LITMIR.BIZ

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not to notice the nudges and stares-which-aren’t-stares that follow us as we carry our trays through the cafeteria to Josh’s table.

       Sonya maneuvers next to him. Before I can ask if either of them have any classes with Jacy, Clarissa hops onto the bench. She must have spent hours putting together her first-day-of-eleventh-grade outfit: vintage designer jacket, scooped-neck tee, rocker jeans.

       “I’ve been looking for you all day, Ali. The whole school has seen your dancing. It’s all anyone wants to talk about.”

       “I checked during study hall,” Josh offers. “Over fifty thousand hits. You’re, like, famous and stuff.”

       “Totally famous,” Sonya says.

       Is that sarcasm, along with ketchup, that she’s squirting over her hamburger?

       “And speaking of people,” she adds, “has anyone seen Jacy today? Is the dude even alive?”

       “My question exactly.” I lean in. “It’s like he disappearado’ed.”

       Clarissa’s polished fingernail slits open a juice container. “Luke Sorezzi told Laura Hernandez who told me in Bio that Jacy was arrested.”

       “What for?” I ask. “Knowing all the answers to the math test?”

       Josh waves a soggy French fry. “Maybe he’s pregnant. Back in the day, girls disappeared from school all the time.”

       Clarissa smacks Josh’s head just as Charlie stops beside our table. He sets his camera on the edge. “If it’s Strode you’re discussing, I talked to him.”

       “When?” Clarissa demands.

       “Ran into him at the park yesterday,” Charlie says.

       “He’s home?” My voice comes out squeaky, so I gulp some juice.

       “Yeah. His dad’s making him go to some private school in Manhattan.”

       I choke. Everyone stares until my coughing fit stops—but whether it’s because orange juice spurts from my nose or because I’m clueless about Jacy is anyone’s guess.

       Clarissa leans in. “He didn’t tell you?”

       Josh saves me from an embarrassing answer. He taps Charlie’s camera. “Were you taping us?”

       Charlie shrugs.

       “Omigod!” My hand automatically pats my hair. “You should tell me first.”

       “Didn’t think you’d mind. We’ve blown up!”

       “It still might be nice to know when you’re shooting.”

       Josh grins. “It’s better this way. More natural, right, Charles? Did you get me in the shot? Can I pretend to be Ali’s boyfriend?”

       The bell rings and the cafeteria explodes with movement.

       Charlie grabs my arm. “We’ve got to talk. I have a bunch of ideas—”

      “Dancergirl!” The taller of the morning’s ninth-graders runs toward me.

       Charlie swears. “Can’t be seen with you. I’ll call.”

       He takes off.

       “Was that shyboy?” the girl asks, breathless. “Did he finally talk to you?”

       “Uh, no.”

       “He had a camera.”

       “Yeah. Lots of kids have cameras,” Clarissa offers. “There’s a film class. You can take it in eleventh.”

       The girl seems disappointed but then brightens. “Can I get your autograph?”

       “Seriously?” I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed for me, or her.

       Clarissa nudges my arm.

      “Um, okay. Sure, I’ll sign something,” I mumble.

       The girl snatches paper from her folder, fumbles for a pen.

       I start to write Ali, then stop. “Do you want my real name?”

       She looks at me as if I’m the idiot. “Of course not. Just say, ‘To Tanya. Isn’t it cool we go to the same school? Love, dancergirl.’”

       I write what she wants except instead of love, I scribble from.

       “Thanks.” She takes off, waving the paper. “Julie! Look.”

       Her morning friend stands by the garbage cans.

       I turn to Clarissa and Sonya. “Let’s get out of here before I have to sign Julie’s paper-bag book cover.”

       “But I want your autograph, too.” Sonya makes a show of searching through her backpack. “I’m sure I have an unused tampon.”

       Clarissa laughs. “You’d probably make a lot of money selling it on eBay.”

       I shudder. “Don’t even go there!”

      Chapter 9

       After the last bell, I head down Montague Street. Tony’s Pizzeria, two doors from the studio, has a line of kids waiting to get the “slice and soda” after-school special. To avoid the crowd, I swing into the gutter and almost trip over a biker dude.

       “Sorry!”

       “No problem.”

       The guy leans against a chrome-and-leather Harley parked in the no-parking zone. He’s cut, forearms bulging with knotted muscle. Despite the cool September weather, he has rolled-up sleeves with a bunch of tats poking out, and his cheeks sport a day-old-shave thing. Startling blue eyes check me out.

       He winks. “Break up with your boyfriend?”

       “Excuse me?”

       “Curly-haired bloke. Yay high. Haven’t seen him around lately.”

       “Jacy? He’s not—” A warning flashes. “How do you—”

       “Know who you are? Babe like you? Besides the fact that I’m the one who pointed you out to Eva last spring, you’re all over Zube.” His blue eyes move down my body. “Pretty impressive, dancerchick.” He smiles. “What can I say? I’m like shyboy. Got a nose for dancers.”

       Finally, I put it together. Eva Faus’s boyfriend.

       Just then, Eva herself trots out of the studio. She gives the biker an exasperated look.

       “Cisco, you busting Ali’s chops?”

       A flash of Prussian-blue eyes. “Not me.”

       “He’s an incorrigible flirt, Ali, but completely harmless.” Eva punches the biker’s arm before she swings a well-muscled leg over the bike. “Paychecks are in. See you in class tomorrow.”

       I can’t help watching the motorcycle weave through traffic. Two blocks up, Cisco takes a right, but not before lifting an arm to wave. It’s as if he knows I’m following their progress. My cheeks grow warm as I hurry into the studio. What exactly did the dude mean when he said he pointed me out to Eva last spring?

       A glance at the clock above the counter confirms my suspicion: I have less than five minutes before class starts. I tear into the teachers’ dressing room without a word to anyone, change as fast as I can and skid into Studio A just a microsecond before Quentin shuts the door.

       Samantha’s blue eye is practically green.

       “Little Miss Dancergirl,” she hisses as we line up at the barre.

       “Have you figured out who shyboy is?” Keisha whispers. “Because I thought about it. He’s probably someone younger. That’s why he’s afraid to talk to you!”

       “There’s not really a shyboy.” Blake

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