How It Feels to Fly (2 page)

“Since I can't do the whole program, they bumped me to the wait list, but my mom's not worried. Spots always open up. People pick other schools, or get injured. I'm definitely going.” And I'm definitely babbling. Andrew's been looking at me long enough that it's making me uncomfortable. I don't really like it when people look at me. Not while I'm dancing, not while I'm sitting still—not ever.

“Well, I'm glad they could make the schedule work for you.” He turns to put his plate in the sink, and I'm able to exhale.

“I guess. But I'd rather be dancing than . . .”

He finishes my sentence when I can't. “Going to therapy camp? I'm not surprised. But if you can't become a professional dancer—”

I'm on edge again immediately. “What do you mean, if I can't?”

“What you learn here should help you in any career—”

“I don't
want
any career. I want to dance. That's all I want.” The panic is back. Rising from my swirling stomach, wrapping itself around my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I try to steady my voice. “This place is supposed to help me do that, right?”

My mask is slipping. Any second now, Andrew is going to see
me
. The real me. Messed up and broken and flailing. I can't let him.

Andrew runs a hand through his hair, frowning. “It's just that there are six of you here, and you probably won't all become professionals in your field. But you can learn how to take good mental care of yourself, whatever you decide to do—”

“So you think I can't be a ballet dancer. It's because of how I look, isn't it?” I clap my hand over my mouth and scramble down from the stool. “I didn't mean—never mind. I'm going upstairs. Forget we had this conversation.” I practically run for the door.

Andrew calls after me: “Sam, wait!”

I stop, not wanting to look back. But because I'm a glutton for punishment, I do. I wrap my arms around my body, squeezing myself thinner, wishing I could make myself disappear entirely. And I stare at him.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “None of that came out right. I didn't mean to suggest you won't be a professional dancer.”

Sure he did. He said exactly what he meant.

And he's right.

“I was trying to say that this camp is about making you a happier, healthier
person
—beyond dance. Does that make sense?”

He's looking at me intently. I want him to stop looking.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats. “Really, I am. Forgive me?”

“Sure,” I mutter, trying to smile like it's no big deal. “Forgiven.”

There are tears pricking at my eyes. I blink them away and start walking. Around the corner. Up the stairs, my feet
silent on the plush beige carpet and my hand gliding along the dark wood of the banister. I feel Andrew's eyes following me. They burn into me, the way eyes always do these days.

I ignore them. If the past few months have taught me anything, it's how to ignore the eyes. How to pretend they don't hurt.

MY BODY DIDN'T BETRAY ME
ALL AT ONCE. THE change was gradual. Stealthy. Like I was papier-mâché and the artist was adding one thin layer at a time, wrapping around and around until the new Sam started to take shape.

November to May. A picture-perfect, music-box ballerina to . . . something else. Someone else.

First my balance was thrown off. I couldn't find my center of gravity. My pirouettes were shaky, when I used to be able to spin like a top.

I figured I was having some bad dance days. I'd train harder. Get it all back.

Then I noticed soft curves where there used to be straight lines. Roundness and fullness. A hint of an hourglass.

So I cut calories. A little, then a lot.

But cutting calories didn't help. Exercising more didn't help.

The layers kept coming.

I hid my new body beneath loose warm-ups in class and rehearsal. I wore sports bras under my leotards. I learned how to suck it in, tuck it under—to camouflage.

None of that kept people from noticing. From commenting. From offering advice. From whispering behind my back.

It's amazing how much damage fourteen pounds can do.

Those fourteen pounds are all I can think about as I dig through my suitcase, then my dance bag, then my suitcase again. I'm searching for something that makes me feel confident. In control. Thin.

Nothing could make you look thin. Absolutely nothing.

“I know,” I say aloud, to the empty room. But I keep digging.

Today I'm probably going to have to talk about how I've been feeling—how I ended up at this place. That's part of the therapeutic process, according to Dr. Lancaster. The problem is, I've trained myself
not
to talk about it. I've gotten good at nodding, and changing the subject, and pretending I don't hear things. And smiling, always smiling.

If it weren't for that one panic attack—not my first, but the first one other people saw—I wouldn't even be here. If I could have made it to the privacy of the bathroom in time, no one would have found out. And having everyone's eyes on me made it worse. I couldn't pull myself together, not with all of them gawking.

Miss Elise got to me before I had my walls back up. She
convinced me to confide in her—and then she told my mom what I'd said. Next thing I knew, I was here.

So much for following in your mom's footsteps.

Ballet never gave
her
a nervous breakdown.

After throwing outfit after outfit in a pile on the floor, I put on skinny jeans and a blousy tank. I glance in the mirror when I'm dressed and immediately wish I hadn't.

My muffin top. My mom was actually the first one to point it out. “Those jeans don't fit you quite as well as they used to”—that's how she put it. Then we had another chat about my diet. Her catchphrase lately has been “Make good choices.” She and I have been “making good choices” together since my weight gain became obvious. Like it was my choice what happened to my body in the first place. Not a combination of bad luck and bad timing and bad genes.

I think she's disappointed in me. I think she thinks I'm not fighting my changing body hard enough. In reality, fighting's all I'm doing. It's just that it's hard to win when you're fighting yourself.

I pull my hair into a ponytail and sit on the bed. I should go downstairs. I'm already late. But I couldn't shower until the bathroom was empty, and I couldn't get dressed until Zoe went down for breakfast. Which, judging by the time, I've now missed. No matter—I haven't been great at eating in front of people lately. It's not that I don't eat. I totally do. But having people watch me eat makes the panic swirl up.

Missing a meal or two won't kill you. You're better off hungry.

The door slams open. Zoe scowls at me. “Dr. Lancaster
sent me to get you. What are you even doing up here?”

“Oh, hi! Sorry, I lost track of time. I'm almost ready!” I smile, but it doesn't matter. She's already walking back down the hall.

I stand, straighten my tank top, breathe in deep, and follow.

WE'LL BE HAVING
our morning group sessions in the Dogwood Room—the room Jenna and I were dancing in last night. It's an open space with large windows looking out over a wide green lawn. There's a TV and a pair of couches in one corner. The carpet is a dusty rose, and pink and white dogwood flowers climb the wallpaper.

When Zoe and I walk in, everyone else is seated in a folding-chair circle.

I feel their eyes rake over me.

Dr. Lancaster smiles warmly. “Good morning, Sam. Welcome.”

I sit in the only open chair, trying to look like I haven't just broken out in a cold sweat.

This is happening. I'm in therapy, disguised as a summer camp.

I don't need therapy. I was doing fine on my own.

But I can't face my mom if I don't at least try to get something out of this place. She's been working two jobs to cover the cost of sending me here
and
to my ballet intensive. In the car yesterday, she mentioned how exhausting it is to spend eight hours at the law office where she's an
executive assistant, only to then head straight to my ballet studio, where she's been doing extra admin work for Miss Elise since April. I don't think she was trying to make me feel guilty, but . . . I feel guilty.

So I have to learn how to not have panic attacks. For myself, and for her.

“Morning, Sam,” Andrew says from the seat next to me. “Sleep well?”

I glance at him, wary, but I keep my voice polite. “I slept fine, thanks. You?”

“Yeah, I slept like a rock.”

I force myself to maintain eye contact despite how much I want to turn away. I can't believe I melted down in front of him last night. And now he's acting like nothing happened. Well, I can pretend too. “How do rocks sleep?” I ask him.

“Hard, I guess,” he answers, grinning.

“Ha, ha.” I roll my eyes, and he laughs. That's good—he can't tell how uncomfortable I am.

And then Dr. Lancaster begins. “Welcome to your first official day at Perform at Your Peak! Whether you're a dancer or a gymnast or a football player or an actor or a tennis player or a figure skater”—she looks at me, Katie, Dominic, Omar, Zoe, and Jenna as she says each of our specialties—“you can become more effective competitors and performers. You're all facing something that is keeping you from reaching your full potential.” She spreads her arms wide, like the potential in the room is about to bowl
her over. The movement turns the flowy, oatmeal-colored cardigan she's wearing into wings. “Over the next three weeks, we'll confront your anxiety issues and come up with strategies to combat them.”

Strategies. I'm okay with strategies. Talking—not so much.

“Perform at Your Peak is about helping you achieve athletic or artistic excellence,” she goes on. “But more than that: it's about learning to manage your anxiety so that you can enjoy mental and emotional well-being all the time—not just when you're on the field or onstage. And that's why I want to start today's session by having Andrew and Yasmin tell you more about themselves and how their lives have changed since their time here. Yasmin?”

Yasmin waves at us. “Hi, guys. When I was here two years ago, I'd just started writing my own songs. I'd taught myself keyboard and guitar, and I could sing and record in my bedroom, but I was terrified to perform in front of anyone, live. So when my best friend signed me up for an open mic night at a local college, and basically shoved me onstage, I totally bombed. I was
awful
. But it was like . . .” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “That experience made me realize that if I wanted music to be a part of my future, I had to get over my stage fright. So I came to Perform at Your Peak. In our one-on-one sessions, Dr. Lancaster and I talked about why singing in front of people freaked me out. What I was afraid of. We came up with ways to get rid of those fears. And now I'm a sophomore at Belmont
University in Nashville, majoring in commercial music and performing at open mic nights whenever I can! I'm hoping to record a demo soon.”

Dr. Lancaster beams. “And Andrew?”

“Yeah, so, uh, my story's a little different,” he says. “I came here because my dad and my coach wanted to make sure my head was in the game senior year, when we were looking at colleges. It can be a lot of pressure, dealing with recruiters and figuring out where you want to go. It's a huge decision. You have to play better than you've ever played before to get noticed. I was really nervous, and Dr. Lancaster helped me learn to stay calm and focused. I ended up getting recruited to play at the University of Georgia, but, um”—he clears his throat—“I quit the team after my freshman season. It was totally the right choice for me, and I couldn't have done it without everything I learned from Dr. Lancaster.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Jenna cuts in. “You're supposed to be able to advise us on being better competitors, but you got everything you wanted and just . . . quit?”

Dr. Lancaster holds up her hand. “As I said before, being here isn't only about competing or performing. It's also about learning to deal with anxiety.”

“Dr. Lancaster and I talked a lot about my motivation. In college I realized I wasn't playing football for me,” Andrew tells Jenna. “I was doing it for my dad and my coach. I didn't want to let them down. And I'd never thought about what else I might want to do with my life.”

Jenna crosses her arms, letting out a huff of air. “But how—”

“Your dad made you play?” Zoe interrupts her, staring at Andrew. “You only did it because he forced you? For how long?”

“Zoe.” Dr. Lancaster points at the poster on the wall by the door. Another thing she had us do during orientation: discuss what would make us feel safe in the group setting. We each got to write a rule on the poster, like, “Don't interrupt or talk over each other” and “Don't make fun of other people's experiences.” My contribution: “It's okay to say ‘pass' if you don't want to talk about something.”

“Can you hold on to your questions for Andrew until Jenna has finished?” Dr. Lancaster asks Zoe.

“Whatever,” Zoe mutters, slouching back in her chair.

“Jenna?”

“It's fine, I'm done,” Jenna answers, voice tight.

“Okay. Zoe?”

“Pass,” Zoe mutters.

Dr. Lancaster waits a beat, but no one else speaks. “Andrew and Yasmin were sitting where you are now, just a few years ago,” she tells us. “They have a lot of insight into what you're going through. I encourage you to chat with them outside of the group setting, especially if you hear something from one of them that resonates with you.”

I glance over at Andrew to see that he's looking at me. I look away fast, embarrassed.

“Now, I know it's not easy to open up to people you've
just met,” Dr. Lancaster continues, “even with the icebreakers we've done so far. So I want to start this morning's conversation in a way that shouldn't be too intimidating. I want all of you to tell the group about a time you performed at your absolute best.”

Crickets.

“Don't be shy. You're all highly skilled in your fields. Brag a little.”

Go on. Brag,
my inner voice snorts
. Like you have anything to brag about.

I look around the circle, waiting for someone else to be the first to talk.

It's not that I haven't had great performances. I have. There are those amazing days when my body does exactly what it needs to. My spot is solid, so my pirouettes whirl effortlessly and stop on a dime. My jumps are buoyant and my leaps soar. It's like I'm moving in slow motion and fast-forward, all at once.

On those days, I almost forget what I look like.

The rest of the time, I'm chasing that high. I need to feel that joy, that power, that ease again. Those wonderful days remind me why I love ballet so much, in spite of everything that's clawing at me.

“I—I have something?” Katie speaks up from my left.

“Yes!” Dr. Lancaster looks thrilled. “Tell us.”

“Um. I guess it was, like, a year and a half ago? At Regionals?” Her voice is high-pitched, and getting squeakier by the moment. She's turned a deep shade of pink. “I got a
personal best on the uneven bars, and I came in fourth overall. So I got to go to Nationals.”

“Impressive!” Dr. Lancaster says. “What did you feel like that day?”

“Everything felt . . . easy?” Katie frowns and bites at her thumbnail. “Not easy, like
easy.
But I knew my body would do what it was supposed to. So I guess I felt ready. Oh, and my dad was there. He can't come to every meet, so I wanted him to see me do well.”

“Wonderful, Katie. Thank you for sharing.”

Katie smiles, relieved.

Dr. Lancaster looks around the circle. “Dominic. Tell us about your best game.”

Dominic's been leaning back in his chair like he's too cool to be here. I can picture him in a classroom, in the back row, laughing with his buddies and throwing crumpled-up sheets of notebook paper at the nerds at the front. But when Dr. Lancaster calls on him, he startles. Then he puffs out his chest and sticks out his chin.

“My best game—you mean, like, all of 'em?”

“Pick one,” Dr. Lancaster says dryly.

Dominic looks toward the ceiling, making an exaggerated thinking-hard face. “Okay, so at last year's state semifinal, I threw six TD passes. No incompletes in four quarters. I was game MVP. Again.”

“How did you feel?” Dr. Lancaster asks. “What were you thinking about?”

“I was pumped! And focused. I trusted my arm, and I
trusted my team. I knew we could beat those guys. And we did. Obviously.”

“And did you have fun?”

Dominic snorts. “Course I did. Who doesn't love winning?”