dancergirl. Carol Tanzman M.

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      Chapter 13

       Charlie calls during dinner.

       “I’ve got a list of this week’s locations,” he says. “We just have to figure out when we can meet.”

       “Hold on.” I take the cell into the living room. “I can’t do anything for a few days. I’m drowning. There was a choreography solo due today that I haven’t even started. And if I tank another math quiz, it’s straight to remedial.”

       “Screw school. This is the big time.”

       “Yeah, screw school. My mom’s going to be thrilled with that attitude.”

       “Don’t you like the new video?” Charlie asks. “My other ideas are even sweeter.”

       “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.