Читать книгу dancergirl - Carol Tanzman M. - Страница 16

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 laughs. “They’re scamming—”

Quentin raps the piano. “I said ‘fifth position.’ However, if certain ladies prefer to chat, the hallway is right outside the door.”

Blake’s face turns so red you’d think it was a piece of raw carne. He shoots me a look like it’s all my fault before he moves away. It reminds me of Jacy barreling into the street and then turning on me after I yelled at him. Which seems like the start of all my problems with him. Or maybe his problems with me. My breath quickens. How could he not tell me he’s at that private school—

Quentin raps on the front mirror. I look up, startled. I’d completely forgotten where I was.

“All right, luvies. Eyes on me!”

As soon as I get out of Moving Arts, I call Clarissa.

“That dude on the bike sounds pretty cool,” she informs me.

“I don’t know. He’s a lot older.”

“But cute.”

“In a Hells Angels kind of way. Don’t you think it’s creepy? Hooking up with the choreography teacher and hitting on her student at the same time? Because he was definitely flirting, despite what Eva thinks. He’s seen dancergirl, too.”

Clarissa laughs. “Everyone’s seen dancergirl. A hundred thousand views and that’s before Charlie uploaded the new one. First Day of School. I’ll send it to your cell.”

“That many hits? They’re not that good.”

“Sure they are! They’re going to get you from the back row to center stage, and Charlie into USC film school—or beyond.” Clarissa speaks quickly, which she does whenever she gets excited. “But the stuff that Blake kid said means we have to move before people catch on. You need a permanent stylist. I’ll talk to Charlie and see what kind of look he wants. I’m thinking kind of retro—” She takes a breath. “Are you stoked?”

“I guess.”

I’ve reached the curve in the street and look up. Like a lighthouse beacon that either beckons—or warns—Jacy’s bedroom lamp is on.

I can hear them argue, even though I’m in the living room and Jacy’s mom is in his bedroom with the door closed. I tiptoe closer.

“I don’t want to see her,” Jacy says. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“Jacy, don’t do this.”

When the doorknob turns, I jump back to examine the photos on the wall. Mrs. Strode walks into the room.

“Go on in, Ali,” she says cheerily. “He’s happy you’re here.”

Even if she was an Oscar-winning actress, and I wasn’t an eavesdropping sneak, the lie wouldn’t fly. But I do the same thing she does. Pretend.

“Cool.”

Jacy’s bedroom is brightly lit. Although his hair is as wild as ever, something is different. It takes a moment before it sinks in.

The room. Jacy’s bedroom is always a zoo. Dirty clothes mixed with clean in heaps across the floor. Overflowing garbage can. Stacks of DVDs, notebooks. All kinds of crap piled on the dresser, the desk.

Now everything is neat. Nothing on the floor. Books organized on his shelf. At least two extra lamps.

“I had to clean my room,” he mumbles.

“Looks good.”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“What’s up? I almost went to the FBI to ask them to organize a search party like they did for that Montana teenager. Where’ve you been for ten days? You never told me you were going on vacation. Plus, Charlie said you left WiHi for a private school.” I plop onto his bed. “Is that true?”

He moves to the window and stares at the street. “My dad. He’s never liked public schools.”

I wait but Jacy doesn’t volunteer anything else.

That’s it? Dad never liked public schools?

Before I can explode again, a pair of old-school, amber-tinted sunglasses catch my eye. Jacy probably got them at the Shore, not exactly a hotbed of fashion innovation. Or a particularly pleasant place to be when you spend the entire week being pissed off at your father for making you leave high school during junior year.

“Do you hate it?” I ask softly. “Maybe you can convince your dad to let you come back.” I put on the sunglasses, hoping to make him laugh. “We all miss you, Jace—”

“School’s fantastic. I met a lot of new people, so don’t expect a call or anything.” When he turns, his cheeks pink up. “And put those glasses down. Who do you think you are?”

“Sorry!” I drop the sunglasses onto the desk.

“I’ve got homework—so you should go.”

“Yeah. Sure,” I say.

My eyes sting with tears as I stumble out the door.