How It Feels to Fly (9 page)

“Would you like to lie down until the group comes back from the lake?”

“Yes, please.” I get to my feet. Stumble to the door. I pause in the doorway. “I'm sorry I yelled at you.”

“Don't be sorry, Sam. I'm happy you yelled. You needed to yell.”

“I guess.”

“You can even yell again, if there's more to yell about.”
Dr. Lancaster smiles. “I'll wake you up for lunch, okay?”

“There isn't any way I can . . . eat in my room?”

“I'm afraid not. But it won't be as bad as you think.”

It will be exactly as bad as I think. I know it. But I just say, “All right.” I'm too worn out to fight.

I SLEEP, DEEP AND DREAMLESS. I WAKE UP WITH matted hair and pillow folds etched into my face. I sit up. Stretch. Yawn.

I don't feel much better than I did before. I'm no longer so exhausted that I can barely stand, but the anxiety is still buzzing away in my belly. There's only one reliable cure.

I spend the next twenty minutes doing a series of relevés, using the closet door for balance. I lift my heels high and lower them to the floor, with control, twenty times each in first, second, fourth, and fifth positions. Then I do twenty relevés on each leg, with the other foot lifted in coupé. I finish with an extended balance on each foot, trying to distill my focus down to a pinpoint on the closet door in front of me.

By the time I'm done, my calves are burning. I have to pace back and forth between the two beds to loosen the
muscles up again. But my pulse and my breath are calm. The repetitive up, down, up, down of the movement did its job.

I still don't want to go downstairs. I'm afraid of what's waiting for me.

Stares. Whispers.

I've been here before: my first day back at my dance studio after my
Paquita
panic attack. I walked into the room and everyone went silent. I thought that was something that only happened in movies until it happened to me. Then Miss Elise came in, clapped her hands, and cued the accompanist to begin playing our plié music. Bianca stood next to me at the barre, but everyone else gave me a wide berth. Like they thought anxiety was contagious.

And how much worse will it be here, where all of us are battling the same demons? I now represent everything Katie and Jenna and Dominic and Omar and maybe even Zoe don't want to be: a weak, sobbing failure.

But when Dr. Lancaster comes to get me, I go with her. I get a small scoop of pasta salad. I walk into the dining room, plate in hand, and brace myself. I dig my feet into the floor and clench my muscles, like I'm preparing for a tidal wave to hit me.

The only thing that hits me is Katie. She barrels into me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I'm so glad you're okay!”

I stagger back a step, trying not to drop my meal. “Yeah, I'm okay.”

Not a chance—

“I didn't know what to do. I froze. I'm so sorry. But then Jenna jumped in, and . . .” Katie finally lets go of me.

Jenna's standing a few feet away. “Are you all right?” she asks, her tone formal.

“Yeah. Thanks for . . .” I fade out, still not sure exactly what she did. All I know is that when I came back to myself, she was hugging me. The last person I'd expect to be doing that, aside from Zoe.

“No problem.” Jenna smooths back a lock of her hair, turns, and walks away.

Katie keeps talking. “Jenna knew just what to do. Dr. Lancaster was still walking over from the house, and Zoe went running to get her, and then the guys got out of the water, and Andrew was ready to carry you, but Jenna waved him off and, like, cocooned you, and . . . it was intense.”

I manage a weak smile. “It was intense for me, too.”

Katie blushes. “Right. I didn't mean—I'm sorry, we don't have to talk about it.”

“Thanks.” I follow Katie over to the dining table and sit down across from Omar and Dominic. Omar gawks at me, then shuts his mouth so fast that it makes a snapping noise. Dominic is staring at his food like it's the most fascinating thing in the room.

“Look who it is!” Zoe calls out. She's sitting way off to the side with Yasmin, like she's in time-out. “Feel better, Sleeping Beauty?”

“I'm fine,” I say automatically. I spear three elbow macaroni and a cherry tomato and pop the bite into my
mouth. Delicious. But I don't think I can stomach any more. Not when I'm the center of attention like this. I start counting the pieces of pasta and veggies on my plate. Moving items from one pile to another. Separating out the little feta cheese cubes.

“Are we going to talk about what happened?” Zoe says into the awkward silence.

Dr. Lancaster sits down at the table. “It's up to Sam.” I'm glad she said that, but I also kind of wish she hadn't, because now I feel even more in the spotlight.

Everyone looks at me.

“Um,” I say.

“Come on,” Zoe groans. “You can't seriously expect us to focus on anything else right now.” She says, slowly and distinctly, “Sam, just say you're anorexic, or whatever, and we'll move on with our lives—”

“Zoe!” Dr. Lancaster says.

Zoe doesn't even pause. “Is it really that big a deal? So you don't like how you look. You and every other teenaged girl on the planet—”

Dr. Lancaster pushes her chair back. “My office. Now.”

“Make me.” Zoe grips the seat of her chair like Dr. Lancaster might try to forcibly remove her.

“Okay,” Dr. Lancaster says. “You can stay right where you are. Andrew, Yasmin, would you mind taking the rest of the campers outside to finish lunch on the back porch?”

We all get up fast, collecting our plates and cups. The last thing I hear as I leave is Zoe's unrepentant voice: “You
said we're supposed to be opening up to each other about our issues. I'm just trying to speed up the process—”

Andrew holds the door open for me. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I sit on the steps next to Katie. Andrew sits on my other side. “I'm not gonna freak out again.” I say that part louder, so everyone on the porch can hear.

We eat in silence. And I feel the silent seconds tick by. It's like they're landing on me. Each moment stings.

I want the stinging to stop.

So I finally blurt, “I have panic attacks. The whole thing about people looking at me, that collage I made yesterday—it's about my body. I gained some weight recently, and I'm . . . I'm . . .” I should have planned out what I was going to say. It would have sounded better than this. But now that I've started, I can't stop. “I'm having a hard time dealing with it. How I look now. So, um, that's what that was about.”

Andrew gives my shoulder an encouraging nudge. I sneak a glance his way and he's smiling. “Good job,” he says under his breath.

I exhale, hard.

And I wait for someone else to say something.

To my surprise, Dominic's the first one to speak. “Man, Zoe's gonna be mad she missed your big confession.” I can't tell if he's serious, or joking, or making fun of me until he adds, “That girl needs an attitude adjustment.”

Jenna blinks up at him. “An attitude adjustment? How old are you again?”

Dominic laughs. “That's what Coach calls it. He basically
means you're about to have to do stadium sprints.”

“I don't think working out would help her,” Katie says, sounding uncharacteristically sour. “She's just . . . awful.”

“Well, yeah,” Dominic says, “but honestly, you need to not give her so much attention. If you quit egging her on, she might stop doing what she's doing.”

“How do you know she'll stop?” Omar asks.

“It's just a guess.” Dominic shrugs. “But I have five little brothers and sisters. I know when someone wants attention.”

“So why can't she get our attention by being nice?” Katie asks.

“I didn't say she wanted
our
attention.”

“She's going to get kicked out,” Omar says.

“Maybe that's what she wants,” Dominic answers. “Maybe she doesn't want to be here.”

“You don't want to be here, either,” Katie says. “You told me yourself.”

“Yeah, but I know when I need something. And I need to be here. I'm . . .” He sighs. “I'm stupid-anxious, and it's gonna mess up a lot of things for me. So do I want to be here? No. Am I gonna tough it out? Yeah. Because that's what you do when you need something.”

“Ditto,” Jenna says. She and Dominic share a look. She gives him a brittle smile.

“Do any of us really want to be here?” Omar asks. He puts a finger beside his nose. “Not it.”

“You might feel that way now,” Yasmin says, “but I
promise, by the time you leave, you'll be so grateful. . . .”

I can't believe they're not obsessing about my panic attack. I don't know whether they're trying to respect my feelings and my privacy, or if Zoe's just a more interesting topic of discussion. But I don't mind. I'm happy to be in the background. I manage to swallow a few more vegetables before Dr. Lancaster summons Yasmin. They chat just inside the doorway, and then Yasmin comes back out onto the porch.

“Change of plans for this afternoon,” she says. “Until Dr. Lancaster is done talking to Zoe, you're supposed to each work on an aspirational collage.”

“A what?” Omar asks. “How am I supposed to do it the right way if I don't know what that word means?”

“A collage that represents an ideal day doing your activity,” Yasmin says, smiling at him. “Whatever that means to you. There's no one answer, Omar, so you don't have to worry about getting it ‘right.'” She makes air quotes. “You'll talk about your image with Dr. Lancaster in your one-on-one later. Dominic, can you help me get the supplies?”

“Sure,” he says, getting up. “I know you need a big strong guy to carry it all.”

Yasmin laughs. “Yeah, that's totally it, hotshot.”

“Lucky I'm here to come to your rescue.” Dominic follows her inside.

“I'll help too!” Omar jumps to his feet and runs after Dominic. Something about it—their size difference, Dominic's swagger versus Omar's eagerness—makes Omar
look like a puppy chasing a German shepherd.

“Arts and crafts again,” Jenna says, sounding disappointed. She smooths her ponytail and then gets to her feet, brushing invisible crumbs from her shorts.

I think about what Dominic said about toughing it out. “Whatever works, right?”

“Right,” Katie says firmly.

I SPEND THE
afternoon making a ballerina out of weightless things. Ethereal and graceful things. Floating and soaring and spinning things.

I start with a picture of a dancer in arabesque—a lucky find in an entertainment magazine article about a new TV show with a ballerina main character. But she's just my template. I cover her body with photos that represent everything beautiful about ballet. Her torso and arms are made of water and bubbles and clouds. Her feet and ankles become tree roots. Her calves and shins are blades of grass bending in the breeze. Her chest is a dandelion puff. Her fingers are rays of light, shining out.

“Wow,” Yasmin says when she sees. “That's gorgeous, Sam.”

I actually agree. And so does Dr. Lancaster, when I show it to her.

“This is what you want to be?” she asks. “Your perfect dancer?”

“Yeah. She's light, but grounded. She moves like water, like a reed, like the wind. She shines onstage. . . .” I realize
I'm doing it again, the thing that made Zoe laugh at me during our first group session, when I said dancing the Dewdrop Fairy made me feel light and sparkling. But Zoe isn't here now. It's just me and Dr. Lancaster.

“Do you feel like this collage represents you, at your best?”

“I—yes? No. Sometimes.” I chew on my lip. “I guess I might
move
this way, but I don't
look
this way.”

That's it in a nutshell—and it's the thing I can't seem to change.

AFTER MY SESSION WITH DR. LANCASTER, I HEAD upstairs to my bedroom. My plan is to work out more. The twenty minutes of relevés I squeezed in earlier aren't going to cut it. Not in terms of my fitness goals, and not in terms of shaking off the residue from my panic attack earlier.

But when I swing the door open, I hear: “Go away.”

Zoe's curled up in a lump on her bed. She's under the covers, just the top of her head poking out.

“It's my room too,” I tell her.

“Go away!” she shouts.

“No!” I shout back, surprising myself.

I think about everything she said to me at lunch. Everything she's said to me since I got here. Then I think about what Dominic said: we have to quit giving Zoe attention. So although I could yell at her more—I probably have every right to, and it might feel good—I don't.

I crouch next to my suitcase and start folding the clothes I dumped on the floor during this morning's marathon what-am-I-going-to-wear session. Every day I do this. Rumple the clothes in the morning, fold them back up later. I know I could fold them again right away, but I kind of like waiting until it's a big project. I like restoring order to the mess I've made.

I've just tucked the last tank top back into my suitcase when Zoe says quietly, “They said no.”

I glance at the door to our bedroom. I could just walk out. There's no reason for me to talk to Zoe.

But then she repeats, even softer, like she can't believe it: “They said no.”

I lean back against my bed. I ask, even though I'm not sure I should, “Who?”

“My parents.”

“What did they say no to?”

“Coming to get me.”

“So you
were
trying to get sent home?” I know I sound skeptical. But I'm not ready to give her the benefit of the doubt.

She sits up, eyes blazing. “I'm not like you. Don't think for a second that I'm anything like you!”

I keep my voice calm, even though my pulse has quickened. “Not like me how?”

“I shouldn't be here. This is all wrong.”

“You said you chose to come here.”

“I made a mistake.” She flops down in the bed and pulls the covers over her head.

“Um, okay.” I pick up my workout clothes and get to my feet.

Zoe doesn't speak again until I'm at the door. “I lied,” she says, her voice muffled by the blankets. “I wanted to quit tennis, so I lied and told my parents it was giving me panic attacks. I thought it was a great plan. But they went online and found this place.”

I pause with my hand on the knob. “But you still had to agree to come here.”

“Like I said yesterday. I had a choice: here, or elite tennis camp. I thought if I came here but got kicked out, oops, it's too late to sign up for tennis camp. But—my parents—they won't—” Her voice cracks. “My dad told me to ‘straighten up and fly right.' Like he's some 1950s sitcom parent. My mom wouldn't even come to the phone. She couldn't be bothered to talk to me. They don't listen.” She takes a ragged breath. “They never listen.”

I think about my own mom. I only tried to tell her once how bad I was feeling. The rest of the time, I worked so hard not to let her see. Because she didn't need to see that. She was finally acting like herself again after splitting from my dad two years ago.

When Dad first filed for divorce, I was Mom's lifeline. My dancing made her happy when nothing else could. And when the curvy genes on Dad's side of the family finally caught up with me, I became more than her lifeline. I turned into her project.

I didn't mind. I don't mind.

But there was one night in late March, about three weeks before our spring show, when I thought I was finished. I couldn't handle it anymore. Mom had reserved the small downstairs studio for a private coaching session, just the two of us. She'd brought a list of technique issues she wanted to address. My extensions could be higher. I was sickling my feet when I pointed really hard. My shoulders were lifting in my pirouettes. I was holding too much tension in my hands.

“I'm tired, Mom,” I told her when she wanted me to repeat an exercise for the fourth time. Really, what I was feeling wasn't exhaustion. It was pinpricks all over my skin and a sick swirling in my stomach and tightness in my chest. By that point, I knew where those sensations could lead. And I didn't want to break down in front of her.

“You're not too tired to do the exercise correctly.”

“Mom, I—” I walked over to lean on the wall-mounted barre, resting my head in my hands. “I don't think this is good for me.” That was the only way I could say it. It was the most honest I was able to be. And she didn't hear me.

“What was that?”

“I don't think . . .” I couldn't get it out a second time. “Never mind.” I walked back to the center of the studio. I did the exercise again, trying to incorporate all her feedback, trembling with the effort and barely keeping the tears in.

When I was through, I looked at Mom. She was standing by the stereo. Hands clasped in front of her heart. Eyes
moist. Sad smile dancing on her lips. “That was beautiful,” she said.

The weight lifted a little. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. If we can get rid of those pesky extra pounds, you'll be unstoppable.”

And the heaviness settled back in. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I told her.

“Go ahead and get changed. I'll wait for you upstairs. We have to go to the store on the way home, so don't dawdle.”

I nodded and went to my favorite toilet stall. The one where I ate my lunch and snacks on long rehearsal days. The one where I found my breath when I'd lost it. The one where I cried hot, silent tears. I didn't do any of that that night. I sat on the closed toilet lid, pulling my knees up to my chin and wrapping my arms around my legs. I stared at the peeling gray paint on the stall door. I practiced my smile.

I had to make it home, to my own bedroom, before I could let go.

Now I look at Zoe balled up on her bed. I could tell her about my mom. She might get it. “Zoe—”

“Didn't I tell you to go away?” she says from under her blanket. “I want to be alone. Don't you have a twinkle or a toe touch to do somewhere? Anywhere that isn't around me?”

I leave without saying good-bye.

AFTER DINNER, I'M
sitting on the back porch, watching the sun set over the mountains, when Andrew sits down next to me.

“How's it going?” he asks.

“I'm fine.”

My inner voice doesn't even have to chime in. We both know I'm not fine. It's no longer a secret.

“Maybe it has to feel worse before it feels better?”

“I hope it doesn't feel much worse than this.” As soon as I say it, my eyes fill up. Because of course it can feel worse.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Since talking to Zoe, I haven't been able to stop thinking about my mom. If some of why Zoe is so obnoxious is because of how her parents treat her, does some of my anxiety come from my mom? Obviously, there have been times she's made me anxious—but she's not the reason for it, right? My anxiety's on me. Because it's my body that betrayed me.

“When you were here, did you and Dr. Lancaster talk about your dad?” I ask Andrew.

“It's one of the things we talked about.”

“How he put pressure on you, and it made you anxious?”

“Yeah. But it wasn't just about him. I'm a people pleaser. I don't ever want to let anyone down. In high school, that was my dad, my coach, my teammates, my school—even my hometown.”

“You really felt like you'd let your entire town down if you didn't play well?”

“I was the star of the team. Regional MVP. I was on the front page of the local sports section just about every Saturday morning.” He says that last part with a snort of self-deprecating laughter, and I can't help but laugh with him.

“I get it. You were kind of a big deal.”

“I was.” He pauses. “But I never loved football as much as my dad loved it.”

“Oh.” Now it's my turn to pause. “I love ballet as much as my mom loved it.”

Andrew lets a few seconds go by. “Are you telling me that, like a fact, or are you trying to convince yourself?”

“I'm telling you,” I say firmly. “I love ballet.”

“Good. I think you have to love something if you're gonna make sacrifices for it.”

Sacrifices. My stomach rumbles.

I'm starving right now. I had a clementine for breakfast, a few forkfuls of elbow macaroni and raw veggies for lunch, and half a turkey burger and five asparagus spears for dinner. I could totally have a snack without going over my calorie limit. But it's 8:17 p.m. Not eating after eight o'clock is one of my biggest rules, ever since I read that article online about how the time of day you eat is almost as important as what you eat when it comes to losing weight.

Plus, Katie, Yasmin, and Omar are baking cookies. I couldn't go into the kitchen even if it was 7:59. Cookies are too tempting. Better to stay away.

“Just make sure you're not sacrificing your happiness,” Andrew continues.

“I'm not. Why would you say that?” I look at him out of the corner of my eye.

“Caring about something can make you do things you shouldn't.”

I gasp and then try to hide the fact that I gasped by coughing.

He knows. How could he possibly know about that—

It's obvious. You're not hiding anything—

He pats my back, between my shoulder blades, like he's trying to dislodge whatever's choking me. “Anyway,” he says, “I'm sorry today was rough.”

I gulp. I breathe.

He doesn't know. No one does.

“I brought you something. Thought it might cheer you up.”

He holds out a single Hershey's Kiss, flat on his palm. Its little flag waves in the evening breeze. “It's dark chocolate. That means it's healthy, right?”

I laugh, even as my eyes threaten to overflow. “That's what the chocolate industry wants you to think.”

“No, there are studies about it. It's . . . science,” he finishes, laughing with me.

“Oh, well if it's
science
.” I take the candy from him. I haven't had chocolate in . . . I don't know how long. Mom won't let it in the house. I swear, if I ate some in secret, even here, she could smell it on me. But I don't want to say no to Andrew.

Instead I say, “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” He stands. “I have to get back inside. I promised Dominic I'd talk to him about what college scouts are really looking for. He wanted to watch ESPN with me, but Dr. Lancaster has it blocked, since it might trigger your anxiety.”

“Not mine,” I say, my voice deliberately dry. “Bring on the college football.”

He laughs, softer this time. He squeezes my shoulder. “Don't stay out here alone too long, okay?” He walks away, leaving me with the chocolate in my hand and a hummingbird in my chest.

Marcus used to bring me gifts.

Little things. Inexpensive—and sometimes downright cheap. But always personal. Meaningful. About me, or about him, or about
us
.

A flower from the park where we'd shared a picnic at a free outdoor concert—our first official date. He'd tried to dry the flower and press it flat, but it had ended up kind of shriveled and brown. I loved it anyway.

A Pacific Northwest Ballet refrigerator magnet, from when his family went on a trip to Seattle over fall break. He said since he couldn't take me to see the company, he'd bring a little bit of the company to me.

A tiny Erlenmeyer flask on a key chain. Marcus was in our school's science club and spent hours helping me with my chemistry homework before final semester exams.

A homemade gift certificate for unlimited concession-stand popcorn at his baseball games in the spring. I never
used that one, but I kept the certificate folded in my wallet. I liked imagining him on his computer, picking out just the right fonts.

Marcus wasn't perfect. It bugged him that I had to spend so much time at the ballet studio, that I couldn't go out with him and his friends and their girlfriends every Saturday. And he didn't always know what to say to me, especially when I saw him after something bad had happened at ballet. Comforting words weren't his thing. But then I'd get a trinket in my locker, or tucked into the front pocket of my backpack, and I'd know he was there for me.

I study the Hershey's Kiss Andrew gave me. I turn it over and over in my hands.

It reminds me of Marcus, and that hurts. But it also feels like the start of something new.

I tuck the Kiss into my pocket as the last rays of sunshine fade.