How It Feels to Fly (23 page)

Stupid.

Naive.

Delusional.

Weak.

Ugly.

Fat.

Disgusting.

And on and on. Eventually, when he's long gone, I go inside. I close the back door behind me and walk through the kitchen and up the stairs and down the hall and into my bedroom.

“There you are!” Zoe is sitting up in bed.

I don't answer.

“I noticed you and Andrew stayed behind. . . .”

I don't answer.

“Are you two hooking up? I wouldn't have pegged you as the hook-up-with-a-counselor type, but . . .”

I don't answer. I change into my pajamas, not even caring whether Zoe sees my body.

“C'mon—you kiss, you tell. That's what roommates do.”

I don't answer. I throw back my covers and get into bed.
I feel like I'm sleepwalking. I wish I were—then tonight would only be a bad dream.

“Okay, seriously? I thought we had a breakthrough back at the lake. You and I should be all kumbaya now, right?”

I don't answer. I stare at the wall.

“Sam? Do you still want to go down to Dr. Lancaster's office?”

I don't answer.

“Are you okay?”

I don't answer.

I GET DRESSED THE NEXT MORNING IN THAT SAME sleepwalking fog. I hear Zoe talking to me, but it's like it's through heavy earmuffs. And I'm on delayed reaction. She taps me on the shoulder, and it takes me a few seconds to realize I'm supposed to turn around. Or ignore her. Whatever. Make a decision. By the time I do, she's left the room.

I sit on the floor in front of my suitcase, staring at it without seeing it.

I still don't understand what happened last night.

I think back to that perfect moment, right before everything imploded. The moonlight reflecting on the water. The breeze kicking up tiny waves against the dock. The hum of the June bugs. The blinking of fireflies. Staring up at the guy who
knows
me—the real me—and who tells me I'm beautiful.

Lies. And you believed him.

A knock. I scramble to my feet. What if it's Andrew? What if he's come to explain what went wrong between us? But then the door swings open. It's Katie.

“Sam?”

I take a breath before I answer, hoping my voice won't sound as foggy, as thick, as broken as I feel. “Hey. I'll be down in a bit.” More lies. I might not come downstairs at all. I might stay up here forever.

“I know you're upset. Zoe came to get me. She thought you might talk to me, since you won't talk to her.” She hesitates. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” I return to the floor and shuffle outfits around in my suitcase like I'm trying to choose. Like it matters what I look like.

Katie sits on my unmade bed. “What's going on?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Is it about Andrew?”

I don't respond.

“Whatever it is, I'm sure it's going to be okay. . . .”

A flash of anger. At her optimism. At her as-yet-unbroken heart. “What part of ‘I don't want to talk about it' wasn't clear to you?” I snap.

Katie jerks back.

The anger drains out of me. “I'm sorry.” I go back to poking through my suitcase.

And then Dr. Lancaster is in the doorway. “Sam? Can I speak with you?”

She knows. I know she knows. And she knows that I
know that she knows. The whole story is written on her face.

I swallow past the painful lump in my throat. “Can I get dressed first?”

“Of course. Come to my office when you're ready.” She looks at Katie. “Yasmin is waiting for you in the Dogwood Room, Katie.”

“Okay. Sam, I'm here if you need me.”

She leaves, and Dr. Lancaster leaves, and I'm alone.

WHEN I SWING
the door open, Dr. Lancaster is seated behind her desk, hands clasped on the dark wood surface. Andrew is leaning against the wall.

I want to leave. Go out the front door and down the gravel driveway and off into the sunset. But Dr. Lancaster says, “Come on in, Sam,” so I sit down in the chair across from her.

I feel Andrew looming over my shoulder.

“Andrew told me what happened,” Dr. Lancaster says. “He came to me this morning—and I'm glad he did. We need to talk about it. And Andrew has some things he has to say to you. But first, I need to hear it from you: were you alone with Andrew last night, after lights-out?”

I don't want to talk.

I don't want to hear anything Andrew has to say.

Or maybe I do. Maybe I need to know the truth. Even if it means accepting that everything between us was a figment of my overactive imagination.

I want to keep myself from getting hurt again. Block out the pain and the noise. Hide inside this sleepwalking feeling.

I also want to make myself hurt
more
, for being so stupid. For daring to believe and to feel and to hope.

“Sam.” Dr. Lancaster's voice is kind, but firm. “You're not in trouble. I need to make sure you're safe. Just tell me what happened. Did the two of you kiss?”

After a second, I nod.

“Did he kiss you, or did you kiss him?”

It's a simple question, but it makes all the difference in the world.

I can barely get the words out. “I kissed him.”

“Why?”

“I thought—” I finally let myself look directly at Andrew. And I see that he's a wreck. His eyes are dark-circled. His hair isn't brushed. He's wearing yesterday's rumpled clothes. “I thought you liked me,” I tell him.

“Andrew?” Dr. Lancaster's tone is different than when she spoke to me. I got her calm, gentle therapist voice. With him, her voice is sharper, harder. No-nonsense.

“I did—I
do
like you, Sam. As a friend. Not as anything more than that.” He cringes as he says it, like he knows exactly how his words are slicing through me.

“But last night, when we were at the lake—”

Dr. Lancaster cuts in: “The lake?”

Andrew looks like he wants to shrink even farther back into the wall. “I took the kids last night,” he says quietly, leaving Yasmin out of it. “It happened after that.”

“Andrew, you know that is
completely
—” Dr. Lancaster stops. “Sam, go on.”

I don't want to go on. He referred to me and the other campers as “the kids.” That stings almost as much as the word “friend.” But despite the ache inside me, I find a way to keep talking.

“We spent so much time together. You paid extra attention to me. You cared about me. Or you acted like you did.”

“I do care about you. As a friend,” he repeats. “I was trying to help you. I only ever wanted to help you. And I didn't give you any more one-on-one attention than I gave Dominic or Zoe.” He looks at Dr. Lancaster, pleading his case. “I swear.”

“But the partnering—”

“Was really fun.”

“It was romantic. You felt the sparks too. And you'd been flirting with me—”

“I guess I flirted a little, yeah.” Andrew presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I thought it might make you feel good about yourself, especially after you told me about getting dumped. But I was up front with you. I told you I have a girlfriend. And I'm here as your peer adviser. I thought you knew where the line was.”

Dr. Lancaster starts, “Andrew—”

“I didn't mean to lead you on, Sam. I didn't mean for any of this to happen.”

“You were lying to me.” I feel like I'm cracking in two. “I trusted you.”

“I wasn't lying. You have to understand—”

“You told me—” My voice comes out strangled. “You told me I was beautiful.”

“I wanted you to be able to tell
yourself
you were beautiful,” Andrew says in a low voice. “There's a difference.”

“But . . .
why
?” I mean all of it, from the beginning.

“The first night we were here, I almost gave you a panic attack. The next day, I actually did give you a panic attack. I felt bad, and I wanted to make it up to you. And then, the more we talked, the better I got to know you—” He shrugs, looking helpless.

“I think I've heard enough,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Andrew, you didn't intend to strike up a romantic relationship with a camper?”

“Of course I didn't.” The look on his face now: desperation. “I thought I could help her, like you helped me. And I had some ideas—how to step outside the box with her therapy. I took a risk, and I thought it was paying off. She was doing so much better.” He turns to me, insistent. “You were. I know you were.”

“To be blunt, Andrew,” Dr. Lancaster says, anger simmering in her voice, “you're an undergraduate. You've taken two semesters of psychology. You don't have the training or the experience to make those kinds of decisions. It doesn't matter how good your intentions are. Taking campers' treatment into your own hands puts them at risk. It puts everything I do here at risk.”

She turns to me, her voice softening once more. “Sam,
is there anything else you need to tell me?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Okay. Sit tight here for a second. I'll be right back.” She stands. “Andrew, you can go pack your things.”

“He's leaving?” I hear my voice from far away. “You're leaving?”

Of course he's leaving.

And it's your fault.

“I can't allow him to stay here, Sam,” Dr. Lancaster says gently.

I look at Andrew, lingering in the doorway. “But . . . your college credit . . .”

Andrew winces, and it hits me, hard, how much my stupid kiss has cost him. The guilt, on top of everything else I'm feeling, threatens to capsize me.

“I'm sorry, I didn't think. . . .”

“No, I'm the one who's sorry,” Andrew says. “I promise, I didn't mean to—I would never have wanted—this isn't what I thought—”

“Enough.” Dr. Lancaster holds the door open for him to exit. When he's gone, she turns to me. “I'll be right back. I promise.”

I SIT THERE,
staring at nothing, until the phone on her desk rings.

I look from the phone to the door, expecting Dr. Lancaster to burst through it. Instead, the ringing stops.

It starts again a minute later. I glance at the digital
display. It's my local area code. But it's not my mom's number, and it's not the ballet studio. Maybe it's Miss Elise's cell phone?

I hesitate, my hand hovering over the receiver, and then I pick it up. “Hello?”

“Hi, can I speak to Samantha Wagner?” It is Miss Elise. Her soft, Southern-accented voice is unmistakable.

“Hi, Miss Elise. It's me.”

“Oh, I'm so glad I reached you,” she says, and despite how horrible the morning has been, my spirits rise. The intensive. I still have that to look forward to. Until: “I don't know how to tell you this. . . .”

I sink back in my chair.

“I spoke to the director of your intensive this morning. She called me first thing.”

I manage to whisper, “And?”

“I'm so sorry, Sam. The program's full, so they can't take anyone from the waiting list.”

This isn't happening. It can't be.

It can. It is.

You knew it would.

“They wanted to hold off until the last minute to make sure to give us accurate information, and since the program starts on Monday, the last minute is basically . . . today.”

I'm shaking. I squeeze the phone with one hand and my knee with the other.

“I want you to know how disappointed I am for you. You deserved this opportunity. But I'm so glad you're where you
are. Getting you healthy and happy is the most important thing.”

My throat is closing up. The room is swimming. And spinning.

It's over. It's all over. Your plans, your dreams, they're—

“Do you want to call your mom, or do you want me to do it?”

My mom. She's going to be so—

I take in a hitched breath. And then I'm gasping. Gulping. Drowning.

I drop the phone.

If you weren't so fat—

So weak—

So useless—

“Sam! Look at me.” Dr. Lancaster lifts up my chin. I blink away the tears to see her crouching in front of me. “We're going to breathe together now. In . . . and out. . . . In . . . and out. . . .”

With her coaching, I'm able to fill my lungs with air. I'm still crying—deep, shuddering sobs—but soon that eases too. Then all that's left is emptiness. Numbness.

The phone rings again, and Dr. Lancaster leans over me to answer it. “Yes,” she says, looking at me. “She's okay. Listen, we'll have to call you back. Mm-hmm. Thanks.” She hangs up.

“That was your teacher again. She was worried. She heard you crying, and then the phone went dead.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to fill me in?”

I shake my head.

“You shouldn't keep those feelings locked inside.”

“I'd like to lie down.” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

“I understand.” She helps me stand up. “I'll come get you for lunch.”

I don't plan on eating lunch, but I nod anyway. It's easier to agree. To give in.

I head upstairs but stop cold in the hallway when I see Andrew coming out of his bedroom, duffel bag in hand. We make eye contact. It's like he's giving me a wordless apology. But that's not what I want. I want him to make it so that last night, the past two weeks, all of it never happened.

He takes a step toward me, reaching out. “Sam—”

I pull away so fast, I hit my wrist on the banister. It hurts. I cradle my arm, eyes stinging. Then I push past him into my and Zoe's room and shut the door.

You ruined everything
, my inner voice growls.
For yourself
.
And for Andrew.

Your weight gain. Your neediness. Your inability to cope. It all led to this moment.

The ballerina collage I created last week is hanging on the wall. The dancer made of clouds and dandelion puffs and sunshine. I reach up and pull the picture loose. I take a corner in each hand and rip it in half.

It's not as satisfying as I thought it would be.

I let the pieces drop to the floor.