How It Feels to Fly (18 page)

While we're watching, the AC cycles on. I shiver again, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. And then a sweatshirt appears over my shoulder. I turn in my chair, squinting in the dark but knowing already who I'll see.

“Want this?” Andrew whispers, leaning forward.

I take it. I put it on and zip it up fast. It smells like him. I didn't realize until this exact moment that I knew what Andrew smells like.

“Don't know how much longer we'll be in here,” he says, his mouth close to my ear. “Lucky I brought that, huh.”

“Yeah.”

I hear the squeak of him sitting back in his chair. I feel Katie's eyes on me. But I keep my eyes on Jenna. She's telling us about the nuances of various spin positions, and I can tell she's itching to point out what's wrong with what she's doing on-screen, but she stops herself. I shiver again, and this time it's not from the cold.

My challenge is tomorrow. I hope I'm up for it.

I breathe in deep and settle in to Andrew's hoodie's embrace.

WHEN WE GET BACK TO THE PERFORM AT YOUR PEAK house, Dr. Lancaster has us gather in the Dogwood Room. Dominic and Zoe sit on opposite sides of the circle, but it doesn't feel like it's far enough apart. The air is thick with tension.

“Who wants to go first?” Dr. Lancaster asks.

After a few beats of silence, Dominic mutters, “Sorry I lost my cool.”

Dr. Lancaster touches Zoe's shoulder. “Zoe?”

“Whatever.”

“That's not what we talked about—”

“Why should I have to apologize?” She crosses her arms and juts her chin out.

“You're here to support one another, not belittle one another's feelings.”

“Why should I care about your feelings?” She talks right
at Dominic. “And I thought you didn't
do
feelings, anyway.”

Dominic is slouching in his seat. His eyes are hooded. Now it's his turn to say, “Whatever.”

“Dominic, do you want to talk about how the challenge felt for you?”

“Nope. Pass.”

“Okay. Maybe we'll dive in later. Jenna, how about you? How did you feel about your challenge?”

“Fine.” It's an automatic answer. No emotion behind it.

“Why do you think it was so difficult for you to compliment your own performance?”

“It was fine. Can we move on?” She sits up taller, her spine an iron rod.

“If you want to open up, it might help your peers prepare for their challenges—”

“I'd prefer to talk to you about it in private.”

Dr. Lancaster nods. “All right.” She looks at each of us in turn. “Remember, while your anxiety is internal, it's often a response to external stimuli. It doesn't exist in a vacuum.”

Well, obviously.

I don't think I'd hate my body nearly as much if it weren't for how people look at me. If it weren't for what they say to me and about me. If I couldn't see myself next to skinnier dancers. If I weren't part of a ballet culture that cares so much about body type.

But there's still part of my anxiety that's
me
, specifically. I don't think every person in my situation would respond the way I have. Not everyone has this inner voice repeating,
You're fat, you're ugly, you're awful, you'll never get what you want, give up, give up
on a constant loop. Not every dancer would turn into a shuddering blob of sweat and tears and sequins at the sight of her own body in the mirror.

I can't change the ballet world. And I can't change my body—at least, not as much as I want to. I'm stuck with these fourteen extra pounds weighing me down.

Unless you do something. There are ways. You know that. You're just too weak—

I don't want to think about that. I won't.

DR. LANCASTER AND
I spend our forty-five minutes together talking more about body parts. Specifically, whose would I trade for mine? At first, it feels weird to be talking about Jenna's slim silhouette, Zoe's legs, Yasmin's abs, Katie's shoulders and upper arms, but I can see the picture coming together in my head. It's a collage—apparently that's my thing, now—of a dancer in arabesque, made up of so many perfect pieces. Frankenstein's Ballerina.

I know what Dr. Lancaster wants me to say: that I'm more than the sum of my parts. But I don't believe that, and I don't feel like lying to her. I'm too anxious about my cooking challenge tomorrow. Andrew's sweatshirt is the only thing keeping me together.

And Andrew himself.

As Jenna and I are stretching out on the floor after a punishing ballet barre, Andrew walks in. He crouches between us. I sit up straighter, sucking my stomach in. I
grab his hoodie and wrap it around my shoulders so he won't take it with him.

“Just wanted to give you a heads-up,” he says. His eyes have a mischievous gleam. “Yasmin and I have something fun planned for tonight.”

“What?” I whisper.

“If,” he says slowly, “we were to sneak out of the house later and go for a late-night swim at the lake, would you come?”

I gape, feeling his words like a punch to the gut.

A swim. At the lake. After what happened last week—

He touches my arm. “Sam. I get it. But I think you should come.”

I still can't find words.

“I want you to come.” He's looking at me like Jenna isn't even there. Like we're the only two people in the room, in the house, on the planet. “It's a Perform at Your Peak tradition. Our peer advisers did it for us, and we're doing it for you. We want you there.”

“I, um . . . okay.” I gulp. Nod. “Okay.”

“Midnight. Meet at the back door.” Now he looks at Jenna. She nods too. “Great,” Andrew says. He gets to his feet, using my shoulder to push himself to standing. When he walks away, it feels like he leaves an imprint of his hand behind.

I rub the place where his hand sat.

“How's that sunburn?” Jenna has a small, knowing smile on her face.

“Sore,” I say, sliding into my right-side split so I don't have to look at her.

She doesn't say anything else. Doesn't ask me any questions I can't answer.

THAT NIGHT, AFTER
washing my face and brushing my teeth and changing into my pajamas—swimsuit underneath, wrapped around me like a bandage, squeezing me like a vise—I'm under the covers watching the clock tick toward midnight. Zoe, meanwhile, is sitting on her bed in her pink bikini top, shorts, and swim cap, like nothing about this needs to be sneaky.

“Are you
trying
to get caught?” I ask her.

“By who? Dr. Lancaster's in bed. Andrew and Yasmin planned this whole thing.”

“But what if—”

“You worry too much, Barbs.”

I scowl at her, sending all of my swimsuit anxiety her way. “Why is Andrew even letting you come along?”

“Because I made him. I said I'd wait until you all left and then wake Dr. Lancaster up.”

“For real?”

“No. Although I could. Might actually get on her good side, for once.” She pulls her knees to her chest. “I don't know why Andrew's letting me come along. Maybe because he's a nice guy. Why don't you ask him? You two seem tight.”

I don't rise to her bait. We sit in a tense silence until the clock on the desk says 11:59. Then Zoe jumps to her feet,
grabbing her towel. “C'mon.”

She opens the door soundlessly and peeks out. There's no one in the hallway, but we can see Dominic and Omar disappearing around the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Zoe and I follow, and when we get to the kitchen, Andrew and Yasmin are there with Katie, Jenna, and the guys. Andrew opens the back door and, putting a finger to his lips, ushers us outside.

I make my way to his side as we jog across the dark lawn. “Are you sure we won't get in trouble?” I ask. Like that's the only thing on my mind.

“Yeah. This is totally safe. And y'all need to do something normal. Teenager-y.”

The way he says “teenager-y” makes me deflate a little bit. He's in college—practically an adult. And I'm sixteen. But then he looks down at me and I see the white flash of his teeth as he smiles.

“I'm glad you're here.”

If he's glad, I'm glad. “Me too.”

But when we reach the lake, the anxiety I've been ignoring settles in. I pause where I crumpled to the ground a week ago. I take a step backward. Then another.

“Everything okay?” Andrew shines his flashlight at me. “Are you about to—”

“No.” And yet, while I'm definitely not having a panic attack, I can't move another inch toward the water. I sit down on a log that's close to where the trail from the woods
meets the dock and watch everyone else strip down, jump in, paddle around.

Andrew sits next to me. Bare arm to bare arm. “Sam, talk to me.”

“I can't do it,” I say softly. “I have to go back. You can say I forgot something.”

“Because you don't want to wear your swimsuit in front of us?”

I don't respond, but he takes it as the yes it is.

He exhales in frustration. “Sam, you can't let how you feel about your body ruin your life. You can't let it keep you from doing things. Do you want to go swimming?”

I nod.

“Then swim.”

“I can't.”

He's quiet for a moment. “When I was thinking about quitting football, I almost took the chicken way out.”

“You almost didn't quit?”

“No, I almost—I thought about—” A pause. “If I got injured, I could stop playing without having to tell my dad and my coach I was done with football. It would have been so easy: get in the way of the wrong linebacker, not catch myself when I fell, whatever. I could've had an out, and never had to say anything. Never had to let anyone down. But that wouldn't have been honest. I needed to be honest. Dr. Lancaster taught me that, even if when I was here, I didn't know I'd eventually want to quit.”

I'm not sure where he's going with this, but I'm willing to let him make his way there. Besides, it feels like it's just the two of us. With Andrew's voice in my ear, his arm touching mine, I feel like we couldn't be more alone.

“I know it's not the same thing at all,” Andrew says, “and I absolutely don't want you to take this as a suggestion. But why haven't you tried to starve yourself until you're as thin as you want to be?”

There it is. The question I hoped he'd never ask.

I stare at the ground. “I've thought about it. A lot.” I don't tell him about the things I
did
try. I can't. “I'm not that brave.”

“But that's my point. I don't think hurting yourself to get what you want is brave. I think it's braver
not
to take that route.”

I sigh. “I guess you're right. Anyway, what if starving myself didn't help? What if I kept wanting to be skinnier and skinnier? What if I'm destined to always feel . . . wrong?”

He cringes. “I wish you could stop thinking of yourself as being ‘wrong.'”

“You and me both.”

“So . . . take the first step. Walk to the end of the dock, in your swimsuit—that I bet you look great in, by the way—and jump in. In front of everyone. Act confident, and maybe you'll see that there's nothing to be afraid of after all.”

I look at him. “Fake it till you make it?”

“One way to put it.”

There are only a few inches separating our faces. We're close enough to kiss. Such a small movement would bring us together. And he's looking at me with his eyes wide and his lips barely parted. . . .

“Are you two coming in or not?” Zoe calls from the water.

Andrew pulls away. He stands and tugs his T-shirt over his head, and I lose my breath. He looks down at me. “Come in. Please.”

“I—” I inhale. It's shaky. And not just from the anxiety butterflies. I feel his nearness, our almost-kiss—if that's truly what it was—all over my body. “Okay.”

He holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet.

“Can you turn around?” As much as I want him to like what he sees—to like
me—
I'm not ready to get undressed in front of him. Or anyone.

“Of course.” He turns his back.

I slide my pj pants down and pull my tank top over my head. And then I'm standing there in my black one-piece, and the roar in my ears drowns out the water lapping and the June bugs humming. I take another deep breath.

And I run. Past Andrew. Along the length of the dock. I'm in the air, floating for a fraction of a second, and then I hit the water with a loud splash.

Andrew splashes next to me a moment later. He comes up out of the water smiling at me. I smile back. The water is cold and dark, but the moon and the stars are reflected on the surface and only my head and shoulders are visible, so I feel safe.

“What took you so long?” Zoe is swimming a backstroke circle around the others.

“I just—I had to—”

“We just had to talk about something,” Andrew cuts in. “My fault.” He swims closer to me. “Do you want to tell them about it?”

“I want to
not
talk about it. I want to enjoy this, now.” Still feeling the rush I got from jumping in, I add, “With you.” Then, because I can't believe I just said that, I quickly add, “With all of you.” And then I feel stupid, so I shut up and paddle toward the rest of the group.

The water slips over my skin. I'm here. I'm swimming. It's scary, and not actually that scary at all. I flip onto my back, looking up at the dark sky and the bright moon. I let the water cradle me. I feel weightless.

WE SNEAK BACK INTO THE HOUSE AROUND TWO a.m. It's dark and silent and still. I'm afraid to make a single creak, for fear of waking Dr. Lancaster, and I don't take a full breath until Zoe and I are back in our bedroom. But no sooner do I change out of my wet swimsuit and climb into bed than she's standing by the door.

“BRB,” she says, a wicked smile on her face.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Forgot something.”

“What?” As far as I can tell, she has everything we left with. Bikini, shorts, swim cap, shoes, towel—not much to forget.

Zoe gives a dramatic sigh. “Oh, fine. You caught me. You can come with.”

“Come with you
where
?”

“Come on, Barbs. Live a little.” She holds the door open and beckons me closer.

I don't know exactly why I follow her, but I do. We sneak down the stairs and down the hall, our footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. Zoe stops in front of Dr. Lancaster's office. She turns the doorknob. The door swings open, and Zoe pushes me inside fast.

“What are we—”

“Shh!” She claps her hand over my mouth.

We wait to hear whether anyone followed us. I decide that the moment she lets me go, I am running—
running
—back upstairs. This was a horrible idea. I can't get caught in here with her. I should never have listened. There's only so far “live a little” should take you.

But when Zoe releases my mouth, she doesn't release my wrist. She pulls me over to Dr. Lancaster's desk and slides open the top right drawer. “Which one's yours?”

There are six cell phones in the drawer. I point at mine. Zoe hands it to me, then picks up the one that must be hers.

“How did you know—”

“I've been in here before.”

“When?”

“The other night. I wanted to snoop around. It's a win-win—I either find out more stuff about all of you, or I get caught and sent home. Or I find out more stuff about all of you
and
I get caught and sent home. Guess that's a win-win-
win
.”

“You read our files? Those are private!”

“Not anymore,” she says with a smirk. Then she laughs. “You should see your face right now. No, I did not read anyone's private file. They're in a locked cabinet, and I couldn't find the key. Maybe Dr. Lancaster sleeps with it around her neck.”

My hands are trembling. I wring them, trying to make the trembling stop. “Okay.”

“I swear. Scout's honor. Your secrets are still safe.”

“Okay.”

She powers her phone on and starts texting.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I hold my phone up, still uncertain.

Zoe flashes me a bright grin. “Whatever you want.”

Whatever I want.

What do I want?

All at once, I know. On Sunday, in the blue room at the Biltmore, Andrew said I should talk to Marcus. To get closure. To move on. I don't give it any more thought. I turn on my phone, find Marcus in my contacts, and call him.

He answers on the third ring, sleep-groggy and yawning. “Hello?”

“Hey. It's me.”

A long pause. “Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“Is everything okay? What time is it?”

“Late. Early. Sorry.”

“Aren't you at that therapy camp?”

“I am.”

“Are you supposed to be calling me?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” He yawns again. “Well, how are you?”

“I'm fine. I'm okay. It's hard here, you know? But I think I'm—” I stop. Marcus doesn't get to have a window into my thoughts anymore. It's his turn to talk to me. “I'm calling because . . .” I glance at Zoe and then decide that hearing what Marcus has to say is more important than hiding from her. “Why did you break up with me?”

“Wow, straight to the point. That's, um . . . new.” He groans, like he's pushing himself to sitting. “I told you. You were . . . different. And I didn't know how to—”

A flash of righteous anger. “So you dumped me because I'm not as—because I— How shallow
are
you?”

“Wait, what? What are you even talking about? It's the middle of the night, Sam. Be straight with me.”

I force myself to say it. “I got fat.”

There's a bark of laughter on the other end of the line. It makes me want to throw the phone across the room. But I keep my grip. I wait.

“Hold on—were you being serious?”

“Yes,” I say in a small voice.

“Sam. We didn't break up because you got . . . fat. Which you aren't, by the way. Not unless you've changed an awful lot in two weeks. If we're being honest here, I liked the curves.” Now I can hear the smile in the corner of his mouth.

“Why, then?”

“You were so down all the time. Like anything was gonna make you cry. Nothing I did cheered you up. And when I'd ask you about it, you'd bite my head off. So then I didn't want to ask you at all. And whenever we'd go out, you were, like, so self-conscious. . . .” He pauses.

“Keep going. Please.”

“I didn't know how to make you feel better. It didn't seem like you
wanted
to feel better. And I—I've had a lot on my plate, with baseball and science club and—being with you—it wasn't fun anymore. It was stressful. Frustrating. And I didn't need that.”

“Oh.”

“Ugh, I'm sorry, this is coming out all wrong.”

“It's okay. I asked you. I needed to know.”

What he's saying—it changes so much. He didn't dump me because of how I look. We broke up because I've been such a mess emotionally. And now I'm working on that. I'm getting better. I can be ready to be with . . . whoever's next.

Marcus yawns again. I can picture it, widemouthed like a lion. He always had yawns that looked so satisfying. “So are we cool?” he asks when he's done.

“Yeah.”

“For what it's worth, I'm glad you're getting some help.”

“Me too.”

“All right, Sam. I gotta get up early.”

“Good night, Marcus.” It feels more like good-bye, but I don't mind as much as I thought I would.

“Night.” He hangs up.

My phone goes dark.

“That was . . . interesting,” Zoe stage-whispers from the couch. “Did you really think a guy dumped you because you were fat?”

“Yeah. I really did.”

Zoe snorts. “Well, I guess now you know.” She checks the time on her phone. “Anyone else you want to wake up and grill?”

I think about calling Bianca. But she's at her ballet intensive, and I don't want her to be too exhausted to dance well tomorrow. And anyway, I don't know what I need to say to her. I think I need to apologize . . . but for what? And how?

I log in to my email, scrolling past the spam until I find a message from Bianca, from Sunday night:

Hey, Sam-a-lam-a!

Just wanted to say hi, and let you know I'm thinking about you. I miss you. Wish you were here.

I just got settled in my room in TWSB's dorms. My roommate is from San Francisco. She spent last year at San Francisco Ballet School! So I'm getting all the West Coast gossip. I'll fill you in next time we talk.

Can you call? Or text? Or email? Do they have you on total lockdown? What's it like there? Inquiring minds want to know!

Seriously, though, I hope it's helping. I'm here if you want to talk.

Whatever, whenever.

Love, B

Like always, Bianca ends her message with a ton of random emoji. This time, it's the sunglasses smiley, a cat with heart eyes, the dancing woman in the red dress, a flower, a duckling, and the Easter Island statue. I smile at the screen, hitting “reply.”

Zoe clears her throat. “Time to wrap it up. Sorry.”

“Okay.” I type in:

Miss you too! So much. Lots to fill you in on, but no time now. Not supposed to be online. Xoxo, Sam.

I wait for it to send, then turn off my phone and drop it into the drawer Zoe's holding open.

“Glad you came with me?”

“Yes. Have you brought anyone else down here?”

“Just you.”

“Why me?”

“No real reason.” She pauses. Shrugs. “Thanks for the key chain. Sorry for talking about your butt in front of everyone.”

“How did you know I'd need to make a phone call?”

“Everyone needs to call someone,” she says, and walks out the door.

WE START THE
next morning on the college's tennis court. Zoe's supposed to be teaching us the rules of the game so that we can play a friendly match. Her challenge is about remembering that tennis isn't just parent-mandated work.
It's also a game—one she happens to be really good at.

She does seem to be having fun, judging by the insults she's sending our way. “Afraid of the ball, Ice Princess?” she shouts at Jenna, who's just ducked away from a hard serve.

I watch as Andrew jogs over to Zoe. He puts his hands on her shoulders. Says something, staring her down. She nods, hands on hips. Says something back.

“He's so good with her,” Yasmin says to Dr. Lancaster. They're standing a few feet away. My back is to them. I keep scooping up tennis balls into a bucket. I keep listening. “She responds to Andrew,” Yasmin goes on. “I can't get her to say two civil words to me.”

“Different campers need different types of interactions from authority figures,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Zoe needs what Andrew offers. But you and Omar seem to have hit it off.”

“He's a great kid. And we have performing in common.”

“You told me Katie confides in you too.”

“Yeah. She reminds me of my little sister.”

I've been lingering near them too long. I'm out of tennis balls to pick up. I should move away. But I want to hear more. I want to hear whether they'll say anything about Andrew and me. Have they noticed the time he spends with me?

“Ballerina Barbie! Get over here!” Zoe yells. Reluctantly I jog in her direction. “Show 'em how it's done,” she says, tossing me a racket. I fumble in catching it. I take one of the balls from my bucket. I throw it in the air and, almost entirely by luck, serve it over the net. “Yes!” Zoe crows. “Let's all do it like that, okay?”

She lines us up, each with a few balls, and has us practice serving. I throw, swing, hit. Throw, swing, hit. Throw, swing, hit. Some serves go into the net. A few sail over, like the first one.

I woke up this morning feeling lighter. Like jumping in the lake and then talking to Marcus helped me shed a thick, heavy layer of myself.

My challenge is next. I was anxious about it yesterday, and I should be even more anxious about it today. But I'm not. I'm the calmest I've been since arriving here. I'm actually optimistic. I haven't felt optimistic about anything in months.

And a lot of it's because of Andrew. Pushing me to push myself, last night. Meeting me as I came down the stairs today, black coffee in hand. Telling me I can get through anything. When he says it, I feel it. He makes me stronger. Better.

He lifts his hand, shading his eyes from the sun. The way he's lit right now, it's like he's glowing. Radiating. And when he smiles in my direction, it's hard to see anything else.