dancergirl. Carol Tanzman M.
want to get out of the way, quick. “Jacy home?”
The Strodes exchange a look.
“He’s in his room,” Mrs. Strode says. “But—”
“Thanks.”
I scoot through the living room. Jacy’s bedroom is directly below mine. “Jace? It’s Ali.”
At the sound of a grunt, I open, and then close, the door. I half expect him to be watching the video, assuming Charlie sent him the link, too, or working his blog. Instead, Jacy sits on the windowsill, staring at the fire escape.
“Turn on your—” I stop when he swings around. His eyes are rimmed with red. “Hey! Don’t take it so hard.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Your folks. I know they’re fighting, but they’re not like Mom and Andrew. When Mom and Andrew were together, that is.” I sit at Jacy’s desk. “I want to show you something—”
“My parents aren’t—”
His laptop is so fast the footage comes up in seconds. “Look! I’m on Zube.”
Jacy kicks his bed. “You are unbelievable. Always thinking about Alicia Ruffino.”
The tone is clear. He is seriously pissed off.
“Right,” I tell him. “I’m the selfish one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Who drops everything because you feel like going to a concert? Who saved you from being squashed by a car? You didn’t even bother to tell me where you were going, did you? And who came up with an answer to that stupid question yesterday—”
“Is that what you think I am?” he shouts. “Stupid?”
The bedroom door swings open.
“Jeremy?” Mr. Strode says. “Everything all right?”
My face grows hot with embarrassment. Jacy’s obviously in one of his moods, and I know better than to try and reason with him.
“It’s okay, Mr. Strode. I was just leaving.”
Chapter 5
Back in my apartment, my cell buzzes. The texts don’t stop until after midnight. The video was linked all over the place. Everyone thinks I look great.
In the morning, though, it’s Jacy that’s on my mind. Something was wrong last night, and not letting him talk first was rude. I text him: I’m an idiot. Call me.
He doesn’t. I check online. Not a single blog entry since the day before the concert.
Again, I skip the elevator and take the steps. No one answers when I ring the bell or after I knock. I press my ear to the door but all is quiet.
It occurs to me that Jacy might have been telling the truth about his folks. Which means that if the Strodes weren’t fighting, something was bothering them, too. Perhaps Mr. Strode found out about the Voice internship and he won’t let Jacy do it if he has to drop Discrete Mathematics, which maybe ten other kids in the history of high school have taken.
Or Mr. Strode’s company got downsized and he lost his job. Or Jacy’s grandmother died. Whatever it is, Jacy refuses to return a phone call, text message or email the rest of the week.
I do some detecting. That means hanging around the building lobby to ask the postman if the Strodes filled out a “hold the mail” vacation card—they didn’t—and then calling Josh and Charlie to see if they heard from him. Neither of them knows what’s going on. It’s like Jacy, and his family, dropped off the face of the earth.
Chapter 6
Charlie calls ten minutes after the invite goes out on the net. Sonya’s having an end-of-summer party and he wants to make sure I’ll be there.
“It’ll be on the roof,” he tells me. “The footage will be awesome!”
City roofs are amazing. You can watch a sunset, secretly smoke or just plain hide out. When parents are on the warpath, they never think to check the roof.
Sonya’s is better than most. The perfect party place. Unlike my building, with its two-foot lip, her roof has a five-foot wall surrounding the edge. No matter how wasted someone gets, they’d have to try really hard to fall off.
The day of the party, Clarissa decides to play stylist. She brings over a bunch of clothes from her closet. We go with a pretty V-neck and short skirt. Makeup and hair take another hour but in the end, I’m happy with the look.
By the time we get to Sonya’s, the party is in full swing. Word obviously got out on some site or other because I don’t even recognize half the people. They’re packed together like at the Thanksgiving parade when the Snoopy balloon floats by. Cell phones and cameras snap as people dance and clown—a last hurrah. Clarissa and I elbow our way through the crowd, searching for Charlie. When we finally meet up, he gives me the once-over.
“Blue’s an excellent choice for the camera,” he pronounces.
“Hi to you, too,” Clarissa says. “And thanks. I picked out the shirt.”
I look from one to the other. I might as well be uncooked tofu for all they care. A little annoyed, I spot the cooler, grab a beer. Charlie follows. He points to an empty spot near the ledge.
“I like the lighting over there. Very end-of-the-world sci-fi.”
Suddenly, I’m extremely thirsty. I slug some beer. “What do you want me to do exactly?”
“Just dance, be natural. And make sure not to look at me.”
Before I can move, Luke Sorezzi strolls over. He’s dressed all in black and his hair has that “I don’t give a crap so I finger-comb” look.
“Yo, Ruffino. Saw the video on Zube. You looked good.”
He hands me a joint and I toke deeply. Even if I wasn’t worried about the video, there’s something about Luke that brings out the nerves in me.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know anyone was taping me,” I mumble.
“Riiiighht.” Luke smirks.
“I’m serious.”
“Then it’s just natural talent. The best kind.”
Over in the corner, Charlie’s giving me the “hurry up” sign. I hand Luke the joint. “Thanks for the hit. Umm, nice talking to you.”
“Hold on. The school’s best dancer deserves a little extra.”
Luke tokes deeply and pulls my head toward his. As my mouth opens in surprise, he blows smoke into me. I blink, not sure whether it’s the weed or the fact that his lips are so casually pressed into mine. Then he strolls away like he’s done that every day for a month instead of the truth—before the Zube video, he never even noticed we breathe the same sooty Brooklyn air.
“Alicia!” Charlie has come to get me. “I’ve been waiting.”
A final gulp of beer before we move to the chosen spot.
“Hold on, Charlie. You want me to dance by myself? Who does that?”
“You do. Well, not you, but the girl in my video. She’s a free spirit—think Audrey Tautou in Amelie.”
“Never saw it.”
Charlie waves it off. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t think you. It’s just…a dancer girl. And remember, don’t look at me.”
He backs off so you can’t even tell what—or who—he’s shooting. Not that anyone would notice. There’s a surge over by the cooler. Someone, I take it, has managed