strap tank that she’s practically busting out of. “Guess I’ll bring that record over tomorrow.”
Jacy nods. “Sounds good.”
She gives me a triumphant glare and waltzes back to Sorezzi.
I nibble a pecan sandie. “Score a hot date?”
Jacy shrugs. “Whatever. Are you having fun?”
“Yeah. This was a good idea.”
“Told you.” He gropes the cookie box and surfaces with the last one. “Want to hear my news?”
“You have news?”
“You are now looking at the Voice’s fall intern,” he announces.
“No way.”
Jacy was a finalist for the summer one but lost out at the last moment, which explains his slacker vacation.
He grins so wide, his dimples look as if they’re chiseled into his cheeks. “Let’s dance.”
Now that’s almost as amazing as the internship. I’ve never seen Jacy volunteer to dance with anyone. The band segues into a Marley song and the crowd begins to sway as one, so sweet it’s like floating in a bowl of caramel syrup. Jacy catches the mood. He leans forward, an odd gleam in his eye.
Omigod! Is he going to kiss me?
Just as the question forms, a beach ball comes at us from the left. Instinctively, I move back. The ball smashes Jacy’s nose.
“Ooof,” he breathes, more surprised than hurt.
“Why didn’t you duck?”
With a laugh, I bat the ball down the slope. By the time I turn around, Jacy’s back against the tree, looking extraordinarily pissed off. At the ball? Himself? Me?
I shouldn’t have laughed. Immediately, however, my mind skips from shouldn’t to couldn’t. As in: he couldn’t have been about to kiss me. I know he’s happy about the internship but nobody, and I mean nobody, kisses their best friend, for the very first time, in public.
Chapter 4
I wake up the next morning convinced I’m crazy. There’s no way Jacy was about to kiss me. He probably leaned forward to make some comment about his own dancing.
That’s when a truly horrible idea strikes. Maybe Jacy thought I was about to kiss him and that’s why he sat back under the tree.
My worry deepens when he doesn’t show up at the stoop. I wait as long as I can but end up walking to work alone. He doesn’t text all day, doesn’t return mine. When I leave the studio, there aren’t any voice messages. The front steps are empty.
I crowd into the elevator with the Russian computer geek, old Mr. Detwiler, his brown Chihuahua and a packed grocery cart.
The Russian is reading the newspaper. He’s mastered the NYC subway accordion; three long folds. A headline pops out: Massive Manhunt for Montana Teen. Guess Brooklyn’s not the only place you need a 505 trouble code.
I almost jump out of my skin when Mr. Detwiler pats my shoulder. His hand lingers a bit too long for my liking.
“Did you have a nice day, dear?” he asks.
His wife died recently, so everyone in the building feels bad for him.
“Yes, thank you,” I lie. “Did you?”
I don’t listen to the answer. My index finger hesitates at the five button but then moves to six. Nothing happened last night so it’s not like I can knock on Jacy’s door and apologize. I can’t bring up the subject of kissing. Ever.
Both the Russian and Mr. Detwiler exit at three. I come back to earth long enough to say goodbye. At six, I hurry down the hallway. Sometimes, Jacy comes up to the apartment to wait for me. He doesn’t mind talking to Mom.
After unlocking the door, I yell, “I’m back.”
The “no one’s home vibe” is obvious. Mom’s note, sitting on the kitchen table, confirms that I’m alone: “Covering a shift. Dinner in fridge.”
I eat in front of the TV, and then move to my room. It’s the smaller of the two bedrooms but it’s at the front of the building so I’ve got a view of Clinton instead of the back alley. My bed hugs the wall opposite the window. Next to the bed are my desk, clock radio and computer. Above the computer is a shelf with a collection of dolls wearing traditional costumes from around the world.
Jacy hasn’t added anything to his blog since the day before yesterday. He posts every night but for some reason, he hasn’t gotten around to writing about his internship—or the concert.
Charlie, however, sent a Zube link. The outlaw share site is the coolest thing on the net—no corporate commercials masquerading as someone’s “home” videos.
The film starts with a low shot of the band. Next, Charlie alternates wide angles and close-ups. The camera pans the crowd. Ooh—there I am, dancing. Charlie zoomed in so close you can’t see Clarissa and cut away before I flipped him off.
I click Replay and watch myself critically. Really good rhythm and a nice Martha Graham contraction I don’t remember doing. I reach for my cell but it rings before I can grab it.
“Hey, Charlie. I was just watching the video.”
“You like?”
“Yeah, actually. It came out pretty good.”
“Excellent. Want to do another? Just you.”
“You mean, only me dancing?” I pause to consider. “Jacy said that was the last concert.”
“It doesn’t have to be at the band shell. I can shoot someplace else. A party. One of your classes.”
“You sure?”
“Are you kidding? This video’s going viral. Five hundred views in the last hour. You could be famous.”
“I guess. If you really think it’s a good idea…”
“Awesome!” he says. “Let me get back to you when I figure out what I want.”
I’m so pumped, I skip the elevator and charge down the stairwell to Jacy’s apartment. No one answers the doorbell so I knock loudly.
“Anyone home? It’s Ali.” The inner chain unhooks. “Mrs. Strode!”
Jacy’s mom looks terrible. Her honey-blond hair, usually tastefully combed, is a mess. Streaks of black under her eyes mean her mascara has run but she hasn’t bothered to fix it.
“Is everything okay?” Dread smashes into my stomach like a dodgeball I haven’t dodged. “Is Mr. Strode—”
“I’m fine.”
Now Mr. Strode comes to the door. A senior accountant for a large downtown firm, he never leaves his office