How It Feels to Fly (20 page)

“Why do you miss it? What's stopping you from partnering?”

I gesture at my body.

Andrew looks me up and down. I try not to squirm.

“Okay,” he says, his voice neutral. “You're gonna have to clue me in.”

“There's no one at my studio who can lift me.”

“You're kidding. What kind of scrawny guys do you have at that ballet school?”

That makes me laugh. “One. Not exactly a body builder.”

“Huh. Well, I bet I could do one of your fancy ballet lifts
with you. And I barely do any weight training anymore.”

I catch my breath. Move over, daydream. “Are you serious?”

He looks thoughtful. “I wasn't . . . but why not? I'll let you teach me some ballet lifts. I bet you ten dollars I can get you above my head.” He glances at the rest of the group. “We should probably do it tonight. After curfew.”

The two of us. Alone together. Dancing.

I can't wait.

DIY GRILLED-CHEESE SANDWICHES. THAT'S WHAT greets me when I step into the kitchen at dinnertime. The buffet is filled with fixings. The scent of butter and melted cheese and bacon and onions drifts through the air. I stop in the doorway, and Zoe runs right into my back.

“What's the matter, Ballerina Barbie? Can't handle the cheesy goodness?”

“Shut up,” I say. But I don't move forward into the kitchen.

Zoe goes around me. “Good comeback.”

I'm not in the mood to think of a better one. Not when my stomach is doing pirouettes from my chat with Andrew earlier—and from the food in front of me.

Yasmin is at the stove. “Pick your bread, cheese, and whatever else you want,” she says. “I'll do the rest.”

“Actually, can I make mine myself?” I ask.

“I'm having sourdough and low-fat cheddar with turkey bacon.” Jenna comes into the kitchen from the dining room. “If you need some inspiration.”

Her words startle me. Why did she say that? Did she notice I've been copying her meals?

“Sounds good,” I say quickly.

It does sound good. But I decide to test my new skills and build my own sandwich. I get multigrain bread and top it with a single slice of low-fat cheddar. I add fresh tomatoes and onions and spinach. When I count up the calories, it's not bad at all, so I decide I can have a swipe of butter on each side to help toast the bread. I stand at the grill, spatula in hand, until my sandwich is browned to perfection.

And when I sit down at the table, I'm able to eat it.

Sure, it will probably be harder in a dance environment. Or with my mom. But right now, I'm eating something I made myself, and it tastes great.

“So, Sam . . .” I look up from my last bite to see Katie giving me a mischievous smile. “What's up with you and Andrew?”

I blush as red as the tomatoes on my sandwich. “Nothing. Why?”

“I don't know, it seems like you two spend a lot of time
talking. . . .”
Katie puts extra emphasis on that last word.

“He's helping me work some stuff out.”

“Work stuff out?” Jenna asks, looking skeptical.

“Anxiety stuff.”

“Right.”

“He's definitely cute,” Katie says, sneaking a glance over her shoulder at Andrew, who's in the kitchen with Yasmin. “And he's funny, and nice, and—”

“And a lot older than you,” Jenna cuts in.

“He's in college, not a nursing home,” I say. “Not that it matters.”

“You like him,” Jenna says. It's a statement, not a question. “Does he like you?”

I open my mouth and shut it again.

“Well, I think it's awesome,” Katie declares. “A summer romance.” She crosses her hands over her heart. “I've never had a boyfriend. Have you?”

“Yeah. We broke up before I came here.”

“So you're on the rebound,” Jenna says, cocking her head to one side.

“Not exactly.” I don't know how to explain the connection I feel with Andrew, so I try to deflect attention away from myself. “Are you dating anyone, Jenna?”

“No. I am currently single.”

“Sam and Andrew, together—it's so exciting!” Katie squeals.

“It's really not anything . . . ,” I say. But I know my face has given me away.

Jenna shakes her head. “Fine. Enjoy your flirtation. Just—” She stops, checking herself. “Never mind. Don't listen to me. Have fun.”

Zoe plops down next to me. “Have fun with what?”

“Sam was thinking about taking a walk after dinner.” The lie flows seamlessly out of Jenna's mouth. “But I told her it was going to rain.”

“Oh. Yeah, you should probably skip the wet T-shirt contest,” Zoe says, taking a big bite of her sandwich.

I mouth
Thanks
at Jenna. After the way Zoe teased me about our private therapy files last night, she's the last person I want to know about me and Andrew.

He enters the dining room and I let myself stare at him for a second. I take in his broad shoulders and the way his sandy hair is complemented by the color of his polo shirt—burnt orange today, the color of a summer sunrise.

We have a date tonight.

No. You don't
.

My inner voice doesn't sound convinced.

He walks over to our table. “Sam, your mom left a message while we were out.”

“She did?” I should have known she couldn't make it a week without calling.

“She wanted us to let you know she left a message with your ballet intensive to make sure you're officially registered to start a week late. She or your ballet teacher will call here when they have confirmation that you're good to go.”

“Oh. Great.” I pause. “Did Mom want me to call her back?”

“No. She said she'll speak to you on Saturday—unless
she hears something sooner.”

I'm so relieved. Nothing can spoil my night.

ANDREW AND I
are supposed to meet at the back door at twelve thirty. I wait until I'm pretty sure Zoe is asleep to toss back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I went to bed wearing black yoga pants and a black tank top. Now I pull on a black long-sleeved shirt in case it's chilly outside.

I'm opening the door when Zoe sits up in bed. “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” I whisper.

“Why are you wearing a different shirt than before?”

“I got cold. Why do you care what I'm wearing?”

“It's, like, a hundred degrees in here.” She flops back down onto her pillow.

I wait to see whether she's going to say anything else, and then I leave.

I do go to the bathroom—partly because I have a little time to kill and partly because if Zoe follows me, I want her to find me in here. I run my fingers through my hair and pull it into a loose ponytail. I put cover-up on the two zits that have appeared in the middle of my chin, and I apply a little mascara. I stare at my reflection. I look . . . I look okay. Pretty good, even.

When it's 12:32, I head downstairs, carrying my sneakers and walking silently on the carpet. I round the corner at the bottom of the staircase and tiptoe to the kitchen.

When Andrew sees me, he smiles. “You look like a cat burglar.”

Is that a good thing? Does he think my all-black outfit is sexy, or ridiculous?

“Thanks.”

“Ready?”

I nod.

He slips a key into the lock. “Yasmin's giving us an hour. She's reading in the Dogwood Room. She'll text me if anything happens here.”

“You told Yasmin?”

“I needed backup. Don't worry. She knows nothing's really going on.”

For a moment, I'm crushed. But then I realize: of course he has to tell her that.

“Any problems with Zoe?”

“She's asleep.” I hope she stays that way.

“Good. Then let's do this.”

We go out to the gazebo—not far from the house, in case we need to get back fast, but mostly out of view of the bedroom windows. We should be safe. Still, as we jog through the grass, wet from the evening's rain shower, I keep looking behind me. I can't shake the feeling that all the lights in the building are going to turn on at the same time, the windows bright and blazing, to catch us in the act. But it doesn't happen. We walk up the painted wood stairs and set our flashlights on the benches so the beams point in toward us.

“So. How do we do this?” Andrew asks.

“I need to warm up a little first.”

“Go for it.”

I squat down in a wide second position, feeling my hamstrings lengthen. I shift from side to side, stretching out first one leg and then the other. Then I drop down into a straddle split and lean forward until my stomach touches the wooden floor.

“You're really flexible.” Andrew says.

“Not really. This one girl at my studio, Becca, could moonlight as a contortionist.”

“Come on. I can barely touch my toes,” Andrew says. “See?”

I push up onto my elbows. Andrew is bending over, knees nowhere near straight, fingertips brushing the floor. When he sees me looking, he twists his face like the stretch is killing him. Then he sits and pulls his legs into the worst butterfly stretch I've ever seen. His knees point toward the ceiling and his back is hunched, like he's Quasimodo.

“How long did it take you to be able to do that?” he asks.

I move into a butterfly stretch that's like his in name only; when I press the soles of my feet together, my knees rest on the floor. “I've always been pretty flexible. And I've danced for ten years. Every day after school, and for a few weeks every summer.”

“You're pretty hard-core.”

That makes me smile. I
am
hard-core. Ballet dancers are super hard-core. But it's not often that football players—or
anyone else who runs and jumps and throws and catches a ball—recognize how hard dancers work. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Though maybe being too hard-core is part of the problem?”

My smile drops away. “We're moving right into ‘therapy' mode, then?”

“I just meant, maybe taking some time off to be here, and giving yourself a break now and then the rest of the year, might not be such a bad thing. That's it.”

“Being hard-core is the only way I'll make it as a dancer, with my body. If I try any less, I'll keep getting fatter and fatter, and then I'll be nowhere.”

“You're not fat,” Andrew says.

“I am.”

“No, Sam, you're not.”

It's a Wild West standoff. High noon instead of the middle of the night. I can practically see the tumbleweeds blowing between us.

He's the first to break. “If I can't change your mind, let's get to this partnering thing. Turn me into a
dancer
.” He exaggerates the word—
don-suh
—and gets to his feet.

I stand too. “First, we should just see if you can even lift me. Trying anything more advanced won't work if I'm too heavy—”

Before I even finish my sentence, he's scooped me up, one arm behind my back and the other behind my knees. “Done.” He bounces me up and down in his arms a few times. “You're about to owe me ten bucks. I take cash or credit.”

I relax into his arms. And then I feel incredibly awkward, so I wriggle free and drop to the ground, stumbling to stay on my feet. Not my most graceful moment.

“Okay, Baryshnikov,” I say. “Why don't we start with a basic assisted sauté.”

“What's a so-tay?”

I step toward him. Stand in front of him, facing away. Try to quiet the pounding in my chest. “Put your hands here.” I pat my sides, and then I feel his hands resting lightly in the same spots. “I'm going to jump, and you'll lift me.”

“Sounds easy enough.” His breath tickles my neck. It reminds me of the blindfold exercise last week, when he helped me knot the bandanna at the back of my head.

“So I'll go one, two, three—and bend my knees—and then jump on four.”

“Okay.”

I count us off. I jump, lifting my arms into fifth position, pointing my feet, squeezing my thighs together, holding my core muscles strong. My fingers almost touch the gazebo ceiling. Andrew puts me down a little hard, but otherwise—it worked. And it felt
great
.

“Again?” I say. “Try to help me not crash down to the floor, okay?”

“Got it.”

I count, and jump, and float. This time I'm able to roll through my feet and bend my knees to cushion the landing. No thud. “Good!” I'm getting excited—and it isn't just Andrew's touch. I haven't been lifted like this in
so long
.
“Want to try a leap and carry?”

“Sure. Whatever that is.”

“I'll prepare like this—” I take two small running steps toward him. “And then I'll leap and you'll use the momentum to carry me forward. As far as you can; it's not like we have a lot of room here.”

“So I just stand here and catch you?”

“No, you take those two steps behind me. This is me being you.” I demonstrate his part, even miming lifting myself and putting me down.

He's nodding. “Okay.”

We try it. The first one isn't great, but the second one is better, and the one after that is even better. Andrew isn't graceful, but he's strong. And he listens. When I tell him he's squeezing me too tight, and not to grip me with his fingertips, he lets go really fast and waits for me to show him how much pressure to use. When he doesn't count off the timing properly, he wants to do it again right away to fix it. Maybe it's the sports discipline, or maybe it's just Andrew's personality, but even in his first and probably last ballet lesson, he's taking it seriously.

It only makes me like him more.

I don't have any idea what we look like—we might look horrible, probably
do
look horrible—but I'm walking on air. I've missed this so much. Touching the sky. Hovering above the ground for a second before I land. It's amazing.

“Let's try a fish dive.”

“A fish dive?” Andrew cracks up. “Is that, like, a seafood
restaurant that makes you puke?”

I laugh louder than I mean to. “No, um, I'll go into arabesque in front of you. Like this.” I lift my left leg behind me and extend my right arm forward. It's a position that feels as natural as breathing. And yet I'm having trouble breathing with him standing there. “You'll put one arm under my leg and the other around my waist, okay?”

He does, being careful about where he grabs me. It's not just that he's trying not to hold me too tight. He's staying far,
far
away from any . . . delicate areas.

“Like this?”

“Yeah. But you're going to have to, um, pull my body against yours. So the weight isn't all in your arms. Ready?”

His grip tightens around me. “Ready.”

I pick up my standing leg and point my right toe toward my left knee. “Okay. Now dip me.”