dancergirl - Carol Tanzman M.

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“I’m sure they are, but I need a break. Just a few days. Maybe a week. I couldn’t sleep last night—”

       “I don’t get it! The whole point of being a dancer is so people can see you. I’ve thrown you hundreds of thousands of views.”

       “Yeah, but who’s doing the viewing? Have you actually read what people write about me?”

       “Grow up, Ali. Ignore the things you don’t like.”

       “Sure. You can say that because no one actually sees you. No nerdy fan boys discuss your butt. How would you like it if they called you a Tarantino wannabe, with stupid glasses and a pimply face— Omigod. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— It’s just weirding me out, Charlie.”

       “We can’t stop now. Please. People suspect it’s not real.”

       “It’s not!”

       “Just a couple more days and I’ll leave you alone,” he pleads.

       “Alicia!” Mom calls. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

       “Later, Charlie. I’ve got to go.”

       I’m pissed off the rest of the evening. At Charlie, for making me feel like a turd. And Jacy, who instead of helping with math like he’s done for the past six years, chucked me out of his life for no reason.

       He hasn’t called, texted or shown up at the apartment since he kicked me out of his room. I haven’t done any of it, either—I’ve got some pride.

       Still, I miss him.

       After Mom leaves for work, I throw the algebra book at the door. Maybe I can clear my brain by working on Eva’s assignment. The rules are: no longer than two minutes, with a tempo contrast and three different directional changes.

       After seeing the problems Sam had, there’s no way I’m going classical. I choose an old Clash song, sketch the first eight beats in my head and then move to the middle of my room. Last winter, Jacy came up with the brilliant idea of pushing my dresser into the closet so I’d have wall-to-wall floor space in which to practice.

       The sequence created in my mind, however, doesn’t feel right when actually danced. I hit Replay, only this time I decide to improvise.

       Split leap, plié, half-toe lift. Extend a leg to arabesque, step through lunge to chassé. Not good enough. Start again. Pounding pulse exhorts my body: Don’t think.Mix styles. Take chances. Hip-hop jump, Martha Graham contraction, grande battement. Change direction. Slow, then quick, quick.

       I work until every conscious thought is erased from my brain. I become a true creature of the wild. A faun, not of the afternoon, but of the night. Time stretches, then dissolves.…

      This is why I dance, Charlie.

       Not to count how many views I get on Zube. Or to think about how famous that’s supposed to make me. Or even to show off how good I am. For me, it’s all about the inside. Dancing fills me up in a way that nothing else does, but it’s awfully hard to explain that to anyone.

      Chapter 14

       The texts start after midnight Friday night.

       Keisha: Wow. Top ten

       Josh: You slut!

       Clarissa: How could u do this to us?

      What’s going on? And what on earth did I do to them? Josh, Clarissa and Sonya planned to go to the football game that evening. They weren’t at all mad when I told them I needed to work on my solo some more. My friends understand my passion. That’s why they’re my friends.

       And slut! What’s up with that? I’m about to call Josh when something occurs to me. I recheck Keisha’s message. Top ten? The top ten that comes to mind first is the Zube list of featured videos.

       The site is bookmarked on my computer so it comes up quickly. I scroll down the day’s list. My breath freezes the instant I see the picture. Number seven.

       For several moments, all I can do is stare in confusion. It’s me all right, but what freaks me out is that I’m not at the park. Or Sonya’s roof—or any other location Charlie shot over the past several weeks. I’m in my bedroom. Alone.

       The title of the video taunts me: Hot Diggity. Time: 1:08.

       My finger has a will of its own. It hits Play. Wearing only a tank top and a pair of old Hello Kittypanties, I dance around the bedroom as if I haven’t got a care in the world. After the initial brain freeze, I realize the footage was shot two nights ago. That’s when I started the solo. I’d taken off my jeans, but hadn’t bothered to put on tights.

       The only other thing I know for sure is that it’s been edited. Most of the footage is from the end after I went crazy, but the beginning section came from when I first started choreographing.

       My face burns hot as a chili pepper. I tap a key and the video cuts off midleap. How the hell did that get taped?

       I glance around the room. Besides the bed on the far wall and my desk, there’s not much cluttering up the space. The chair I’m sitting in, the bookcase in the corner. There’s no camera on any of the shelves. I check the closet. Nothing but clothes.

       That’s when I feel it. Back of the neck prickle. Goose bumps across the skin.

       I whirl. A bloodcurdling scream fills the air.

       Sitting on the fire escape, on the other side of the windowpane, is a tiny camera. The lens points straight at me!

       For a moment, time stops. There’s nobody on the fire escape. Just the camera. It stares at me, I stare at it. Then several things happen at once.

       The camera jerks upward. My cell rings but I ignore it. Rushing to the window, I lift the sash and stick my head out. The Minicam is attached to a snakelike cable. I watch in disbelief as the camera rises and then disappears over the building’s cornice.

       Nobody’s on the roof, at least no one that I can see.

       I remember the phone. The call I missed was from Jacy.

       I hit his number and he answers on the first ring. “You okay? I thought I heard you yell.”

       I eyeball the floor as if I could see directly into his bedroom. “You can’t believe what just happened!”

       “Be up in two minutes.”

       With a click, he’s gone.

       The doorbell’s chime makes me jump even though I expect it. Jacy goes directly to the living room, turning on every light that he passes. The burst of electricity comforts but immediately the vibe turns awkward. Neither of us knows how to begin after not talking all these weeks. But with a quick flick of the WiHi handshake, the moment passes.

       “Did the video make you scream?” he asks.

       “Who sent you the link?”

       He looks uncomfortable. “No one. I was checking to see how many views the others were up to. I don’t see why you’re so freaked. If you let Charlie shoot it, what did you expect?”

       “I didn’t—”

       “You didn’t think he’d put it out on the internet?” Jacy interrupts.

       “I didn’t let him shoot this one.” Miserable, I fold onto the couch and tell him what’s been going on.

       “Let me get this straight. Charlie wanted to shoot more stuff, you said no, so he goes up to the roof Wednesday night, drops a camera and shoots through your window. Takes a day and half to edit and then, after he uploads the finished piece, decides to do it again tonight.” Jacy shakes his head. “What an asshole.”

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