How It Feels to Fly (24 page)

A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. I DON'T GET UP. I ROLL OVER onto my side to face the wall.

Next, I hear the door swing open. Footsteps coming toward me.

“Sam? It's time for lunch.” It's Yasmin. She pats me on the shoulder.

“I'm not hungry.”

“You need to eat. Dr. Lancaster said—”

“I'm not hungry.” In the hours I've been lying here, thinking about the spectacular way in which my life has fallen apart, I realized that Dr. Lancaster doesn't matter. This place doesn't matter. I came here for a single purpose: to make sure I didn't have a panic attack at my ballet intensive. Now there's no ballet intensive. Which means I have no further reason to try. To care.

Yasmin leaves. I get about five minutes of peace and
quiet. Five minutes of staring at the wall, thinking about nothing.

You have nothing.

You are nothing.

Then Dr. Lancaster shows up. “Sam. It's lunchtime. I'm sorry you're hurting, but I can't take no for an answer.” She sits on the bed by my feet.

“I'm not hungry.”

“I allowed you to skip breakfast. I can't allow you to skip lunch as well.”

“I told you, I'm not hungry—” My stomach growls. I let out a bark of laughter. Betrayed by my own body, yet again.

“Up,” Dr. Lancaster says.

I roll over. Stand. Follow her out of the safety of my bedroom and down the stairs and around the corner to the kitchen.

“I made you a plate.” Dr. Lancaster hands me a Caesar salad with five strips of grilled chicken on top. It's lightly drizzled with dressing and sprinkled with flakes of Parmesan.

“I don't want this.”

“Do you want to make your own salad? That's fine too.”

I shake my head. “I don't want any of this.” To my own ears, I sound amazingly calm. Inside, I'm a tsunami roaring toward the shore. I don't know when—or who—it will hit. But it's coming.

“What
do
you want, Sam?”

“I want to be left alone.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that. I need you to sit down and eat some of this salad.”

I stare at the plate in my hand. “What happens if I say no?”

“Please don't say no.”

“Are you going to force-feed me? Andrew—” I choke on his name. On the pang of rejection and on my own guilt and self-loathing. “He could've held me down, but you and Yasmin can't. Or will you make Dominic do it?”

“No one is going to hold you down, Sam.”

“Then here.” I shove the plate back into Dr. Lancaster's hands so hard that most of the salad ends up on her blue button-down. I glare at her. “I. Don't. Want. This.”

“Dr. Lancaster . . . ?” Yasmin, behind me.

I spin around. They're all there.

Katie's the first to speak. “We heard about what happened—”

“It's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine. I'm just
not hungry
.”

Dr. Lancaster sets my plate down on the kitchen island. She grabs a paper towel to dab at the Caesar dressing on her shirt. “Sam, I know how hard this morning has been for you. After you eat, we'll talk more about it—”

I interrupt her, and suddenly I'm shouting. “I don't want to
talk
about how hard everything is! I want it to
stop being so hard
!” The wave inside me crashes into the shore. “You want me to eat? Fine. I'll eat.” I pick up a chicken strip with my fingers and shove it in my mouth. “There! Satisfied?” I chew and swallow. “Look, I'll have another!”

My breath is coming fast. Not from panic, but from how incredibly unfair all this is. This summer was supposed to be the start of everything. The rest of my life. Now it feels like the beginning of the end.

I gorge myself on chicken strips, and then, without thinking about what I'm doing, I grab the bottle of Caesar dressing and squirt some directly into my mouth. It's gross, but I manage to keep it down.

“That's enough, Sam,” Dr. Lancaster says, taking the dressing from me.

“Is it? Did I eat enough for you? I'm so glad.” I fall back against the kitchen island, hands on my heaving stomach. The group is still staring at me. I plaster on my brightest, sparkliest smile and ask, “Enjoy the show?”

I'm outside my body, watching from above. The girl I see standing in the middle of the kitchen has a matted ponytail and salad dressing in one corner of her mouth. Her smile is shattered. Her eyes are wild and sad. She's out of control.

I'm out of control. I have no control over anything in my life.

My parents didn't tell me they were separating until the day my dad moved out.

My mom didn't talk to me before she took her side job at my ballet studio, making it even harder for me to escape her watchful, critical eyes.

Marcus broke up with me out of the blue. And Andrew—

And, of course, my body changed on me. I couldn't do a thing to stop it.

I can't fix it. Any of it.

For every piece of myself I pick up, three more drop to the ground.

“Let's go, Sam.” Dr. Lancaster guides me past my fellow campers. They part for me, like my misery might rub off on them. Omar's muttering again: “I don't like this. I don't like this. I don't like this.” His words echo in my ears all the way down the hall.

In her office, Dr. Lancaster sits me down. “Talk to me.” It's not a request.

“No.”
This
I can control. If only this.

“Then I'll wait until you're ready.” She drops into her chair and crosses her legs. Stares at me. I stare back, cradling my bruised wrist.

Time passes.

WHEN I'M DONE
not talking, I'm supposed to find Yasmin. She's supposed to keep an eye on me. But I feel like being invisible.

I slip past the Dogwood Room and through the kitchen to the back door. Then I freeze, hand on the knob. On the counter by the sink: a glass canister filled with Hershey's Kisses.
Andrew.
I tuck the canister under my arm and take it outside.

It's drizzling, which matches my mood. In fact, I wish it were raining harder. I
should
be walking in the rain, my clothes growing damp and my hair frizzing. I deserve this. I
deserve every bad thing that has ever happened to me.

I take out a Hershey's Kiss. I unwrap it. I let the chocolate melt on my tongue.

Because I'm feeling masochistic, I visit all the places where I thought something was happening between me and Andrew. Every spot where I misinterpreted what was going on. I eat a Hershey's Kiss on the porch steps where we sat together. Another one walking behind the gazebo, where he stood so close to me to tie my blindfold. Then I go inside the gazebo, remembering our partnering session. How alive I felt with his hands on me.

Two more Hershey's Kisses.

I leave the gazebo, where our ghosts are still dancing. I go through the woods to the lake. The rain picks up, and I listen to the drops patter on the leaves. I walk to the end of the dock and eat two more chocolates in honor of the two times Andrew coaxed me into the water. Then I return to the spot where our kiss happened last night. I can still feel our lips touching, like the moment left an afterimage in the air itself.

I sit down in the wet dirt, trying to sort through my feelings. I'm angry at Andrew for flirting when he didn't mean it, and I'm angry at myself for not seeing that he didn't mean it, and I feel terrible about getting him fired, and his rejection hurts like an open sore inside me, and I
miss him
. Even after everything, I want him here.

I finish the entire canister of Kisses, crumpling the shiny foil wrappings into tiny balls and scattering them around me.

That's where Yasmin finds me. “Sam!” she gasps, wrapping her arms around me. “I was so worried—I didn't know where you went!”

She didn't know where to look. Andrew would've known where to look.

As she leads me away from the lake, reassuring me that I can talk to her about anything, anytime, I feel like I'm saying good-bye. To Andrew. To what I thought we had. To the version of myself he helped me see.

I also start to feel sick. The chocolate and chicken and dressing slosh and swirl inside me. I don't know whether it's because dark chocolate and Caesar salad don't mix, or because the world has spun off its axis since yesterday, but I want to throw up.

I really, really, really want to throw up.

Yasmin guides me back inside. I change into dry clothes. I sit in the dining room cutting construction paper into thinner and thinner strips. I listen to everyone's conversations without actually hearing them.

At one point, Jenna and Katie come over. “What do you need?” Jenna asks crisply. “Distraction? A shoulder to cry on? Space?”

I stare at her.

What I really need is a whole new body.

A fresh start.

A blank slate.

But those aren't options. “Space,” I finally say.

“Okay.” Jenna pats me on the shoulder. Katie gives me a
careful hug, like she's worried I might lash out again. Then they let me be.

The pile of construction paper slivers in front of me grows. Green and blue and purple, like the bruise that's blossoming on my wrist.

My lunch threatens to come up, yet again.

I keep it down.

At dinner, I put more food on top of what's already there. Seven bites of shepherd's pie, eaten while Dr. Lancaster watches. I see her relief that I'm not fighting her this time. What she doesn't know is that I used up all my anger earlier. I'm empty again.

None of this matters
, I tell myself as I swallow sawdust.
None of this matters
.

And then, later that night, Mom calls. I take the phone from Dr. Lancaster's outstretched hand. I wait for what I know is coming.

“Samantha, I've been trying to reach you all day.”

“Okay.”

“Elise called me after she spoke to you.”

“Okay.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” My reply doesn't sound a bit genuine, but she moves on anyway.

“When we decided to send you to Perform at Your Peak, Elise assured me that it wouldn't impact your training plans. This summer is a vital one for your career. Without this intensive—I don't know what we're going to do. You'll
start your junior year off at a deficit. You certainly won't be invited to a year-round ballet school. And—”

I hold the phone away from my ear for a few seconds. I glance at Dr. Lancaster, who's sitting on the couch in case I need rescuing again. Everything about this moment feels inevitable. I return to my mom.

“—certainly glad you've kept up with your practice while you're there. We won't have a moment to waste when you get home. You can do Elise's summer workshop, of course, and maybe I can hire a private coach to work with you as well. And—”

“Mom.”

“Yes, Samantha?”

“Do you know what I did after I found out?”

A long pause. “What?”

“I ate about three dozen dark chocolate Hershey's Kisses.” I hang up on her. Then I turn to Dr. Lancaster. “I'm going upstairs.”

She nods. “I'll get Yasmin—”

“I'd like to be alone.” I shove my trembling hands into my armpits and lie to Dr. Lancaster's face: “I'm fine. Just tired. You don't have to worry about me.”

She gives me a searching look. “You'll come to me if you need anything at all.”

Another lie: “Of course.” I pair the words with a shaky smile that's as much a performance as any ballet I've ever danced. In order for her to leave me alone, I have to strike the right balance of vulnerability and strength. She has to
believe that I won't in a million years do what I'm about to do.

I can barely believe what I'm about to do.

But it's inevitable.

I go upstairs. Not to my room. To the bathroom. I lock myself inside the farthest stall. I sit on the floor in front of the toilet. I stare it down.

Throw up.

I don't move.

You want to. You'll feel better.

I don't. I won't.

Take control.

Bile rises up inside me. I swallow it back down. It burns my throat.

Do it.

I get on my knees and lean over the toilet.

Do it!

I stick my finger in my throat.

I gag, and I scoot back fast. I'm pressed against the stall door, crying now, and breathing hard. I wipe my snotty nose with the back of my hand and catch sight of the bruise on my wrist.

My stomach rumbles and roils.

You aren't strong enough—

You'll never have what it takes—

I hear Andrew's voice in my head, too. He wouldn't want me to be in here.

He lied to you. Everything he said to you was a lie.

Maybe not everything—

Everything.

I groan, holding my stomach. I want to throw up. I want to be empty.

Try again.

I do. And again, I gag, and I stop.

You can't even do that right. You're useless. You're nothing—

I curl into the corner of the stall, knees to chest, and rock.

This is the thing I never told anyone. The thing I'm constantly trying to forget.

Earlier this year, when I wanted to lose weight and nothing was working—when I started feeling so desperate, so helpless, so scared—I decided to try making myself throw up. I only did it a few times. I hated doing it. I hated
myself
for even considering it.

I lost a few pounds. It was just water weight. My body getting dehydrated. But people noticed. They told me I was looking good. I knew throwing up was a bad idea, and I knew I shouldn't keep doing it, but there was a part of me that wished—that still wishes—

“Sam?”

I open my eyes to see Jenna crawling under the divider from the next stall.