How It Feels to Fly (11 page)

One by one, we ride the zip line down to the ground. I thought I would enjoy it—the wind in my hair, the scenery rushing by, the weightlessness—but all I can think about is Katie's face, and all I can feel is the tears drying on my cheeks.

WHEN WE GET BACK TO THE PERFORM AT YOUR PEAK house, Dr. Lancaster takes Katie to her office. Half an hour later, after we've had time to clean up and change clothes, we meet in the Dogwood Room. “I want to talk about everyone's experience with the ropes course,” Dr. Lancaster says. “But first, Katie wants to tell you all exactly what happened.”

“Um, okay. So, I had a total panic attack on the beam. You all saw that.” Katie's voice wavers a little, and her eyes are on the carpet, but she doesn't stop. “I was determined to make it across, and I thought I could. A regulation balance beam is narrower than those were, and I do handsprings and stuff on that. Without a harness. I told myself,
You can do this
. But then we paused out in the middle, and it was like—it was like I remembered I was supposed to be scared. And my body just shut down. I couldn't take another step.”
She looks at Dr. Lancaster.

“How did you feel in that moment?”

“I was so freaked out. I—I don't know what I would have done without Sam there.” Katie gives me a grateful smile.

“And how do you feel now?”

“Um. This is going to sound stupid, but—”

“Nothing you say in here is stupid, Katie,” Dr. Lancaster says.

“Oh.” Katie makes a face. “Sure. Anyway, now that it's all over and done, I feel like—like, wow, I did it. Like it doesn't matter that I panicked, because in the end I got across. I didn't give up.” She looks at me again. “Thanks to you, I got across.”

“And?” Dr. Lancaster prompts.

“And I feel like maybe that's what I needed. The first step. It was scary, and it sucked, but I did it.”

“So you think you could get up there and not have a panic attack, if you tried again?” Dominic asks. “It's that simple?”

“I think,” Katie says slowly, “that maybe I have to think about the fact that I
can
do it, because I already have. The number of times I've been on a balance beam without falling is so many more than the number of times I've fallen.” She pauses. “But who knows? Maybe I'll still be screwed up after this. Maybe today means nothing.”

“Or maybe it means a lot,” Dr. Lancaster says firmly.

Katie nods. “Can we go back to the ropes course? So I can try again?”

“I'll check our schedule, and the course's availability.”

“You should all come,” Katie says. “Even Zoe.”

For a second, Zoe looks wounded. But all she says is “Party at the ropes course.”

“Now,” Dr. Lancaster says, “if you don't mind us moving on, Katie, I'd like to spend some time talking about everyone else's experience on the course.”

“I don't mind. I'd love to hear about someone else's problems!”

“Uh, yeah, about that . . .” Omar has his hand in the air. His knees are jiggling rapid fire, and he's blinking a lot.

“Yes, Omar?” Dr. Lancaster says.

“It's not about the ropes course.”

“That's okay. What would you like to talk about?”

“Why I'm here, I guess. Can I?”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“So, I get stage fright,” he tells us. “Really bad. Which is so dumb, because I started doing commercials when I was, like, three. I've been acting my whole life. But for the past year, ever since
Our Town
, it's like . . . I look out at the audience or whatever, and I want to throw up. I used to love acting. But now it makes me feel sick. Even memorizing lines makes me want to puke.”

“So quit,” Zoe says. “I don't get what the big deal is.”

“I don't want to quit. At least, I don't think I do.” Now he's wiggling in his seat like a toddler who has to go to the bathroom. “But I'm so anxious, all the time. Onstage and offstage. I'm anxious because I'm anxious, if that makes sense. Obviously I can't sit still. My girlfriend told me I'm
like one of those hairless dogs that shake all the time?” He barks out a laugh that makes all of us jump. “And every decision feels huge. Like, what to have for lunch feels like it matters
so much
. So how can I know if I'm supposed to quit acting?”

“Did you try taking a break from acting?” Katie asks. “To see if you missed it?”

“Yeah, but then I was anxious that acting's the thing I'm supposed to be doing, and I couldn't focus on school and my grades were slipping. . . .” He scratches his head. Fixes his glasses. “Maybe I'm just burned out. Or the pressure's getting to me. It's hard going from cute-kid jobs to real jobs. There aren't that many roles for people who look like me. I'm a short, not-that-good-looking, brown kid who wears Harry Potter glasses and has allergies. Casting directors aren't busting my parents' door down. So anyway,” he finishes. “That's why I'm here.”

“What made you feel ready to open up?” Dr. Lancaster asks.

“Katie and Sam. You guys were so honest. It kind of inspired me.”

“Thanks, Omar,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Does anyone want to respond?”

Dominic clears his throat. “Hey, if Omar can do it, I guess I can too.” He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, and talks to the ceiling. “So, I'm here because there were all these college scouts at our spring practices, and my coach kept pointing them out and introducing me. He'd stop our
workouts and call me over and put me on the spot. And it started getting inside my head. I'd set up for a pass, and then I'd look over at Coach So-and-So from the University of Wherever with his clipboard and I'd totally screw it up.”

“Who had the idea for you to come to Perform at Your Peak?” Dr. Lancaster asks.

“Coach. And me, I guess. He found you. I signed up.” Dominic looks around the circle. “I'm good. Really good,” he says, and for once it doesn't sound like cockiness. “And I want to play professional ball, so I need to go to the right college. But wherever I end up, I need a full ride. I'm
here
on scholarship. And I'm not ashamed of it. I've got five siblings. My dad's a mechanic and my mom's a nurse. They work hard, and they expect me to. Which is why I gotta stop psyching myself out, like yesterday.” He exhales in frustration. “Plus, the guys on the team, they've, uh, been ragging on me. Calling me a pussy, or whatever.”

“What?” Katie jumps in, indignant. “That's so mean!”

Dominic laughs. “I've heard worse. I'm more worried about going to college.”

“Thank you so much for sharing that, Dominic,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Does anyone else want to share something?”

Jenna's the next domino to fall. “I suppose it's my turn.” She pats down her perfect ponytail, laces her fingers together in her lap, and sits up even straighter than she already was. “I'm kind of a perfectionist,” she begins. “I get caught up in doing everything exactly right. Which shouldn't be a problem—it should make me better. Stronger. Striving for
perfection should make me a champion.” I get the feeling this is an argument she's had with herself many times.

“But . . . ?” I say softly.

Her head whips in my direction. “But it's causing some
issues
.” She says the word the same way my mom does. I wonder if someone says it like that to her, or if she does it all on her own.

“Issues like what?” Omar asks.

“I'm not sleeping very well. I can't turn my brain off.” Jenna's tone is clipped, like she's reciting a rehearsed speech. “And I'll watch videos of myself skating and jot down notes and corrections for hours and hours and hours, without realizing how much time has passed. And when practice doesn't go well . . .” She clears her throat. “The harder I work, the more I practice—the worse I skate. I'm screwing up the easiest components, and my artistic scores are terrible. I hate what I look like on the ice right now. So I'm here to fix it. To fix myself.”

It's the same thing I told Dr. Lancaster yesterday—I want this place to fix me. It sounds like we all do.

Except for Zoe. “In case you think I'm about to spill my guts,” she says loudly, “I'm not. Get your gawk on somewhere else.”

Dr. Lancaster sighs and rolls her eyes the tiniest bit. I think I'm the only one who sees it. The gesture makes her look human. And it makes me like her a little more.

Then the placid therapist smile reappears. “This has been such a good session,” she says. “Thank you all for
participating, and for supporting each other. I want to touch base with each of you privately for a few minutes. Sam?”

I get to my feet. As I pass Jenna's chair, she taps me on the arm. “Barre later?”

“Okay.” I hesitate, then add, “We don't have to be friends if you don't want to. But it seems like we have some things in common.”

She just looks at me. I can't read her expression.

“So . . . maybe we should compare notes.”

“Maybe.” She sounds wary. But it's not a no.

“I'M PROUD OF
you, Sam,” Dr. Lancaster says.

“Proud?”

“I just heard you reach out to Jenna. And you were such a strong support for Katie on the elevated beams. You're becoming a vital member of our little community.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“I promise, leaning on your fellow campers—and letting them lean on you—will enhance this whole experience.” She goes on about the benefits of bonding with each other. It's nothing she hasn't told us before. Honestly, I zone out until I hear her say, “. . . message from your mother this morning.”

I sit up straighter. “Mom? What did she want?”

“She was concerned that you didn't return her call last night.”

“Oh. I forgot.” Yasmin told me that Mom had called, but then Andrew sat beside me on the porch and gave me
chocolate and made me feel like the world wasn't such a bad place after all, and calling Mom back wasn't even on my radar. “Was she mad?”

Dr. Lancaster gives me a keen look. “Do you expect your mother to be angry?”

I squirm under her gaze, wishing she'd look somewhere else. “Um. No. I guess more . . . disappointed?”

“Why?”

“She said she wanted to check in with me every day while I'm here.”

“Do you feel like it helps you to speak to her every day?”

“I don't mind talking to her. It makes her feel better.”

“Let's talk about how you feel, Sam. Not how your mother feels.”

“It's fine. I'm fine. Mom and I are fine.”

“Do you want to call her now?” Dr. Lancaster pushes the phone on her desk toward me. She's giving me that look I don't like again. The one where she's trying to see inside me.

“No. I'll do it later. If that's okay.”

“It is.” Dr. Lancaster jots down a note on her pad.

“What are you writing?” I don't know why I'm suddenly so jittery. Her pen's scratching is like nails on a chalkboard. I'm tempted to snatch the pen away from her and stuff it down into the couch cushions.

“Just notes for my records.”

“Why are you asking me about my mom?”

“You seem agitated, Sam.”

“My mom supports me,” I tell her. “She cares so much about my career. She wants me to succeed. She's helping me fight for it. We're a team. Since my dad left, it's just Mom and me.”

Dr. Lancaster makes an
mm-hmm
noise. She doesn't sound convinced.

“Can we talk about something else?” I pull out my notebook. “I did my homework assignment.”

She nods. “Of course, Sam. Go ahead.”

I flip past the story about my mom and Mrs. Hoyt and the unitards. Instead, I share the pages I wrote about my first costume fitting for
Paquita
.

Miss Elise rented tutus from a nearby ballet company, but none of the soloist costumes were my size. So my mom put her in touch with a tutu specialist who could create a new one for me. Which sounds nice in theory, but costume fittings are bad enough when it's only a matter of trying on different tutus until you find the right one. When there's no
right one
in the box and you're the only person getting a costume made from scratch . . .

“The costume designer has me put on the largest tutu, even though we know it won't work,” I read to Dr. Lancaster. “She wants to see how big I am, compared to the size I should be. The tutu gapes open in the back. She tugs at it until I can barely breathe, and still it won't fasten.”

While all my classmates admired their reflections in their tutus—while they practiced pirouettes and fouettés and applauded each other—I stood there having my
measurements taken. Bust, waist, hips, and on and on. The costume designer didn't speak to me or look me in the eye. I wasn't a person to her. I was a collection of wrong-sized body parts.

When she was done, she told Miss Elise, not even bothering to lower her voice, that this wasn't going to be easy. Or cheap. She'd have to find lace and sequins that matched the existing tutus. She'd have to create a new pattern based on my measurements. “I'll send an invoice,” she said, and then it was over.

And that wasn't even the worst part.

“When my finished costume arrives, it's so tight I can't inhale fully,” I read. “The boning in the bodice digs into my skin. I wince as the costume designer hooks me in, and she frowns at me. ‘Something to aspire to,' she says.”

I close the notebook and look at Dr. Lancaster.

“Did you tell Bianca how you were feeling?” she asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't think she'd understand. Her body is
perfect
. She's like Sylvie Guillem.”

Dr. Lancaster raises her eyebrows, so I clarify.

“Super skinny, but not unhealthy. Long legs. Arch-y feet.”

“So you think she wouldn't be able to empathize with you?”

“I guess she'd feel sorry for me.”

“You don't want her to feel sorry for you?”