How It Feels to Fly (12 page)

“I don't want things to change between us.”

They already have. You know that. Bianca knows that.

“If she's your friend, she'll—”

“I don't want to tell her, okay? It's embarrassing. It's bad enough that I look the way I look, but . . . the fact that I'm having panic attacks about it?”

“Has Bianca ever seen you have a panic attack?”

I scowl. “Yeah. The, um—the same one everyone else saw.”

“Ah. And how did she respond?”

“She was . . . pretty great, actually.” I mutter that last part, irritated at having been called out. “But it's still my choice who I tell about what's going on inside my head.”

Dr. Lancaster nods. “It is. But when you go home, you're going to want to surround yourself with a strong support system. I'm trying to get you to think about who those people are, in your daily life. What about your teacher?”

“Miss Elise? What about her?”

“She seems quite invested in you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She recommended that you come here, right?”

I nod.

“And based on the story you just read me, she was willing to have a new costume custom-made for you, despite the expense.”

“None of the others fit me. She didn't have a choice.”

“There's always a choice, Sam.”

Realization hits me like a brick. Miss Elise could have
given someone else my solo. She didn't have to feature me—especially when featuring me was costing the studio money.

“Oh,” I say.

“What about your mom? Did you tell her that the costume fitting made you upset?”

“No. I told her everything went well.”

Dr. Lancaster opens her mouth, but I speak before she can.

“Mom and I don't talk about that sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

I don't have an answer. Or maybe I have too many answers, and I can't pick one.

I leave Dr. Lancaster's office thinking about my support system. Have I been hurting myself by hiding from Bianca how much I'm hurting? Has Miss Elise been on my side all along? Would my mom understand what I've been feeling if I broke down and told her?

Maybe I should.

But I don't call home that night.

I tell myself it's because I'm busy. First, Jenna and I have to do a ballet barre. Then we have an hour for dinner, and then we all decide to watch a movie in the Dogwood Room before bed. Even Dr. Lancaster joins us. I'm technically free to go make a phone call, but the night feels too normal—like we're just hanging out—to spoil it.

I'm sitting on the couch between Katie and Andrew. And maybe I'm a few millimeters closer to him than to her, or maybe I'm imagining it. The space between our arms and our legs feels magnetic. But Andrew doesn't look my way.
Not once. In fact, he and Zoe keep shouting about what's going to happen next—which redshirt is going to die, whatever that means.

I don't know how I feel about Andrew joking around with Zoe. She's acting like a human being, and if it's his influence that's doing it, that's a good thing. But I want him to be joking around with me. Flirting, like on the ropes course. Staring at me like I'm the only person that matters, like last night.

You like him.

No, I don't.

Yes, you do.

I lose track of the plot. Which alien ships belong to the good guys and which ones we're trying to blow up. I fidget in my seat, moving a fraction of an inch closer to Andrew. Our hips bump, and he finally looks in my direction.

“Hey. You like the movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. This is one of my favorites.” He grins and turns back to the TV just as a starship explodes in a shimmer of light.

This is a bad idea, and you know it. The last thing you need is to fall for someone who's so far out of your league. He'll hurt you, just like Marcus hurt you—

That's what shuts up my inner voice.

Whatever's going on between us, I honestly don't think Andrew will hurt me.

WE START FRIDAY MORNING OFF WITH A GROUP yoga class, which should make me feel great. I like yoga. I'm good at it. And burning calories before lunch is a total win. But as I move from downward-facing dog into plank pose, lower myself to the floor, and arch my back into upward-facing dog, I can't quiet my mind.

I'm thinking about talking to Dr. Lancaster about my mom.

I'm thinking about Andrew. Why I can't shake the feeling that he likes me back.

I'm thinking about Marcus, and how I shouldn't be falling for Andrew right after Marcus dumped me.

And I'm thinking about my body. Always and forever my body.

Your hips and thighs look enormous in these leggings
, my inner voice taunts me as I return to downward-facing dog.
When
you're upside down like this, your top rides up, and your stomach hangs out. Look at all that fat!
We hop our feet into forward bend, and I try to surreptitiously pull my leggings up and my shirt down.
Too late.
I close my eyes and I roll up to standing, hands in a prayer gesture in front of my chest.

If I keep my eyes closed, I won't have to see the looks on all their faces.

Yasmin opened our session by sharing her journey from yoga newbie to fully certified instructor. Then she led us in thirty minutes of breathing exercises, to help us learn how to regulate our breath when the anxiety comes. We breathed lying on our backs with our hands on our stomachs. We breathed folded into child's pose, foreheads pressed to the floor. We breathed sitting cross-legged and we breathed standing like we are now. It was nice. Soothing.

But now, in motion, I can't get that calm back.

We start another Sun Salutation. I bend forward and then jump my feet into downward-facing dog. I drop my head and look through my legs. Andrew is sitting behind me. I try to follow the line of his eyes. It's hard to tell upside down, but I think he's looking at Yasmin. Petite, gorgeous Yasmin, whose perfect makeup and blown-out waves and toned body look straight out of a fitness-wear ad. Of course he's staring at her. I huff in frustration, blowing a stray hair out of my eyes. I watch Yasmin help Omar transition from downward-facing dog into a long lunge. She lunges forward with him. She's almost as flexible as I am. And she looks way better in spandex.

I bring my right foot forward into a runner's stretch, feeling my left hip flexor lengthen. I flatten my spine. Lift my chest. I glance back at Andrew a second time.

Now he's looking at me. He smiles.

I turn away fast. I wish I hadn't seen him looking. I'm glad I did.

I sneak another peek. Now he's looking toward Yasmin again. Or maybe at Jenna.

It makes me think about when Marcus stopped by the ballet studio to pick me up after a Saturday rehearsal, back in April—about a week and a half before spring show. I came up from the dressing room to find him chatting with Lauren and Tabitha and Becca. They were kind of fawning over him. He didn't look like he minded. And when Tabitha turned away, I swear he checked out her butt.

The stab I felt then—the utter certainty that Marcus found those other girls so much more attractive than he found the new, not-so-skinny me—I feel it now, with Andrew.

“Step back into downward-facing dog, and then roll forward into plank,” Yasmin intones. “Drop your knees, chest, and chin to the mat, keeping your heart open. . . .”

I lower into the pose, trying not to think about whether Andrew is looking at me right this second, or about whether Marcus liked me less after I gained weight. I focus on arching my back. I feel my abs stretch.

Then I hear a wolf whistle. “Lookin' good, Ballerina Barbie! Show off that butt!”

I flatten myself to the floor. A split second later, I'm standing, and I'm angry. “No!” I say loudly, just a note below a shout. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Lancaster coming toward me and Zoe. I know I should let her handle this, but I can't stop. “No more!”

“No more what?” Zoe looks amused by my outburst.

Her twitching lips only make me madder. “You can't say things like that to me. To any of us. You have to stop.”

“Jeez, Ballerina Barbie, it was a compliment. Hand to God.”

Dr. Lancaster crouches down between the yoga mats. “Up, Zoe.”

“Come on. I was doing her a favor, letting her know everyone's staring at her butt.” Zoe looks at me, amusement turning to annoyance. “I said your butt looked
good
. What is your problem?”

“Up,” Dr. Lancaster repeats. And something in her tone, in her eyes, makes Zoe actually do it. I watch them leave the room, and then I deflate. I look around. My stomach begins to churn.

Everyone's staring at you
.

If they weren't looking at your butt before, they are now.

You have to get out of here.

“Sam,” Katie starts, sounding impressed. “That was—”

I don't wait for her to finish. I run for the door.

HERE'S WHAT HAPPENED
at the end of April.

It was opening night for our spring show. I was
excited—but more than that, I was nervous. I couldn't stop thinking about the audience watching me dance. Or really, watching my new, heavier, curvier body dance. Most of them were probably at
Nutcracker
. They'd seen me as Dewdrop. Would they recognize me now? Did I even look like the same person?

I didn't feel like the same person.

After a jittery warm-up onstage, I headed back to the soloists' dressing room to finish getting ready. I styled my hair into a braided bun. I pinned my
Paquita
headpiece into place. I did my stage makeup: thick black eyeliner, fake lashes, rosy cheeks, red lips. The ritual of it all started to make me feel better. More prepared. More normal.

And then I tried to put on my tutu.

Something was wrong. The leg holes were too tight; the elastic cut into my thighs. The basque wouldn't fasten around my hips. The bodice was inches from closing.

I saw my reflection. My worst nightmare had happened overnight.

You are too fat for your costume.

I staggered forward, leaned against the counter, tried to catch my breath. The tutu flapped open at my back, but I felt like I was being squeezed from the inside. My heart was in my clenched fist. I discovered that I was crying when I looked up and saw makeup streaking down my face. I sat down on the floor. Fell, really.

That was when Lauren came into the dressing room and asked, “Um, why are you wearing my tutu?” That was her
question, before: “Are you okay?”

I was not okay. I was shaking and sobbing and wheezing and scratching at my skin like after a decade of dancing, I'd suddenly become allergic to tulle and sequins. My chest felt like it was going to explode. I genuinely thought I was dying.

Lauren's shouts brought all the other girls running. Bianca pushed through the crowd, saw me, and pushed back out into the hallway. She returned with Miss Elise and my mom, who was assisting backstage. Miss Elise helped me stand. She guided me out of Lauren's tutu and back into my sweats. She unlaced my pointe shoes. She wiped the smeared makeup from my face.

My mom watched all this happen, stunned into silence. Eventually Miss Elise ushered her outside. Asked her to check on the rest of the cast. To report back when it was ten minutes to curtain. My mom left.

Miss Elise sat with me. She got me to talk.

And I ended up here.

That panic attack led to this moment—to me sitting on the girls' bathroom floor, back against the wall, crying because my mean roommate paid me a sarcastic compliment, and I can no longer tell when people are laughing at me and when they're being serious, or even nice.

This is what I've become.

You're pathetic.

Realizing how pathetic I am just makes me cry harder.

There's a knock at the door. I don't answer. Another knock.

“Go away!”

But the door creaks open.

“Sam?”

I look over. Andrew is standing in the doorway. He's leaning in, but his feet are still planted in the hall.

“Can I come in?”

“No.” I turn my back on him, resting my cheek against the cold tile.

“Can I get you to come out?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I think I've humiliated myself enough for one day. Thanks anyway.”

“You didn't humiliate yourself—” Andrew begins, but I cut him off.

“I just want to be normal. Why can't I be normal?” That feeling I had two days ago of wanting to hit something—it's back. Simmering in my belly, alongside the hum of anxiety that lives there. I want to hit something, and I want to keep crying, and I want to give up, and I want to fight. All at the same time.

A noise behind me. The door clicks shut. For a second, I'm sure Andrew's gone.

You scared him away. Nice work.

And then he's sitting next to me, hand on my back. He rubs a circle between my shoulder blades. He doesn't say a word, but he's telling me he's not going anywhere.

Without thinking about what I'm doing, what it might
mean, I lean into him. I feel his body tense up, like he's surprised, and then he relaxes. A little. Not entirely. But he also doesn't move away. After another moment, he puts his arm around me. I can feel his chest rising and falling. His inhales are my inhales, and my exhales are his.

I fit into his arms differently than I fit into Marcus's. It's weird, and it's wrong, and it's right. I don't know how much time passes, whether it's just a few minutes or much longer. But eventually he clears his throat.

I pull away from him. “Sorry. I—”

“Ready to leave the bathroom now?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

I scramble to my feet and catch sight of myself in the mirror. I'm a disaster. Red-faced from yoga. Messy ponytail. Wet, puffy eyes.

And Andrew's still here.

“ARE YOU ALL
right, Sam?” Dr. Lancaster sits across from me, leaning forward in her chair. “I've talked to Zoe. Again. I've called her parents again as well.”

I picture Zoe, a ball of misery in her twin bed.

“This is strike two,” Dr. Lancaster goes on. “I won't take no for an answer from them a third time. Your well-being is too important—”

“I'm okay. I promise.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“You saw what happened. And you know how I feel about people staring at me.”

Except Andrew
, my inner voice mocks. I ignore it.

“I guess I'd just . . . had enough. I'm sorry I disrupted the class.”

“You weren't the only person to disrupt the class,” she says gently.

“Do you think Zoe was telling the truth?”

“About what?”

“About what she said being a compliment. About my—about my butt. Do you think she really was trying to be nice?”

“I think,” she says, seeming to choose her words carefully, “that Zoe didn't consider the fact that what she said might upset you.”

“She's always saying obnoxious things. To all of us.”

Dr. Lancaster doesn't agree or disagree. She waits for me to continue.

“So how was I supposed to know if this time it was a compliment, not a joke?”

Still no response.

“Was I supposed to ignore her?”

“Why was her comment today so hard for you to ignore?”

“I guess because I'm . . . I'm sensitive about my”—I make a disgusted noise—“my butt. I don't like it.”

“What if she had commented on something about your body that you do like? How might you have responded then?”

“I—I don't know.”

“What's something you like about your body?”

“Um. My feet?”

“Why?”

I slip out of my right sandal and point my foot to show her. “I have high arches and long toes, so that gives me a really nice line. My feet look good in pointe shoes.”

“Lovely. What's something else you like about yourself?”

Now I pause. “I, uh—can I think about it for a second?”

“I want to try an exercise with you,” Dr. Lancaster says, after a few awkward moments of silence. “Make some lists for me: what you like and dislike about your body. And I want you to try something. Make the lists the same length. For every dislike, add a like.”

I'm not sure that's even possible, but I don't argue. I pick up my notebook and head for the door.