How It Feels to Fly (4 page)

“It's okay,” I say, taking in a shuddering breath. “I'm okay now.”

You're not okay you're not okay you're not okay
.

“Really.” I muster a smile and sit in the grass. “Can we stay here for a bit?”

“I—um—I guess, yeah.” He looks back at the house, clearly conflicted, and then plops down next to me. A few beats of silence pass. Then he asks, his voice gentle, like he's talking to a skittish wild animal, “Was that a panic attack?”

I look over at him. I want to pretend it was nothing. I want to laugh it off. But now he's seen what happens. Now he knows why I'm here. And he isn't laughing at me. He doesn't look shocked or disgusted. Rattled, but that's about it.

Because of that, I trust him enough to say, “Yes.”

“For me, it was chest pain. Like an elephant was sitting on my ribcage. For you, it's trouble breathing?”

I nod.

“Is it always that sudden? And that bad?”

I answer the second part first. “Sometimes it's worse.” And as for sudden—if I'm honest with myself, that's been building in me since last night. A full-out, sweat-drenched ballet class this morning might have warded it off. Maybe. But between Zoe and Jenna and Andrew and thinking about Marcus and wearing the blindfold and stepping in that hole and just
being here . . .
the tightrope snapped.

I unspool another length of cord. Stretch it back across the chasm inside my head.

“Please don't tell anyone.”

He blinks at me. “You know I have to tell Dr. Lancaster.”

“Let me tell her.” It's only delaying the inevitable, but this feels important. “I'll even say I asked you not to tell her before I could, so you don't get in trouble. Please?”

After an excruciating pause, he nods. “Only because I owe you for last night.”

“Thanks.”

I look around the grounds, taking everything in. Katie is leading blindfolded Dominic toward the gazebo. Omar is with Yasmin by the vegetable garden. Zoe and Jenna are nowhere to be seen. I can't even imagine how they're interacting. I think about last night, in the Dogwood Room: Jenna's precision and chill versus Zoe's chaos and fire.

“So can I ask what that was about?” Andrew asks. I must look alarmed—I
feel
alarmed—because he adds, “I'm curious what's going on inside your head. That's all.”

That's all. That's. All.

“I freaked out when I stepped in that hole. You saw it happen.”

We're so close, I can see that he has sandy eyelashes to match his sandy hair, and that his brown eyes have flecks of gold. His gaze makes me want to scoot away fast. But because he's looking at my face, and not at the rest of me, I'm able to stay.

“I have a lot on my mind right now,” I tell him.

“Like what?”

“Like . . . my ballet intensive, where I'm going next. If everything goes well there, I could get asked to train at that school year-round. And that could lead to them offering me an apprenticeship, which could lead to a professional company position.”

Andrew listens. Then he says, slowly, “Don't take this the wrong way, but that's a lot of ‘coulds.'”

My heart rate picks up again. I pull my knees into my chest and hug. “I know,” I admit. “But it's the only plan I've got.”

“What else is on your mind?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said ‘a lot.' So what else?”

“Oh.” I don't want to tell him what else. “Just . . . stuff.”

“Stuff. Got it.” To my surprise, he doesn't push it. He sits next to me, in silence, until his watch alarm beeps. “Time to go back in,” he says. “Packed schedule today.”

“Okay.” But before standing, I lie flat on my back and stare into the clouds. I picture myself as light and breezy as they are. I picture floating away.

BACK IN THE DOGWOOD ROOM
, DR. LANCASTER asks each of us to tell the group about our experience with the blindfold exercise. When it's our turn, Andrew talks about walking to the gazebo, and how I described the landscape clearly and didn't let him run into anything. He talks about how it was obvious I'm a dancer, because of how aware I was of my body when I was blindfolded. True to his word, he
doesn't
talk about my panic attack—though he does shoot me a meaningful look when he's done.

“How about you, Sam?” Dr. Lancaster asks.

“It was nice to be outside,” I say, after a long pause. I know that's a cop-out answer, but just because I'm sort-of-kind-of willing to confide in Andrew now, it doesn't mean I want to bare my soul to my fellow campers.

“Anything else?” Dr. Lancaster prompts.

“Um.” I drop my gaze to the floor. “Pass.”

I'm not the only one who's holding back. Zoe and Jenna answer Dr. Lancaster's questions in single syllables. Their body language couldn't be more different—Jenna is sitting up ramrod straight, hands clasped in her lap, lips pursed, while Zoe slouches in her seat, arms folded across her chest—but it's clear that they both want out of this room. Omar, who was paired with Yasmin, fidgets and stammers out his answers. Dominic and Katie are the only two who seem remotely comfortable with each other.

“Dominic was a great guide,” Katie says.

“
Yeah
I was,” Dominic congratulates himself.

“I wasn't nervous at all,” Katie goes on. “But stuff like this isn't what makes me nervous.”

“And Dominic, how about you?” Dr. Lancaster asks. “Did you trust Katie? And do you feel like you might be able to open up to her now?”

Dominic snorts, shaking his head. “You mean, like, talk about our feelings or whatever? No, thank you. Not my thing.”

Katie looks thoughtful. She sticks her hand in the air. “Dr. Lancaster?”

“Yes?”

“Can I talk about my feelings?”

Zoe laughs, and Dr. Lancaster shoots her a look.

Katie pales but keeps going. “I want to say why I'm here. I want to get it out of the way. Rip off the Band-Aid, you know?”

Dr. Lancaster nods. “Of course. Each of you can tell
your story when you're ready. And if you're ready now, Katie, we're ready to listen.”

Katie clears her throat. “So, about eight months ago, I fell off the balance beam. I was working on my new dismount—a roundoff double back—and my foot slipped going into the roundoff. But I had too much momentum to stop. My hand missed the beam and I just . . . crashed. I slammed into the beam and then hit the floor. I broke my collarbone in two places. I was lucky it wasn't a lot worse.”

She lifts her hand, running her fingers across what I can see, when I squint, is a slight bump on her collarbone. “It took about three months to heal. And then I got back to training. But now, every time I get on the beam . . .” She blinks, her eyes wet. “When it happened for real, I didn't know it had happened until it was over and I was on the ground. It was so fast. But now I see it in slow motion. I see my hand slide and the mat get closer and closer. I hear my coach gasp. I watch myself land on my head, snap my neck. I look down, and I'm curled up on the floor. I can't move or breathe.”

“Whoa,” Omar says.

Katie sends a watery smile in his direction. “Yeah. So anyway, a few months ago, I started doing these rituals. Like, making a deal with myself. If I coat my hands and feet with extra-strength deodorant—twice—before my routine, I won't slip and fall. If I always listen to the same song before I get on the beam, I won't fall. If I take the right number of
steps to get there, and if I breathe the right number of times before I touch the beam, I won't fall.”

Everything she's saying—I get it. I have my own set of rules. Only eat at certain times of day. Sip water constantly, to fill my stomach up faster. Count calories, count servings, count bites. I can't help asking, “Do the rituals make a difference?”

Katie makes a face. “They used to? But now I have to do more and more of them, and I still don't feel anywhere close to how I used to feel.” She sniffles. “I really want to get past this. I want to feel normal again.”

Normal,
my inner voice sneers.
Maybe she can go back to how she was before, but you're living your new normal. Welcome to the rest of your life.

“Thank you, Katie,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Does anyone want to respond?”

I shake my head. So do Omar and Jenna and Dominic. And Zoe's eyes are closed, chin dropped to her chest. She's faking being asleep, which is almost more obnoxious than
actually
being asleep.

“Then we'll break for lunch,” Dr. Lancaster says. “You'll each have your initial private session with me this afternoon. Sam, you're first, with Omar on deck.”

I nod. And I look at Katie. She seems calmer now that her secrets are out in the open. I envy her a little bit.

That still doesn't mean I'm ready to talk.

THE KITCHEN ISLAND
is set up buffet style for lunch: first a big pot of spaghetti, then a pot of tomato sauce, and finally a platter of meatballs and a bowl of grated Parmesan. It looks—and smells—amazing. It also looks—and smells—incredibly fattening.

And I'm back to thinking about eating in front of everyone. Their eyes on my plate, on my fork as it travels from my plate to my mouth, on my face as I chew and swallow. The hunger I've been ignoring since I woke up—it's replaced by butterflies. Lead butterflies, clanking around and scratching my insides with their wings.

I step out of line, swallowing past a thick lump in my throat. “I'll be right back . . . ,” I say to Katie, behind me, and I head for the stairs. I'll hide in my room, or in the bathroom, and eat when everyone else is done. It's a foolproof plan.

But Dr. Lancaster appears out of nowhere. “Sam,” she says. “You must be starving; I know you missed breakfast. You're going to love this spaghetti.”

“Great,” I say, giving her my everything's-totally-fine smile. “I just, um, need to go to the restroom first.”

“Go right ahead. I'll make you up a plate and leave it at the table for you.”

“You don't have to do that. I can make my own plate when I get back.”

“It's my pleasure. See you in there.”

I do end up going to the bathroom, for appearance's sake. Then I head back to the dining room, feeling dread
settle in over my shoulders like a woolen blanket.

It's not that I'm worried about having another panic attack. They don't usually happen right on top of each other. But as I stare at the plate of spaghetti in front of me—a huge serving, and way too heavy for lunch—I just. Don't. Want. To eat it.

So I turn to talk to Katie instead. She's sitting next to me, and Dominic's across from her, and they're both chowing down like it's the easiest thing in the world.

“That was brave, how you opened up back there,” I say, twirling pasta around my fork. I twirl. And twirl. And twirl.

“Thanks. It wasn't as hard as I thought. You should go next!” Katie squeaks. Then, like she realizes that might've been too pushy, she adds, “If you want. If you're ready.”

“Maybe,” I say, even though I don't mean it.

Honestly, I don't know where I'd begin. I don't have a cut-and-dried story like Katie's, where one awful thing happened and everything changed. Would I start with the Saturday in February when Tabitha saw me holding a sandwich after ballet class and asked, all fake concern, “Are you sure you need to eat that?” That's when I stopped eating in front of other dancers. I'd rather snack in the bathroom, perched on the toilet, than let them see me with a single almond or grape.

Or I could talk about that rehearsal in March, when the guest choreographer patted my stomach and poked at the wobbly part of my upper arm and said, “Work on this”—in
front of everyone. I barely made it to the janitor's closet before breaking down.

Or I could go straight to the panic attack that sent me here. It was April. Backstage before
Paquita
. I put on Lauren's tiny tutu by mistake and caught sight of myself in the mirror, and all the air left the room.

Or should I describe how I feel every day? The storm in my stomach. The mocking voice that fills my thoughts. The way my skin crawls when people look at me for more than a few seconds. The tears trapped behind my smile.

“It might make you feel better to get it off your chest,” Katie says, slurping up a strand of spaghetti with a satisfying smack.

The only thing that makes me feel better is keeping it in. Acting like nothing's wrong. Fooling everyone.

But I say, “I'll think about it.”

Katie looks pleased.

I've been twirling my spaghetti the whole time Katie and I have been talking. The pasta spirals out from my fork, and a large meatball teeters at the edge of the plate. I use my knife to tip it back into safety and start slicing it into bite-sized chunks.

“Hey, Ballerina Barbie's making progress!” Zoe says.

I look over at her, startled. “What?”

“You think I didn't notice that you're not eating?”

I say the first lie I can think of. “It was hot. I was letting it cool down.”

“Hot. Huh.” Zoe opens her mouth and crams in an entire meatball. “Nope!” she says as she chews. “Try again.”

“I'm eating!” I stab a cube of meatball and stick it in my mouth. It's every bit as delicious as it smells, perfectly seasoned and sprinkled with melting Parmesan.

Now take the rest of your lunch and stick it around your waistline—

Zoe applauds. Then her tone turns conversational. “So are you here because you're anorexic? Or are you going to go upstairs and throw up the one bite you ate?”

“Zoe!” Katie exclaims. “You can't say things like that. It's in the rules. And it's not nice.”

“This isn't group. I can say whatever I want,” Zoe says. “Unless you wanna stop me? I'd like to see you try. How old are you, anyway? Eleven? Did you bring your teddy bear here with you?”

“I'm fourteen,” Katie says, reddening. “And no, Mr. Bear stayed home.”

Zoe cracks up. “Mr. Bear! I knew it!” She turns her attention back to me. “Eating disorder—yes or no? I'm living with you; I need to know what I'm dealing with. You show me yours, I'll show you mine.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

I'm chewing my second bite of spaghetti, trying to savor the rich tomato tang—and to look like all this is just rolling off my back. But Zoe is getting dangerously close to the thing I won't ever, ever, ever say, not to anyone, and it's
making my heart pound. “I don't have an eating disorder,” I tell her.

“Sure you do. I saw
Black Swan
.”

I stiffen. “Not every ballet dancer has an eating disorder.”

But you've thought about it. A lot. And what about those times you—

I take another bite, a bigger one. It probably counts as bites three
and
four. As I swallow, I imagine my nasty inner voice getting quieter and quieter, being choked and smothered by deliciousness. I think about covering the noise in my head with food. And then I think about how fat that would make me, and I have to put my fork down.

Omar has been watching the back-and-forth between me and Zoe like a Ping-Pong match. His eyes are wide and he's drumming his fingers on the table. “Please stop,” he says. “Dominic, make them stop.”

“Not my fight.” Dominic's leaning away from us, looking uncomfortable.

Zoe stares me down as I eat bites five and six.

This—
this—
is why I don't eat in front of people. I'm either eating too much or too little. I can't make anyone happy. No matter what I choose, I choose wrong.

Jenna finally breaks the silence. “If the two of you are done, I'd like to finish my lunch in peace.”

“Roger that, Michelle Kwan,” Zoe says.

“Michelle Kwan,” Jenna repeats, in a voice like dry ice. “Because I'm Asian. How original. Does that mean I can call you Venus or Serena?”

“Come on. I'm obviously Anna Kournikova.” Zoe tosses her braids like she's in a shampoo commercial. “So do you skate like Michelle Kwan, too? Isn't she the one who never won a gold medal?”

“Isn't Anna Kournikova a glorified underwear model?” Jenna shoots back.

“Hey—if you've got it, flaunt it.” Now Zoe strikes a model pose in her chair.

Jenna opens her mouth to say something more, but Zoe cuts her off.

“Seriously, do any of you have a sense of humor? Or did they forget to put that on the Crazy Camp packing list?”

“Crazy Camp?” Katie echoes.

“Yeah,” Zoe says, in a voice that screams
duh
. “As in, a summer camp for teenagers who are crazy.”

“We're not crazy,” Jenna argues.

“Ri-i-i-i-ight.” Zoe says, “Tell me more about how not-crazy you are.”

Instead of answering, Jenna picks up her plate and walks away.

A second later, Yasmin comes into the dining room with her plate and sits down in Jenna's empty chair. “Looked like a lively discussion over here!” she says. “Sorry I missed it. Dr. Lancaster was talking to me and Andrew in the kitchen. Who wants to tell me something they learned about one of their fellow campers during lunch?”

I expect Zoe to point an accusing finger at my plate.
Instead she says, with glee in her voice, “Katie still sleeps with a teddy bear.”

“I didn't say that!” Katie yelps. “He's, like, a good-luck charm. For meets.”

“Sure he is,” Zoe says.

“Anyone else?” Yasmin asks. “Sam?”

I'm saved from answering by Dr. Lancaster, who comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Sam, I have to whisk you away. We need to start our private session.”