Carol Tanzman - dancergirl

Ever feel like someone’s watching you? Me, too. But lately it’s been happening in my room. When I’m alone.

A friend posted a video of me dancing online, and now I’m no longer Alicia Ruffino. I’m dancergirl. And suddenly it’s like me against the world—everyone’s got opinions.

My admirers want more, the haters hate, my best friend Jacy—even he’s acting weird. And some stalker isn’t content to just watch anymore.

Ali. Dancergirl. Whatever you know me as, however you’ve seen me online, I’ve trained my whole life to be the best dancer I can be. But if someone watching has their way, I could lose way more than just my love of dancing. I could lose my life.

I hear the name first. Behind me, in the park. The end of daylight savings time has brought dusk earlier than I expected, so I can’t quite see the guy’s features. He looks sinister in his long, gray trench coat.

“Dancergirl—” he starts. The roar of a bus cuts off the rest. I glance at the street. Yes! If I can get to the corner before the bus leaves, I’ll be safe.

My legs weigh me down. Heeled boots cover my feet and I can’t get any traction. I look over my shoulder. The guy is gaining….

The pneumatic hiss of the closing bus doors gets my attention.

“No!” I wail. “Don’t leave! Wait!”

The driver sees me through the side window. Gives an evil smile. A cloud of noxious smoke spurts out of the tailpipe as the bus pulls into traffic. The old man sitting in the back seat looks at me. His toothless grin mouths, “Dancergirl…”

I wake up fighting for air. It’s 2:00 a.m. It was only a dream…this time.

Carol M. Tanzman

Dancergirl

www.miraink.co.uk

For Peter Cooper

His faith and quirky brilliance lit the way.

Contents

Prologue Prologue You know the feeling you get when you’re on the subway. Or a bus. Coffeehouse. Anyplace where people hang out. You’re texting, or cramming the rest of your homework, when suddenly you feel…something. Back of the neck prickle, goose bumps all over your arms. You glance up—and there he is. Some cretin, pupils burning, staring at you like he’s got X-ray vision. Ripping through your clothes. Bra, panties—whatever turns the creep on. He catches your eye—that’s what he’s hoping to do—and then he does something gross. Draws his tongue over his lips, makes some crude smacking sound, gives a lewd wink. Immediately, you look down, pretending you haven’t seen anything. But you know he knows.… That’s exactly what’s happening. The sick feeling that someone’s staring at me. Only I’m not on the subway. Or the bus. Or even a park bench. I’m in my bedroom. Alone.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Acknowledgments

Prologue

You know the feeling you get when you’re on the subway. Or a bus. Coffeehouse. Anyplace where people hang out. You’re texting, or cramming the rest of your homework, when suddenly you feel…something. Back of the neck prickle, goose bumps all over your arms.

You glance up—and there he is. Some cretin, pupils burning, staring at you like he’s got X-ray vision. Ripping through your clothes. Bra, panties—whatever turns the creep on. He catches your eye—that’s what he’s hoping to do—and then he does something gross. Draws his tongue over his lips, makes some crude smacking sound, gives a lewd wink. Immediately, you look down, pretending you haven’t seen anything.

But you know he knows.…

That’s exactly what’s happening. The sick feeling that someone’s staring at me. Only I’m not on the subway. Or the bus. Or even a park bench.

I’m in my bedroom. Alone.

Chapter 1

“Question of the day,” Jacy says. “What’s the worst thing that could happen to you?”

Jeremy Carl Strode, aka Jacy, settles beside me on the worn marble stoop of the brick building we both call home. Jacy and his parents live on the fifth floor; Mom and I have the apartment above them.

“Alicia!” His bony elbow pokes me. Jacy’s wearing the vintage AC/DC tee I gave him for his sixteenth birthday and a pair of ripped jeans. Knowing him, he’s probably got on zero underwear because of the August heat wave.

“I heard you,” I say. “Are you talking about school next year or, like, life?”

“Anything.”

I fan my orange tank top over my stomach. “Is this for the Gazette?”

Just before classes ended in June, Jacy was named features editor at WiHi, our neighborhood public school officially known as Washington Irving High. He’s in line for editor-in-chief when we’re seniors if he can keep his father, “Mr. Go to MIT and Be An Engineer,” out of his mop of curly hair.

“Let me think,” I say.

“That’ll take a while.”

“Not everyone aces Calc in tenth, genius-man.”

Jacy ducks his head in embarrassment and checks his cell. “Better get going if you want to show up to work on time.”

In June, I’d scored a job at Moving Arts, the studio where I study dance. The sweetest part is that I can take as many classes as I want for free.

Halfway down the steps, Jacy trips and slides the rest of the way on his butt. My laugh cuts through the muggy air.

“Glad I amuse you,” he mutters.

“All the time.”

I give him a hand up and we head north past midsize apartment buildings, neat brownstones and the ethnic restaurants that, according to my mother, give the Heights its charm. Air-conditioned cars glide down the street, although the sidewalk is empty. The smell of garbage baking in metal cans is enough to cause the fainthearted to, well, faint.

“Got it!” I pull a rubber band from my messenger bag and twist my long, wavy hair into a ponytail. “Worst thing—it’s the spring concert and the auditorium is sold-out. There’s a scout from Merce Cunningham’s company. I’m doing, like, fifteen pas de bourrée—” I demonstrate the step-side, cross-back, step-side move “—and then I trip. Not just a stumble but a humongous slip. The next thing you know, I’m sprawled facedown across the stage. God, how humiliating is that?”

The audience laughs. Samantha Warren gives a snarky smile as she completes her set of perfect pas de bourrée. I try desperately, awkwardly, to catch up to the count, knowing my entire career-to-be is ruined—

“I knew you’d say something like that.” Jacy sounds triumphant. “You always think you’re going to tank a performance.”

“I could easily blow a dance!”

“Not ever!” Jacy insists.

Pleased, I coat my lips with French Vanilla ChapStick. We’ve reached the intersection of Clinton and Montague. Clothing boutiques, Trinity Church and upscale art galleries line the sidewalks. Moving Arts Dance Studio stands across the avenue, west of the subway entrance.