How It Feels to Fly (21 page)

“Do what?”

“Dip me.”

“Fish, dip—you're making me hungry.”

“Just . . . bend me forward so my leg goes up and my body goes down, and— You know what? Put me down.”

He does.

I mimic the guy's position in the lift, holding my own imaginary ballerina, and show him the dip. “Once you have me in the pose, you bend your knee like this and lean this way.”

“Got it.” He repeats the move a few times. “Wanna try again?”

“Yeah.” I get into position. He lifts me. And then, as if he's been training for years, he dips me and brings me back up.

“I think I'm pretty good at this partnering thing.”

“You're a natural.” I drop my bottom foot to stand on it again. When he lets go, I miss being in his arms. I miss having my back pressed against his chest.

“Having fun?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say fervently. “Thank you.”

“Then let's do another one.”

I wonder whether he's having fun too. Whether he wants to hold me again, like I want to be held.

When his phone alarm goes off to signal the end of our hour, he has me in a shoulder-sit lift. I jump down and we rest, side by side, on one of the wooden benches. We're so close, I can feel the sweat soaking through his T-shirt. I don't move away. Neither does he. We're still and silent for a second, staring toward the house. That second feels like an eternity. I don't want this eternity to end.

He stands up, and it's like he's being ripped away from me. He extends his hand to help me to my feet, and I take it like I'm drowning and he's my life preserver. When he lets go, I can't stop feeling the absence of his touch.

I sneak back into my room and pick up the dark chocolate Hershey's Kiss he gave me a week ago. I've kept it in the drawer in my nightstand this whole time. I peel away the delicate aluminum foil. I run my fingers over the chocolate's smooth surface. I breathe in the sweet scent. And then,
before I can think too much about calories or what time it is or anything else, I pop it in my mouth. I let it melt. Slowly.

I fall asleep with the forbidden taste of chocolate on my tongue.

THE NEXT MORNING, I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT Andrew. His eyes catching the moonlight. His bright smile turned intimate, like it was designed especially for me. His hands on my waist, our bodies pressed together. Did he feel the sparks I felt? Is he thinking about me the way I'm thinking about him?

And where do we go from here? What happens next?

Physically, I'm in the college's theater, watching Omar stammer through a monologue onstage. Mentally—and emotionally—I'm still in that gazebo.

“Are we supposed to heckle him or something?” Katie asks from my left.

“There's no way,” Jenna answers from my right.

“So how are we supposed to be involved in the challenge?” Katie whispers. “With everyone else's, we all did stuff.”

“Not with mine,” Jenna answers. “You just watched me.”

“Oh yeah.”

They're talking around me. Through me. Normally I'd hate it, but right now, I'm grateful. Andrew is a few rows in front of us, sitting with Dominic, and I'm enjoying admiring the back of his head.

“‘To be, or not to be—'” Omar intones from center stage.

“No, no, no!” One of the fake scouts from Dominic's challenge is now playing a theater director, calling instructions at Omar from the audience. “More introspective.”

Omar repeats the line once. Twice. Three times. He starts pacing. Rubbing his head like it hurts. “I don't know what you want. What am I supposed to do here? What do I do? I don't know what to do!”

“Try taking a deep breath,” Dr. Lancaster coaches from the front row.

He gasps and then yelps, “‘To be, or not to be!' Was that better?”

“It's not about the quality of your acting,” Dr. Lancaster says. “It's about how you feel in this moment.”

“Agh!” Omar moans, pacing faster. “I feel anxious! And this isn't even real! Why am I anxious when this isn't even real?”

Andrew turns to say something to Dominic. I trace his profile with my eyes.

I want to dance with him again. I want to do more than that.

Back in the Dogwood Room an hour later, Dr. Lancaster asks us what we're most nervous about, when it comes to leaving here. My first thought: not seeing Andrew every day. And yeah, I know I have bigger concerns than that. But after last night . . .

Jenna starts talking about her upcoming competitions. “Regionals and Sectionals are in just a few months,” she says. “I didn't break the top five at Nationals last year, so I have to make top four at Sectionals to qualify this year, and the competition—it's a tough field.” She shakes her head. “I'm seventeen. There are girls Katie's age who are hitting their routines more consistently than I am.”

“You made it to Nationals last year,” Katie says.

“And then I fell on three jumps in my long program, in front of a bunch of TV cameras,” Jenna says, her voice turning bitter. “You saw the footage.”

“So this season, you'll take things one event at a time,” Dr. Lancaster says patiently. “You won't make Nationals into a dark specter that's looming in the distance. You'll focus on yourself and not your competitors. You'll remember to trust your training. And you'll breathe.”

“Of course I will,” Jenna says. She reaches up and yanks her ponytail tighter.

“Why don't we spend some time before lunch crafting power statements?” Dr. Lancaster looks around at the group. “Power statements are mantras you can tell yourself when you're having a rough time.” She starts writing
ideas on the whiteboard.

“I have what it takes!”

“I've worked hard to get here!”

“I always do my best!”

“The most important thing is to try!”

When she sends us away with our notebooks, I chase after Andrew. “Want to take a walk? Help me brainstorm?”

“Sure.”

We start across the lawn. We pass the gazebo and head down the path into the woods until we reach the lake. In the late-morning light, the water is a clear, vivid blue. There are ducks and geese calling, and in the distance, I can see people canoeing.

Andrew walks to the end of the dock and sits, feet hanging toward the water. “We should sneak back out here tonight,” he says. “It's supposed to rain every night next week, so this might be our last chance.”

“I'd love to.” I sit next to him. “Same time and everything?”

“Yeah. Can you rally the troops?”

I nod.

“So let's brainstorm. Do you want your power statement to be something about your performance? Or how you look?”

“Ugh, I guess it should be about my body. Right?”

“If your body is what causes you to panic, then probably.” He pauses. “And you need to stop thinking about your body as ‘ugh.'”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry, I didn't even realize I said that.”

“Don't beat yourself up about it. It's hard to change your mental patterns. And I think you're saying stuff like that less than you were even a week ago, so that's good.”

“Yeah, I'm trying—”

“Because you're
not
fat, or ugly, or whatever you think about yourself.”

“I—”

He takes me by both shoulders. “Really. You're not.”

Another nervous laugh escapes. “Well, I'm certainly not beautiful.”

“Yes, you are.” He looks thoughtful. “You're beautiful. That could be part of your power statement.”

As if this moment is just about a power statement. I can't move, I can't breathe, I can't think. All I can do is stare into Andrew's eyes.

“Try this: ‘My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful.'”

“My body is flexible, and strong, and . . . and beautiful.” I choke on that last part.

Liar.

“My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful,” Andrew repeats.

“My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful.” I'm able to say it more firmly, and this time there's no answer in my head.

“That's not so hard, is it?”

“It's easier to say than to believe.”

“Believe it.” He lets go of my shoulders and faces the lake again. I stare at him, unable to pick out one emotion from the storm inside me.

Marcus never told me I was beautiful. Pretty or cute or hot, depending on his mood and what I was wearing, but not
beautiful
. Having heard it from Andrew, I don't think I can ever go back.

I have no idea how to respond.

Luckily, Andrew doesn't ask me to say anything. He lies down on the dock, tucking his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

I look down at him. His handsome face. The sliver of skin I can see where his polo has come untucked from his khakis. He kicks his feet as they dangle off the edge of the dock, like a little kid. I lie down next to him. I put my hands behind my head too. Our elbows touch, but he doesn't move his, so I don't move mine.

I feel like I'm in this perfect space. It's only the width of a soap bubble—strongly bonded, but liable to burst at any moment. I don't want it to burst. So I stay inside it, letting the sun's rays warm my skin and Andrew's words warm my heart.

DR. LANCASTER CAN
tell something is different about me. “You seem happy today,” she says. “Anything special going on that you want to share?”

Yes
.

“Nothing in particular.”

“Are you looking forward to going to your ballet intensive?”

“Yeah, I'm really excited.” Only ten days until I'm there. No phone call from my mom or Miss Elise yet, confirming my spot, but I'm not worried.

“Do you feel like you've picked up some skills over the past week and a half that you can put into practice in the dance studio?”

I nod. “I can try some of Yasmin's breathing exercises when I start feeling anxious. I've tried them once already, after . . . after the last time I talked to my mom. I was feeling wound up, and breathing actually helped me calm down.”

Dr. Lancaster doesn't ask what my mom had me wound up about, but I know she's filing that bit of info away for later. “Good. What else?”

“Um. I think I want to do more cooking when I get home. That's not something for the ballet studio, but I guess for life.”

“Wonderful.”

“And maybe I'll take art in school next year?” I add, thinking about my photo collages. My mom might not like it, since art isn't in my career plan, but maybe if I say it's for therapy, she'll back down.

“All of this is excellent. How about when you're in a situation where you need to push past any anxious or panicky feelings and perform? Did you come up with a power statement that might help you?”

I take a deep breath and spit out the mantra Andrew created for me: “My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful.”

Dr. Lancaster looks impressed. She lets my words dance in the silence for a few seconds before speaking. “Wow, Sam. Do you think you could have said that when you came here?”

I answer honestly. “No. And I'm not sure I really believe it yet. But . . . maybe I could. One day. I mean, I believe the first two parts, but not . . .”

“‘Beautiful' is a powerful word,” she says.

“Yeah.”

I can't tell Dr. Lancaster about Andrew. Not yet—when I don't know for certain that he feels about me the way I feel about him. Maybe not ever, since he's a peer adviser here. I don't want him to get in trouble.

I can't tell her about the way he held me in the moonlight.

I can't tell her that the word “beautiful” came from him, not me.

But I do wish I could tell her how he listens to me and hears me and understands. How he
sees
me, maybe even better than I see myself. He's good for me, I'm certain of it, and if I hadn't come to Perform at Your Peak, I never would've met him.

“I'm glad I came here,” I say instead. It's a surprise to me, and I think it's a surprise to Dr. Lancaster, too. She looks thrilled.

“I'm glad you're glad, Sam.” She makes a note on her ever-present legal pad. “Next week, we'll be focusing a lot on the future. In fact, our end-of-camp ritual has everything to do with your hopes for your future. I ask each camper to write down something positive about his or her experience here, tie it to a helium balloon, and set it free over the lake.”

I can picture it, the six of us watching our balloons float higher and higher. I want to write
My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful
a hundred times and send up a hundred balloons.

“Since you'll be going straight from here to your ballet intensive,” Dr. Lancaster continues, “I hope you'll give your full attention to everything we discuss about moving forward. You'll get to put it into practice almost immediately.”

“Okay,” I say, still imagining my flock of balloons vanishing into the clouds.

“You're talented and ambitious, and there's no reason to let poor body image hold you back from achieving your full potential.”

“Right.” Almost exactly what Andrew said two nights ago, at the lake:
You can't let how you feel about your body ruin your life
.

“There are opportunities out there for you in the dance world. You have to be willing to chase them. You have to be willing to take the leap.”

“Take the leap,” I repeat. “How?”

“When you want something, and you believe in yourself and in it, but there's a gulf you have to cross to get there—in
this case, how you've been feeling about the changes to your body—sometimes you have to just decide to leap across that gulf.”

“Take the leap. I like it.” I know she's talking about ballet, but I'm still thinking about Andrew. Maybe it's time for me to take the leap into what I think could be a really wonderful thing. Not just for me. For both of us.

I keep repeating Dr. Lancaster's words to myself for the rest of the day. I think them as Jenna and I do an afternoon ballet barre together, as my spine bends and stretches and my toes reach toward the sky. I murmur them as all six of us Crazy Campers relax on the couches after dinner. I tell them to my reflection as I wash my face and brush my teeth before bed. I write them in my notebook, over and over, while Zoe and I wait for midnight to arrive so we can sneak back out to the lake.

“Do you want to go down to Dr. Lancaster's office again tonight?” I ask Zoe, closing my notebook and setting it on my nightstand.

“Got another important phone call to make?”

“I need to send an email.” I've decided I have to tell Bianca what's going on. There has to be someone in my life who knows the whole story. And if I start by telling Bianca about Andrew—about how he makes me feel—then I can work my way back and tell her about everything else. The reasons I've been so . . . not myself. I can apologize for shutting her out. For taking her friendship and support for granted.

“Sure,” Zoe says. “Sounds good.”

“Thanks.” Knowing I'm about to come clean with my best friend—it makes me even more excited. And anxious, but the
good
kind of anxious.

I feel like I've been on a roller coaster since I got here, and now I'm racing toward the final loop. It's up to me to keep the momentum going. And I want to keep circling. I want to go up and up and up.