Читать книгу dancergirl - Carol Tanzman M. - Страница 15

Chapter 8

Turns out, Brooklyn has its own Los Desaparecidos. Or at least three: Jeremy Carl Strode and his folks.

On the morning after Labor Day, I walk to WiHi alone. Jacy’s never missed a first day of school in his life. That, along with the lack of sleep, makes me crazy.

I get a bit distracted when I see the mob scene. The high school’s wide marble stairs are filled with nervous freshmen, high-fiving sophomores and juniors, cheek-kissing seniors. Everyone stalls, knowing that the instant you step through the doorway, summer is truly dead.

A whispered conversation catches my attention.

“That’s dancergirl!”

“Told you she goes here.”

Two ninth-graders eyeball me. Obviously, Charlie’s videos made the rounds of the new kids but someone should have told them that staring is so middle school.

It’s like that all morning. Seniors nod in the hall like they know me, people in class who I’ve never talked to before start up conversations. It’s wild to suddenly be Miss Popularity and takes the sting away from the fact that I get nightmare Mr. Han for Algebra II. Even Jacy had a hard time understanding the guy when he got stuck with him for Pre-Calc.

I go room to room in the hope that Jacy will be in English or American History with me. I’m disappointed each time. His name is not on any class list.

At noon, Sonya and I meet at our usual place near the hot-lunch line. I pretend 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!”