Dancergirl (5 page)

The Promenade overlooks the river and is one of the most photographed parts of the city. The wide, avenuelike walk-way faces both Manhattan’s east shore and the Brooklyn Bridge. You can see the Empire State Building, as well as the Statue of Liberty, but neither Jacy nor I are interested in sightseeing.

We arrive first. Jacy had shown up at the apartment wearing a green hoodie and the amber sunglasses. Unnecessary, because the October sky is gray with clouds, but this time I’m smart enough not to say anything.

Charlie enters from the playground end. He’s got on a navy-blue peacoat, punched up with a striped yellow-and-maroon scarf. Hard to miss him.

Before I can say a word, Charlie notices me. He shouts from halfway down the Promenade. “You messed everything up! How could you do this to me?”

“Are you kidding? You’re the fucking Peeping Tom sicko—”

“You stole my idea. Destroyed it.”

“Hold on,” Jacy says. “She didn’t steal anything.”

“Right.” Charlie kicks the spiked metal fence that protects people from jumping off the Promenade. “Defend her pathetic, skanky ass.”

“You’ve been spying on me in my bedroom!” I get in his face. “Put practically naked footage of me online—”

“Oh, come on. I did not!”

“I saw the camera, Charlie.”

“Oh, yeah? How did I get a camera in your bedroom if you wouldn’t let me make another video?”

“Told you he’d try to deny it,” Jacy scoffs.

Charlie stares. “You two are insane. If you guys put out another
dancergirl
video, my uncle’ll sue you for plagiarism.”

He stalks away. I fight back tears of frustration.

“Hold on!” Jacy cries.

Charlie stops but doesn’t turn around.

“Are you saying that you didn’t shoot the video that went up last night?” Jacy asks.

Now Charlie turns, defiant. “I was in the bleachers, watching the football game with, like, ninety percent of the school. Which you’d know if either of you two losers bothered to show any school spirit. Go ahead. Check the username. It ain’t mine.”

Charlie’s right. The username is
kurvasz99.

Jacy stares at the blinds covering the window. “He’s not lying. He didn’t make it.”

“He’s a much better actor than you think. Anyone can invent a screen name.”

“What would he get out of that?” Jacy shakes his head. “It’s not him. Plus, he’s got a point about the time. The footage was uploaded at 8:26. Kickoff was seven, right?”

“I guess. So who shot it?”

“Question of the day.” Jacy picks up the Batman action figure he gave me when I was ten. “Remember when you called Charlie a Peeping Tom? What if you’re right? What if some guy spotted you on the street? Recognized you from Zube and followed you home. Dude gets a brilliant idea. ‘Why not make a movie myself?’ He figures out which window is yours, sneaks into the building. Not very hard. He goes to the roof, lowers the camera and voilà, perv twenty-first-century-style.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Agreed. We should go to the cops.”

I plop onto my bed. “I can’t. They’ll tell my mom.”

“So?”

“So then she finds out about the videos. And sees me drinking. You know as well as I do how she is. I’ll be grounded until next summer. I may not even be allowed to dance. I’m serious, Jace. I can’t go.”

“Fine.” He thinks for a moment, and then pulls me off the bed. “I’ve got another idea!”

By the time we get back outside, the wind has kicked up. Withered leaves crinkle under our shoes like rattling bones. A gull’s eerie cry sounds like a woman’s scream. The heaviness of the sky does little to cheer me up.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

He leads me to a brownstone near the end of the block. We climb four limestone steps. The intercom, with its list of tiny-print names, is on Jacy’s side of the door. He swivels his head to find the correct button.

“Be right down,” a voice squawks through the box.

“Mr. Ryan?” I ask. “What are we doing with him?”

“You know he’s a retired cop, right?” He points to the small sign on the inside glass of the front door. “And he’s running Neighborhood Watch now.”

“How do you know?”

“He and Dad are friends. My father did the nonprofit status for the group, Dad’s way of ‘contributing to the hood.’” Jacy laughs. “Right after Ryan retired, he got himself elected president and then kicked out all the wimps doing patrol.”

I’m still not convinced coming here is a good idea. “You think he’ll tell my mom?”

“Nah. He’s cool.”

The front door swings open. Mr. Ryan is several inches taller than Jacy. That makes the ex-cop over six feet. He wears a faded Henry Street Gym tee. Since I’ve never seen him in anything other than a collared shirt, it’s a surprise to see how massive his muscles are.

“What’s up, kids?”

I hesitate. How can I tell a man I barely know that a stranger aimed a camera into my bedroom and put the footage all over the net?

Jacy jumps in. “There’s something going on in our building and we want to get your opinion….”

He gives Ryan the SparkNotes version.

“Did you file a report?” he asks.

“Ali doesn’t want her mom to know about the videos. You won’t tell, will you?”

“I was young once.” He shakes his head sympathetically.

“And I’ve talked to your mom. Something of a worrywart.”

Jacy gives me a “told you he’s cool” nudge.

The ex-cop leans against the rail. “To be honest, filing a
report doesn’t matter as much as people think. Everybody wants the police to do something but unless there’s proof…”

He sizes up the distraught victim for truthfulness. Distraught victim being me.

“I saw a camera on the fire escape!”

“
I
believe you but…” Mr. Ryan offers a mint from one of those little cases. When Jacy and I refuse, he absentmindedly shakes one out for himself.

“Don’t tell us there’s nothing you can do,” Jacy says. “You’re president of Neighborhood Watch, which is supposed to protect the Heights.”

“Done your homework, I see.” He pops the mint. “Tell you what. I’ll sniff around the station. Find out if anyone else has a similar complaint. Check the list of sex offenders, see if one of them has moved into the neighborhood.”

“Sex offenders?” I gasp. “Isn’t that a little, I don’t know…”

“Strong?” Ryan shrugs. “Peeping Toms can be considered felons if they’re caught harassing someone and convicted. Doesn’t mean they do anything except look.”

I doubt the creepy dude will be on any police list. Odds are it’s some high school or college
dancergirl
freak looking for publicity.

“Really, I wouldn’t worry,” Ryan reassures me. “This guy won’t be back immediately, if at all.”

“How can you be so sure?” I ask.

“Now that he knows you’re onto him, it’s a good bet he won’t return. Last thing guys like this want is trouble. They like easy pickings, not risk. Still, if I find anyone who seems suspicious, I’ll alert the patrol cops so they can keep an eye out.”

Relief floods through me. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem.” Mr. Ryan opens the brownstone’s glass-
fronted door as a crack of thunder sounds. “I’m guessing you two have about three minutes to run on home before getting soaked.”

He ducks into his building. Jacy looks at me. “Hey. You’re not still freaked out, are you?”

“I don’t know. ‘Sex offender’ sounds pretty scary.”

“Yeah, but like Mr. Ryan said, all Peeping Toms do is look. Plus, he’s taking care of it—”

A second blast of thunder interrupts. Raindrops as big as gummy bears hit the street.

“Race you!” I dash down Clinton, scoot neatly around a cracked hump in the sidewalk, and don’t look back until I’m underneath the awning of our building. When I turn, how ever, Jacy’s not even close.

What a klutz! He’s sprawled facedown on the sidewalk, having tripped over the hump. By the time he gets to the stoop, he’s completely soaked.

I have the good sense not to say a word. He doesn’t, either, just stabs the elevator’s five button angrily. When we get to his floor, I hold the door.

“Do you want to come up for hot chocolate in a bit? Mom bought the dark kind you like.”

“I’ve got homework. This new school’s kicking my ass.”

He walks toward his apartment, head down, as if he’s afraid a second crack will rise up to trip him. Goose bumps prickle my arms but it’s not because anyone’s staring.

Jacy’s always been a bit clumsy, but he used to laugh it off. I blame the private school. I’m sure the kids who go there treat anyone new like dirt.

Back in my room, I sign onto YearBook, the high school
friends site. All Jacy ever said about the school was “It’s in Manhattan.” I type his name. To my surprise, neither Jeremy nor Jacy Strode comes up.

On Monday, I barely get to my locker when Valerie Gaines, who works at the school’s TV station, materializes. She had to have gotten here early to lie in wait for me. I know that because the
G
set of lockers is in a different hallway than the
R
set.

“Hey, Ali, I want to do a story on
dancergirl
for
Campus News
that could air this week so can I interview you today?” she blurts out in a single breath, as if afraid I’ll interrupt before she finishes.

“No.”

“But—”

“No!”

“Come on, it’s a great story. Everyone knows you’re all dance, all the time. But with
Hot Diggity
you’re like an internet star—”

I hold my five-pound physics book as if I’m planning to drop it on her toes. “Not interested.”

“But this way, you could explain—” She glances at the textbook, gauges the intensity in my eyes and shrugs. “All
right. At least let me warn you. Kuperman’s test is hard. Our class is two days ahead of yours. There’s a bunch of questions on uniform electric fields.”

I lower the book and mumble, “Yeah, okay. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Val grins. “You didn’t hear it from me. And if you change your mind about
Campus News…
”

“You’re my gal. Although I won’t.”

In second period, Clarissa slides a note onto my desk. Now it’s Charlie who wants to talk. In the library, during lunch. When I get there, I find him at a table in the empty nonfiction section, a bunch of reference material stacked in front of him. The old-school spy stuff would be funny if it wasn’t such a pain.

He shoves a book at me, and then mutters into the one in front of him. “Jacy told me what’s going on. I’m sorry I got so mad. I thought he was the one who shot it.”

“You thought Jacy did? That’s weird. Sorry I blamed you, too.” With an anxious tug, I tighten my ponytail. “But already it’s out of control. Valerie Gaines wants to interview me for
Campus News—
”

Charlie looks alarmed. “You’re not doing it, are you?”

“You think I’m crazy?”

“Good.” He lowers his voice even further, which means I have to lean forward to hear what he says. Kind of defeats the purpose of meeting secretly but, hey, it wasn’t my idea.

“I figured out a way to make this work,” he whispers.

“Make what work?”

“The stalker tape—”

“Who said the guy’s a stalker?”

Charlie blinks. “What do you think he is?”

“Peeping Tom.”

He shrugs. “If that makes you feel better, sure. Like I said, we can use the peeper to our advantage.”

“By taping more
dancergirl
stuff?”

“Shh!” He looks around but nobody’s in the library except Mr. May, the librarian with the 1970s sideburns, and he’s busy sorting returns. “The bedroom video is at a half-million views. Okay, not that I shot that one, but now that I see what people are into, I’ve got this great idea for Halloween. Get one of those French-maid costumes—”

“Are you kidding? Some guy you
just called
a stalker spied on me in my bedroom and all you can think about is shooting
more video?
” I stand so fast I knock the chair over. “Great friend you are!”

He reaches for me. “Hey—”

I pull away. “Don’t hey me. This is all your fault.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like you can’t figure it out. If I’d never agreed to do
dancergirl,
I wouldn’t have some crazy pervert after me.”

Charlie holds his ground. “Like you said, Ali, you
agreed
to do it. No one forced you.”

I dart out of the library without another word and literally run into Sorezzi.

“Yo!” He grabs me so I don’t fall.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Have a fight with the Asian Tarantino?”

“What? Oh.”

Charlie stalks out of the library. He looks so angry you’d have to be way more stoned than Sorezzi not to notice.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” Sorezzi says.

“Pissing off Charlie? That’s easy.”

Sorezzi gives me a knowing look. “Not that.”

My cheeks grow warm as I realize he’s talking about the video. “Listen, Luke, I didn’t—”

He puts a finger to my lips, lets it linger. “We could have a lot of fun, StripperGirl.”

Stripper
Girl? Is that what’s going around?

The rest of the day is a misery. I was so worried about stalkers and Peeping Toms that I didn’t notice the smirky looks people give me. I keep my head down. After the last bell, I scoot out of the building. Skip the studio, slink back home.

“Ali?” Mom’s voice echoes out from her bedroom. “Can you come here, please? I want to talk to you.”

Uh-oh.

Mom’s still in her pj’s, hair uncombed. She looks upset.

Cautiously, I sit on her desk chair. “What’s up?”

“I want to tell you something.”

That’s when I realize what’s coming. The good news is that it’s not about me. The bad news is it’ll be some terrible tale about a reckless teenager ending up in the E.R.

Yep. This time, it’s a car full of Staten Island kids joyriding on the BQE, “too drunk to put on their seat belts….”

I’ve heard variations of this story since I was ten. Make that eight.

When she’s done painting every gory detail, she wags a finger. “If I ever, and I mean ever, catch you and your friends—”

“Don’t say it, okay? No drinking. No getting high. No having fun. Ever. I promise to buckle my seat belt every single day, even though none of my friends have cars. Or licenses. How about if I wear a bike helmet in the subway? There could be a train collision or earthquake or—”

“Watch the attitude,” Mom warns. “If you were there—”

“But I wasn’t. And I’m never going to be a nurse, so I won’t ever have to see a bunch of bloody, half-dead kids—”

“Let’s hope not,” Mom mutters.

“Can I go now please?”

She holds up a hand. “Wait a sec. Why are you home so early?”

“Headache. And it’s not getting any better.”

I lie on the bed but the instant my eyes close, my cell rings. Clarissa.

“Just talked to Charlie,” she says. “He told me what you said in the library—”

Great. So I’m ruining your future career, too?

“—and I told him what a jerk he is. A real stalker’s after you? That’s horrible.”

“It might not be as bad as it sounds.” I explain Ryan’s theory and then move on. “Listen, Clarissa, I’ve got to ask you something. Promise you’ll tell the truth!”

“Always do.”

I spit out the question. “Is everyone calling me StripperGirl?”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“Sorezzi. I ran into him after I left the library. Tripped right over his feet. It was pretty embarrassing.”

“Nobody’s calling you StripperGirl—except, I guess, Mr. Too Cool For School.” Clarissa sniffs. “I would know if they were. But people are talking. You are so f’ing cool, Ali.”

“Hah.”

“I mean it. You dance like you don’t give a flying taquito what anyone thinks.”

“Flying
what?
”

She giggles. “You’re just so…
into
it. Half the school wishes they were you, and the other half wishes they loved some
thing as much as you love dance. If you don’t believe me, just check the fan site.”

“Wait. What?”

“You haven’t seen it?” I hear clicking. “Okay, I sent the link. Go in through your computer instead of your phone so you can see it on the whole screen—and then tell me you’re not awesome!”

I end the call and move to the computer. Press the Become a Fan of
dancergirl
link that Clarissa sent. The first thing I see is a picture of me on the left side of the page—although I’m not dancing. It’s a screen shot someone stole from
Park Date.
Surrounded by yellow leaves, I look into the distance. My eyes are bright, and there’s a secretive half smile on my face. I never paid much attention to that section of the video. It’s right before Josh showed up. Someone obviously spent a long time choosing the perfect shot—a moment that makes me look, well, desirable. Like someone you’d want to date.

It’s weird to think that a stranger went through all the trouble to set up the site. I glance at Information under the picture. There are links to each of the videos and a Where In the World Is Dancergirl? game. Apparently, people are trying to figure out where I live.

I scroll down. The whole thing is kind of funny. In addition to New York, guesses range from Detroit and Chicago to Schenectady. All northern cities. That makes perfect sense because of the autumn leaves—and the rooftop view of the other apartment buildings at Sonya’s party. Obviously, I don’t live in the farmlands of Iowa.

But then I feel it in my gut. That creepy “someone’s watching you” feeling.

It’s Brooklyn, all you a-holes, announces someone named
kurvasz.
Check out that white speck in the upper left party background. Statue of Lib.

Kurvasz
must be the same as
kurvasz99,
he of the bedroom video. And he did more than figure out what city I live in—although he didn’t tell anyone the rest of what he found out. He discovered my building, how to get
in
the building, where on the roof he should drop a camera so that it can hang right outside my bedroom window—

I’m about to click off the site, because it’s too weird imagining him on his computer while I read his words, but then I get an idea. Maybe
kurvasz
made a mistake.

I click his name. To my bitter disappointment, his home page is blank. No picture—just that shadowy thing the site uses before someone uploads a photo. Since that’s how he looks in my mind, even the non-photo photo freaks me out.

He’s got no friends, no personal information and only one link: Fan of
dancergirl.

I click off his page, and then decide to Wiki both
Peeping Tom
and
stalker.

Mr. Ryan’s right. Peeping Toms aren’t interested in meeting the people they watch—although stalkers are. In fact, stalkers do weird—and terrible—things if they get mad enough. I can’t stop myself from reading—even though I grow more horrified with every word. The Red Dress Stalker made each woman he snatched put on a ruby-colored dress. Then he systematically ripped it to shreds before raping them in the tattered gowns. Another guy enacted some sort of fake Native American ritual before he touched his victim. Satanists, Cabalists…the list goes on and on.

Is
kurvasz
a Peeping Tom like Mr. Ryan thinks? Or does signing up for the fan site mean he’s been a stalker all along?
But, really, Peeping Tom, stalker—whatever anyone else wants to call him, it feels exactly the same to me.

With the bitter taste of dread in my mouth, I go to a search box and type
Montana kidnapping.
The girl’s still missing. Had she been stalked in the days—and weeks—before she disappeared?

Perhaps it’s the Montana girl, or Charlie’s ridiculous French-maid idea, but I decide to skip the famous Halloween Parade that zigzags through the streets of Greenwich Village.

“You’ll miss the stilt walkers and giant puppets and the bands,” Sonya protests. “Remember last year? How much fun we had?”

I do. It was the first time we convinced our parents to let us go by ourselves. But I also haven’t forgotten the thousands of people clogging the streets. Hundreds of masks certain to make my skin crawl. Grotesque, hideously ugly or just plain scary.

It’s not only that the gruesome disguises and bizarre makeup will give me nightmares for weeks. It’s that I won’t be able to tell who’s behind my back. Staring at me from across the street. Pressed against my side. The thought of standing next to the skeez who’s making my life miserable is out of the question.

The night totally blows. Halloween is like Christmas and Mardi Gras and Easter rolled into one. But even when I get pics from Sonya and Clarissa, I don’t regret the decision. Feeling sorry for myself is better than
being
sorry. At least that’s what I tell myself. Over and over and over again.