dancergirl. Carol Tanzman M.

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СКАЧАТЬ That’s when a truly horrible idea strikes. Maybe Jacy thought I was about to kiss him and that’s why he sat back under the tree.

       My worry deepens when he doesn’t show up at the stoop. I wait as long as I can but end up walking to work alone. He doesn’t text all day, doesn’t return mine. When I leave the studio, there aren’t any voice messages. The front steps are empty.

       I crowd into the elevator with the Russian computer geek, old Mr. Detwiler, his brown Chihuahua and a packed grocery cart.

       The Russian is reading the newspaper. He’s mastered the NYC subway accordion; three long folds. A headline pops out: Massive Manhunt for Montana Teen. Guess Brooklyn’s not the only place you need a 505 trouble code.

       I almost jump out of my skin when Mr. Detwiler pats my shoulder. His hand lingers a bit too long for my liking.

       “Did you have a nice day, dear?” he asks.

       His wife died recently, so everyone in the building feels bad for him.

       “Yes, thank you,” I lie. “Did you?”

       I don’t listen to the answer. My index finger hesitates at the five button but then moves to six. Nothing happened last night so it’s not like I can knock on Jacy’s door and apologize. I can’t bring up the subject of kissing. Ever.

       Both the Russian and Mr. Detwiler exit at three. I come back to earth long enough to say goodbye. At six, I hurry down the hallway. Sometimes, Jacy comes up to the apartment to wait for me. He doesn’t mind talking to Mom.

       After unlocking the door, I yell, “I’m back.”

       The “no one’s home vibe” is obvious. Mom’s note, sitting on the kitchen table, confirms that I’m alone: “Covering a shift. Dinner in fridge.”

      I eat in front of the TV, and then move to my room. It’s the smaller of the two bedrooms but it’s at the front of the building so I’ve got a view of Clinton instead of the back alley. My bed hugs the wall opposite the window. Next to the bed are my desk, clock radio and computer. Above the computer is a shelf with a collection of dolls wearing traditional costumes from around the world.

       Jacy hasn’t added anything to his blog since the day before yesterday. He posts every night but for some reason, he hasn’t gotten around to writing about his internship—or the concert.

       Charlie, however, sent a Zube link. The outlaw share site is the coolest thing on the net—no corporate commercials masquerading as someone’s “home” videos.

       The film starts with a low shot of the band. Next, Charlie alternates wide angles and close-ups. The camera pans the crowd. Ooh—there I am, dancing. Charlie zoomed in so close you can’t see Clarissa and cut away before I flipped him off.

       I click Replay and watch myself critically. Really good rhythm and a nice Martha Graham contraction I don’t remember doing. I reach for my cell but it rings before I can grab it.

       “Hey, Charlie. I was just watching the video.”

       “You like?”

       “Yeah, actually. It came out pretty good.”

       “Excellent. Want to do another? Just you.”

       “You mean, only me dancing?” I pause to consider. “Jacy said that was the last concert.”

       “It doesn’t have to be at the band shell. I can shoot someplace else. A party. One of your classes.”

       “You sure?”

       “Are you kidding? This video’s going viral. Five hundred views in the last hour. You could be famous.”

       “I guess. If you really think it’s a good idea…”

       “Awesome!” he says. “Let me get back to you when I figure out what I want.”

       I’m so pumped, I skip the elevator and charge down the stairwell to Jacy’s apartment. No one answers the doorbell so I knock loudly.

       “Anyone home? It’s Ali.” The inner chain unhooks. “Mrs. Strode!”

       Jacy’s mom looks terrible. Her honey-blond hair, usually tastefully combed, is a mess. Streaks of black under her eyes mean her mascara has run but she hasn’t bothered to fix it.

       “Is everything okay?” Dread smashes into my stomach like a dodgeball I haven’t dodged. “Is Mr. Strode—”

       “I’m fine.”

       Now Mr. Strode comes to the door. A senior accountant for a large downtown firm, he never leaves his office before 8:00 p.m.

       “We just got in ourselves.” His voice sounds hollow, as if the charcoal business suit he wears has turned to tin. Even his skin looks gray.

      Uh-oh. Parental fight.

      I 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?”

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