How It Feels to Fly (6 page)

You're not Juliet. And you never will be.

DINNER IS WAY
more subdued than lunch. Other than Andrew and Dominic, who are debating college football coaching strategies at the end of the communal table, nobody seems to want to talk. Even Zoe is silent. She stabs at her food like it's the face of someone she hates, and when she catches me looking at her, she shoots me a glare that could melt glass.

I stare down at my grilled chicken and green beans and potatoes. I cut everything up into bite-sized pieces before starting to eat. I count the bites: fifteen cubes of chicken, thirty green beans, and six spoonfuls of mashed potatoes. Manageable. Especially with no one distracting me. I put the first bite in my mouth.

It's good. The potatoes are buttery and salty, and the chicken is tender. But when I'm about two-thirds of the way finished, I look up to see Dr. Lancaster watching me from the head of the table. She gives me an encouraging nod.

I take the next bite. I chew. Now it tastes like dirt.

We're supposed to have free time before lights-out, but no sooner do I sit down on the couch in the Dogwood Room with Katie to watch TV than Yasmin comes to find me. “Sam,” she says, touching my shoulder. “You have a phone call.”

I follow her to Dr. Lancaster's office and pick up the receiver that's been left on the desk. Yasmin steps outside, shutting the door behind her.

“Hello?” I say.

“Samantha?”

It's my mom. Even though she can't see me, I sit up straighter and suck in my stomach.

“I wanted to discuss your first day. How did it go?”

“Good. It was . . . good.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Um, things that make us anxious?” I say, keeping my voice light.

“Samantha. That was a serious question.”

“I know, Mom,” I say quickly. And I also know, now, what kind of mood Mom is in. She can be my biggest cheerleader and my biggest critic. Sometimes both in the same sentence. Since she started working at the ballet studio a few months ago, it's been more of the latter, but I was hoping today she'd cut me a little slack. “So far, it's been mostly introductory stuff. Getting to know each other, and Dr. Lancaster, and our peer advisers. Those are—”

She doesn't let me finish. “Do they have a plan to address your . . . issues?” Mom says
issues
like it's a dirty word. I can
practically hear her wrinkling her nose through the phone line.

“Dr. Lancaster says it's not one-size-fits-all. She wants to get to know me first.”

“Well, I hope she figures it out soon. You'll want to be at your best at the intensive. It's only three weeks away, you know.”

Right on cue, my stomach knots up. “I know, Mom.”

“Did you work out today?”

“Yeah, for about two hours this afternoon.”

It's not enough. It won't make a difference.

“Hmm,” Mom says. “What are they feeding you?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs for lunch. Chicken and vegetables for dinner.”

“
Meatballs
,” Mom says. Another dirty word. “Ask if they can make you a salad tomorrow.”

“Okay.” My knee is bouncing up and down. I put my hand on it to stop it.

“I know I can count on you to make good choices,” Mom says.

“I will. I promise.”

“This is just a bump in the road. You're still my beautiful ballerina.”

No, it isn't. And no, you're not.

I need to get off the phone. I'm a ball of electricity, shaking in my seat. But I can't tell her that. Especially not after she says, “I miss you already! The house feels so empty. I hate being by myself.”

So I pretend to yawn. “I miss you too, Mom. But I need to get ready for bed. It's been a really long day.” Understatement of the year.

“All right,” Mom says. “I'll speak to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I echo.

“Tomorrow,” she confirms. “Good night, Samantha.”

I sit there for a second after I hang up the phone. I love my mom. She cares about me and my future. I should want to talk to her every day, right?

I leave Dr. Lancaster's office, walk back down the hall, and sit next to Katie on the sofa. She glances at me and opens her mouth, but I must have a
Do Not Disturb
sign on my forehead, because in the end, she doesn't say a word.

I'M IN THE WINGS, TUCKED BEHIND A CURTAIN, staring out onto the brightly lit stage. It's
Nutcracker,
Act II—all gumdrops and sparkles. Clara is sitting on the Sugar Plum Fairy's throne. She claps her hands with delight as Mother Ginger's gingerbread children cartwheel and somersault in front of her. The music is building to a crescendo.

I roll through my feet, pressing over onto one pointe, then the other. I run my hands over the bodice of my costume, stopping at the delicate pink lace draped across my hips. I shake my head a few times to make sure my tiara is securely pinned in.

Onstage, Mother Ginger's children are bowing and curtseying.

The audience is clapping.

I'm next.

Bianca, still dressed in her tutu from the Spanish
variation, leans in close to wish me good luck: “
Merde
, Sam-a-lam-a!” From the opposite wing, my mom gives me a radiant smile and a thumbs-up.

In the moment of silence before the orchestra begins to play “Waltz of the Flowers,” I hear my pulse and my breath. Time slows down. Then the music starts.

I rise up onto my toes, let my arms float up like a breath.

I run onstage.

It's my last performance as the Dewdrop Fairy. I give it everything I have. I spin and soar through space. I feel free and effortless and perfect. For seven and a half minutes, nothing exists but the beautiful, magical
now
.

I pirouette into my final pose, with the corps de ballet fanned out around me. The applause is like thunder. It almost brings tears to my eyes. We move into a straight line. At center stage, I curtsy deep, touching my hand to my heart. I—

I wake up.

And then I do start crying, because I'm not onstage, after the performance of a lifetime. I'm
here
. The place my awful roommate won't stop calling Crazy Camp.

Zoe stirs in the bed across from me. The last thing I want to do is talk to her, so I jump up and gather my towel, my toiletries, and a sundress to change into after I shower. I slip silently down the dark hallway to the bathroom. It's empty; I'm safe. I step into the shower stall, leaving my pajamas on the floor. I turn the faucet. And then I stand there, with water running down my back and tears running down my face.

The joy I felt in my dream—the joy I felt onstage that night, back in December—I want to feel it again. I want that with every fiber of my being.

You won't get it back. You can't.

I pull myself together and finish washing up. I shut off the water. The bathroom is still empty, still quiet, so I'm able to dry off and get dressed in peace.

When I go downstairs to the kitchen, Andrew is standing in front of the open fridge. “Hi! You're up early.”

“So are you,” I say, climbing onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

“Ah, but I have a reason.” He gets out a massive fruit bowl and a cling-wrapped cookie sheet laden with unbaked cinnamon rolls.

Don't even think about it.

“I have to make breakfast for you guys.”

“Dr. Lancaster's really putting you to work, huh?”

“I don't mind. Believe it or not, I'm a morning person.”

I pretend to grimace. “Ugh.”

He laughs. “I know, right? But I like being up when the rest of the world is still sleeping. It's, I don't know, magical or something.”

“Magical,” I repeat, shaking my head. “To me, the only good thing about getting up early is having the bathroom to myself.”

“That is another perk,” he says. “Though I bet my morning routine is a lot more stripped-down than yours.” He sets the oven to preheat, then starts washing grapes in the sink,
dropping them one by one into a colander. “That's the great thing about being a guy.”

I laugh.

“Um, so about yesterday . . .” He keeps methodically separating grapes from their stems, but I can see his shoulders tense up. “I'm glad you told Dr. Lancaster what happened. And thanks for telling her I wanted to run and get her immediately.”

“I promised I would,” I say quietly.

“I know. But thanks anyway for following through. I want to be here. I'd hate to screw it up.” He tosses the stems in the garbage, swirls the grapes around in the colander one last time, and turns the faucet off. “And I'm sorry, again, for that whole thing. For not being more careful with you.” Now he turns to face me, putting the dripping colander on a paper towel on the counter.

“It's fine. I was . . .” I gulp. “I was a little bit of a basket case yesterday.”

“You seemed okay to me. Until . . .”

“Yeah, well.” That's what I do. I seem okay,
until
.

“Was it anything I did? Was it what I said on Sunday?”

I shake my head, even though that's not entirely true. “It's this whole thing. This place. I'm—I'm kind of a mess.”

Now it's Andrew's turn to shake his head. “Nope. I don't accept that.”

“You don't accept that I'm a mess?”

“I do not. In fact, I think you're pretty great.”

His words—and the sincere smile on his face—almost
knock me over. I have to grip the sides of the stool to stay upright. “Oh,” I say, my voice coming out weaker than I want it to. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You're welcome. And just so you know—” Andrew shuts his mouth abruptly as Dominic walks in. He's in plaid pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt, and his dark hair is sticking out in all directions.

“Hey,” he says, yawning. “I'm starving. What's for breakfast?”

Andrew snaps into action. “Cinnamon rolls—about to go in the oven. And there's fruit salad. Want to help? It'll be ready faster if you do.”

“I guess,” Dominic says. “What do you need?”

Andrew sets him up slicing strawberries. Then he looks over to me. “Can you help me out by peeling some clementines?”

I nod, and he pushes the bowl my way.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem.”

“Oh, and I should've asked earlier. Do you drink coffee? I made a pot.” He points at the coffeemaker.

“Sometimes.” The problem is, I like it light and sweet—and that's how the calories get in.

Andrew pulls a mug out of the cabinet. “I'll get you some. How do you take it?”

“Black.”

When he hands me the steaming mug, our fingers brush. The brief touch gives me goose bumps up and down
my arms. I take a sip of the black coffee, trying not to cringe at the bitter liquid as it hits my taste buds. Then I get to work on the clementines.

Andrew puts the pastries in the oven. Within minutes, the smell of cinnamon sugar is overwhelming. Intoxicating.

I lift a peeled clementine to my nose. I breathe in the bright citrus scent. I tell myself,
This
is what I want. Fresh fruit. Not butter and dough and icing. I pull off a segment and pop it into my mouth, biting down. The juice is sweet and tart.

I set the rest of the clementine aside on a paper towel. Every time the cinnamon roll smell threatens to overwhelm me, I eat another segment.

And bite by bite, I make it through the next hour.

THE MORNING'S GROUP
session is about anxiety triggers and symptoms. Dr. Lancaster has us call out how we feel in stressful situations. She writes down our ideas on the big whiteboard that appeared in the Dogwood Room overnight.

“I can't breathe,” Katie says. “And my heart beats so hard.”

“I get dizzy,” Omar adds.

“Upset stomach,” Jenna says primly.

After a long pause, Dominic says, “
If
I get really freaked out—and I'm not saying I ever do, but, like, hypothetically—my palms get all sweaty. I can't grip the ball.” He slouches in his seat and repeats, “Hypothetically.”

“Good,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Anyone else?”

“The voice in my head gets really loud,” I murmur.

Dr. Lancaster writes
Negative self-talk
on the whiteboard. “Zoe?”

“Like I told you yesterday,” Zoe says, looking bored, “I don't have a problem with anxiety. Psychoanalyze me all you want. You won't get anywhere.”

Dr. Lancaster nods. “Okay then.” She starts talking about how when we experience those initial symptoms, we can anticipate the anxiety taking over. And using the techniques we're going to explore while we're here, we can defuse the tension and prepare to compete or perform more effectively.

I lean forward in my seat, paying close attention. If my mom quizzes me about this tonight, I want to have something to tell her. Never mind how much my life would change if the techniques Dr. Lancaster is talking about actually work.

They won't work. Nothing will work. You're stuck like this—

I raise my hand. “When will we start practicing?”

“Practicing what, Sam?”

I list off a few of the things she mentioned. “Breathing. Mantras. Redirecting our nervous energy. All of it.”

“Every day that you're here, you'll be picking up new tactics to battle your anxiety. To become a stronger you.”

A stronger you. Ha! Every day that you're here, you're getting weaker. Softer. Fatter—

“What are we learning today?” I ask, talking over the voice in my head.

“We're going to do another activity that might help you
express what you're feeling, in the event that talking about it is too hard. Have you ever heard the expression ‘A picture is worth a thousand words'?”

“Obviously,” Zoe grumbles. “We're not idiots.”

Dr. Lancaster ignores her. “You'll have the next hour to create a collage that represents a situation that makes you anxious. Yasmin has turned the dining room into an art room for you, complete with scissors, glue, magazines, and more.”

Now Zoe bursts out laughing. “It's arts-and-crafts time at Crazy Camp!” Then she stops laughing, turning her face into a mask of concern. “Are you sure we're allowed to have scissors? Isn't that . . . dangerous?”

“Zoe,” Dr. Lancaster says sharply. “What did we discuss yesterday?”

“I know, I know: don't make fun of the process,” Zoe singsongs.

In the dining room, we spread out, grabbing magazines and other supplies. Katie sits down next to me, and we both start flipping glossy pages.

Jenna pulls out a chair across from us. “Sam?”

I tense up but keep my expression calm and pleasant. “Yes, Jenna?”

“I'd be interested in doing a ballet barre with you later. If you don't mind.”

“Even though you're not here to make friends?” I say, surprising myself—and Katie, who lets out a little squeak.

Jenna gives me an appraising look. “Yes.”

I have to exercise anyway. But I can play it just as cool as she is. “Find me after your session with Dr. Lancaster.”

“Okay. I will.”

I turn back to Katie. “What are you going to make?”

She's already cutting out a long strip of brown construction paper. “A balance beam, of course. How about you?”

“I don't know yet.” I flip page after page, looking for inspiration. And then I reach a perfume ad where the model seems to be staring right at me. Through me. Into me. I stare back, an idea forming. I cut out her eyes and put them off to the side.

The hour of cutting and pasting passes in a flash. When Andrew touches me on the shoulder to give me a five-minute warning, I startle, as if I'm waking up.

“That's really interesting.” He's staring down at my collage.

I study what I've made. There's a single small figure, in silhouette, floating in a sea of eyes. Blue eyes and green eyes and brown eyes. All shapes and sizes. It's . . . weird. Uncomfortable to look at for too long.

“Is interesting good?” I ask, smiling like I don't care one bit. Like his opinion doesn't matter. Like his presence behind me isn't enough to throw me for a loop, after what he said to me this morning about thinking I'm pretty great.

“Yeah. I can't wait to hear more about it.”

“Andrew? A little help?” Yasmin calls from the other
side of the room, where she's trying to peel off several pages that have been glued to the dining table.

Zoe looks pleased with herself. “You didn't say I had to make my collage on
paper
,” she drawls. “I was just expressing my feelings.”

“If this damages the wood,” Yasmin says, “Dr. Lancaster may have to call your parents.”

“Do it,” Zoe growls, eyes flashing. “Call 'em.”

Dr. Lancaster walks in, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Time to— Oh, Zoe.” Her face drops in disappointment. “Everyone, please take your collages to the Dogwood Room.”

“My collage can't be moved,” Zoe says grandly. “Does that mean I get to skip the next session?”

“No.” Dr. Lancaster leans in close to the table, picking at one of the glued-on pages. “Yasmin, Andrew, can you take care of this?”

They nod.

“Zoe?” Dr. Lancaster steps to the side, extending her arm. Zoe stares her down. Dr. Lancaster doesn't budge. And finally, with an exaggerated sigh, Zoe trudges out of the room. The rest of us follow.

“Do you think she'll get sent home?” Katie whispers to me, once we're back seated in our folding-chair circle.

“On the second day? She'll probably get a warning or something.”

I look over at Zoe. Dr. Lancaster is speaking to her in a low voice. Zoe rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she says.

Dr. Lancaster addresses all of us. “Zoe would like to say something.”

“Would I?”

“Yes, Zoe, you would.”

“Oh, fine. I'm sorry for disrupting arts and crafts. I won't do it again.”

She doesn't sound sorry. She sounds like she's plotting her next attack.

But Dr. Lancaster says mildly, “Thank you, Zoe. I know it can be difficult to adapt to being here, even if you came by choice—”