Dancergirl by Carol M. Tanzman Page A

face almost entirely wrapped in a wool scarf, nods in miserable silence as she exits the subway— Fellow traveler of the Yukon, I salute you.
    Clinton Street is vacant, the deli closed for the evening. The only good thing about the arctic weather is that it’s impossible for anyone to hang out on a roof. Even Cisco, with his heavy motorcycle jacket and leather gloves, would freeze to death. Perhaps that’s why he followed me to the studio where it’s nice and warm—if he did follow me.
    Omigod! Maybe I’m actually paranoid. Truly crazy. Turning an innocent encounter into something…sinister. With my mind spinning, I let myself into the apartment. Take a breath. The smell of bean soup simmering on the stove is the firstnormal thing I’ve encountered all day. At the same time, it reminds me I’ve barely eaten anything since last night. I beep 07 to let Mom know I’m safely in, pop some French bread into the toaster, then check the messages on my cell.
    Clarissa: Call me
    Clarissa: Where r u?
    Clarissa: Call when u get this
    Clarissa: Imp. Call!
    She picks up on the first ring. “Did you hear?”
    “Hear what? I just got home.”
    “They found the kid,” she says.
    I set the serving spoon on the counter. “What kid?”
    “The girl that went missing in Montana. It’s all over the news. You must have heard about her.”
    “Is she alive?”
    “Yes. But it looks like she’s in bad shape. They arrested some guy.” Clarissa is totally freaked. “There’s this list. Any person who’s ever been convicted of an actual sex crime with kids is supposed to register their address when they get out of jail. I saw it on the news.”
    “I know. The police have a copy at the station.”
    “But here’s the thing. You don’t have to be a cop to see it. Anyone can check it out online. There are thirty-seven in our zip code, Ali. Thirty-seven registered sex criminals! I keep thinking about the guy who taped you from the window….”
    My stomach tightens.
    “There’s pictures,” she tells me. “Sign on and see if you recognize anyone.”
    “What’s the website?”
    “Do a Google search for sexual predators —I forget what it’s called but the list thing should come up.”
    Clarissa’s right. Thirty-seven people on the National Registry Alert list live in our zip. Not only do their names and photos pop up, but addresses, offenses, identifying marks, and aliases are there, too.
    My stomach flutter-kicks my ribs. I half expect to see Cisco’s face but he’s not there. I don’t recognize anyone else. They all, however, live in my well-kept and supposedly safe neighborhood.
    I click each person’s offense. Lewd or lascivious acts with a child under the age of 14, lewd or lascivious acts with a child 14 or 15, rape by force, annoy or molest children, indecent exposure, kidnapping to commit 261, 286, 288(a), whatever that means.
    Even without understanding it all, it’s the sickest thing I’ve ever read.
     
    Mrs. Strode opens the door in response to my pounding fist. “Ali! Everything all right?”
    “I’ve got to talk to Jacy.”
    He comes out of the kitchen, chocolate-chip cookie in hand. “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll go to my room.”
    I follow him into the bedroom and close the door. “Mr. Ryan was wrong—there are real sex offenders in the Heights. And Cisco broke in to the studio but he’s not on the list—”
    Jacy pulls me to his bed. “Start from the beginning. Don’t skip anything.” I take a breath and tell him everything that happened.
    He looks confused. “Mr. Ryan doesn’t know about the online list? Isn’t it the same as the one the cops have?”
    I shake my head. “I’m not sure. He never told me about anyone in the neighborhood. I figured it’s like doctors. Mom always says that they don’t get back to you unless there’s bad news. Should we go talk to him?”
    “Now?” Jacy asks.
    “Yes. I don’t want to go by myself and I didn’t get his phone number. Stupid.”
    “I