How It Feels to Fly (26 page)

“Wear the one with the lace.”

I spin to see a girl standing behind me, already dressed for class.

“They're serious about the all-black dress code,” the girl says. “Plus that lace is really pretty.” She sticks out her hand. “I'm Hannah.”

“Thanks. I'm Sam.” We shake.

“See you in there.” Hannah slings her pointe shoe bag over her shoulder and heads out the door.

I watch her go. And I realize: she didn't say anything about my body. She didn't even look at me funny. I'd forgotten what that felt like.

I shake myself out of it and change clothes. I pull on my
pink tights and black leotard, grabbing a black wrap skirt in case we're allowed to wear them. I get my shoe bag, which has my newest pair of ballet slippers and my perfectly broken in pointe shoes, plus my toe pads and toe tape. I shove the rest of my stuff in the locker. On my way out, I stop and check my bun. There's not a wisp out of place.

I look good.

As good as you're ever going to look—

No, I tell my inner voice. Not now.

I check to make sure there's no one else in the dressing room, and say it out loud: “I look good.” And then, even though thinking of anything related to Andrew makes my heart hurt, I add, “My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful.”

I almost believe it.

ONE BALLET CLASS WAS ALL IT TOOK. I WAS HOOKED. I loved everything about it: my pink leotard with the attached ruffly skirt, my brand-new pink ballet slippers, getting my hair slicked back into an elegant bun. I loved skipping around the room to tinkly piano music. I loved standing with my spine long and tall, like a princess wearing a sparkly tiara. I loved the graceful curtsy Miss Johanna had us perform to start and end the class. And I loved Miss Johanna herself. I'd seen her perform in
The Nutcracker
, and I was in complete awe that the Sugar Plum Fairy was my teacher.

I was six, and I'd found what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Flash-forward to when things got more difficult. Less magical; more real. Sore, shaky muscles. Bruised and bloody toenails. Pointe-shoe blisters. Not to mention having to compete for roles, and the agony of waiting for cast lists
to be posted. And yet I didn't waver. I never questioned my dreams—or my ability to reach them.

Until my body betrayed me.

I pause in the doorway to the studio, thinking about how ballet used to make me feel. I look around the room. This is home. I belong here. I have since my very first class.

And yet, right now, I feel a little sick. I'm going to be so out of shape. Everyone's going to stare at me. Laugh at me. And it will be worse than the front-desk woman, because these girls will see me dance, so they'll be judging that, too.

What if, in addition to all being skinnier than me, they're all better dancers? What if I really don't deserve to be here, no matter how much I want it?

I think about running away. It would be so easy. I could go back to the dressing room and spend the next two hours hiding in a bathroom stall, and then text Zoe that I'm finished, I didn't get in, too bad, let's go back to Crazy Camp and face the music.

But I've come this far. No more going backward.

There's an open spot on the other side of the room, at the barre closest to the piano. I walk over, forcing myself to move slowly, to look calm and casual, to ignore the eyes that I feel following me, to ignore the whispers.

And there are stares, and there are whispers. These girls met one another last night. They're probably all living in the same residence hall. They stayed up late comparing training styles and pointe-shoe makers and favorite ballerinas and dream dance partners. I'm new. I'm unknown.

And you look like an elephant—

I take my place at the barre. I note that everyone's wearing flat slippers, so I put mine on and tuck my pointe shoes beneath the barre for later. I start to warm up. I roll through my feet, feeling the familiar pops and cracks. I stretch my calves. I swing my legs back and forth, loosening my hips. And then I développé my right leg up onto the barre, stretching it out in front of me and massaging my right arch with my hand.

Facing the blank wall, I can focus on what it feels like to be inside my body, instead of thinking about what I look like. But when I turn to stretch my left leg on the barre, I can see myself in the mirror. I can see how big my thigh looks from this angle, and how bending forward over my leg turns my waistline into rolls despite how hard I'm sucking my stomach in. I can see the dancers spread through the rest of the studio, stretching and chatting. I can see—at least, I think I see—eyes aimed in my direction.

There are two girls across the room. A pale redhead and an African American. Looking my way. Smiling. I stare at them in the mirror, trying to decipher their expressions. Another friend joins them, and I wait for them to point me out. I wait for her to start laughing at me too. But the redhead just puts her hands on her hips and makes a mock-stern face at the newcomer, and then they hug, and . . . maybe whatever joke they're sharing isn't about me.

Maybe.

But I'm feeling so anxious right now, and it's getting worse by the second.

I haven't exactly enjoyed being around other dancers lately. The girls at my studio fall into two categories: short and thin, or tall and thin. I'm five feet six and a half—smack in the middle, heightwise—and . . . no longer thin.

Admit it. You're fat.

These girls are all—and I look so—

My breath is coming faster. I'm dizzy. My stomach spins and churns.

The clock on the wall says class starts in two minutes.

I drop to the floor and curl up in child's pose to do one of Yasmin's breathing exercises. I put both hands on my back, close my eyes, and inhale, feeling my rib cage expand. I exhale, feeling my hands drop down. I try to block out the room around me. I try to block out the noise in my head. Andrew told me, during my cooking challenge, that he found a way to stop listening to the voices and get done what he needed to get done.

I can too.

I murmur Dr. Lancaster's words to myself a few times: “Take the leap. Take the leap.” Even though the phrase will be forever linked in my mind with kissing Andrew. Even though I feel like I might be leaping into catastrophe.

Ms. Levanova enters the room, clapping her hands together. “Good morning, ladies. Welcome to your first class of the intensive!”

And probably your last—

Stop.

Come on. You know—

No. Stop.

I scramble to my feet. Place my left hand on the barre.

“We'll begin with the pliés.”

The pianist plays a slow, elegant waltz as we bend our knees and straighten them, warming up our joints. Tendus come next. We brush our feet along the floor to the front, side, and back, working through our toes. Then dégagés, then fondus, and on and on. As I move my body through each sequence, I feel more and more at ease. My head clears. My stomach settles. I relax, even as my muscles tremble with effort. I can pinpoint the exact moment when I start to sweat, the first beads of moisture that form on my forehead and on my lower back.

I feel good. And as I look around the room, my confidence grows. My extensions aren't the highest in the room, but they're also not the lowest. And they're properly placed. My feet arch dramatically, and my arms and head and upper body float and swoop through the port de bras. I'm in control of every movement. Nothing happens without intention. Without care.

For the center waltz combination, the pianist chooses a Philip Glass piece. As I wait for my turn to travel across the floor, I watch her play, rocking with the rhythm, eyes closed, experiencing each note as it passes through her fingers. I close my eyes too. Just for a moment. I feel the music flow through me.

When it's my turn to dance, I step forward. I breathe in. I take off.

I'm not doing steps. These aren't balancés and fouettés and pirouettes. They're everything I've felt over the past two weeks, and over the past seven months. I pour myself out. I tell my story. I get lost in it.

And when I reach the opposite side of the room, I'm breathless.

Hannah's waiting for me. “Wow,” she says in a low voice. “That was . . . gorgeous.”

I blush. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Thanks.”

“You have to show me how you land those attitude turns. I never put my heel down at the right time. . . .”

We shift into talking technique, but my adrenaline doesn't fade. I sail through the waltz combination on the left side, and I dart through petit allegro, attacking each jump and beat with clean precision, and by the time we get to grand allegro—big leaps—I'm flying. I'm lighter than the thick, humid air in the studio, soaring so far above the floor, not even gravity can hold me down.

AFTER CLASS MS. LEVANOVA TAKES ME TO HER OFFICE. “Samantha,” she says, sitting down and crossing one leg gracefully over the other. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” It's true. The question is, how long will I keep feeling good? My high is fading fast. What Ms. Levanova is about to say could change everything.

Because what I discovered just now, in class—what I remembered, what I didn't realize I'd lost—is that I
have
to dance. It's my oxygen.

“I will be brief, because I have much to do today, to launch the intensive—and because I received a call from”—Ms. Levanova glances at a note on her desk—“a Dr. Debra Lancaster asking about you. You told no one you were coming here?”

“Not exactly—” I cringe. “Did she sound mad?”

“
Da
. You must talk to her.”

I nod. “Of course.”

She looks at me with narrowed eyes. “And you would never do something like this while at our intensive? You would not simply drive off one day, without warning? This is not allowed, Samantha.”

I gape at her. “No, I would never—”

Ms. Levanova waves her hand to cut me off. “Well then. Here is the situation. I cannot make a place for you this summer. I'm very sorry.”

She's so matter-of-fact that her words take a second to sink in.

“You are a very talented dancer, Samantha. Your dancing is not the reason that we have to say no.”

She's talking about your body. How fat you've become since she saw you last.

I clutch my shoe bag in front of my stomach. My eyes fill up.

“You know you will not find it easy to have a professional ballet career with your body type,” she goes on, and I feel like I'm living my worst nightmare in real time. “I'm sorry to be so blunt, but you must know this.”

She looks at me long enough that I realize she's expecting an answer.

And I can't deny the truth any longer. “I know.” A tear slips out. Glides down my cheek. Drips off onto my bare collarbone. I brush it away. “And it's not worth training someone who looks like me—”

“What?” She looks genuinely astonished. “Samantha, this is not why we say no.”

“What do you mean?”

“I fight for you,” she says, shrugging eloquently. “How can I not fight for someone with such talent and passion? Who drives, in secret, from another state, simply to have the chance to be seen? Why should you not get the excellent training we provide? But administration says we cannot allow you to join when the program is full. My hands are tied.” She touches her wrists together, extending them toward me to illustrate her words.

“Oh. Okay.” I start to stand up, ready to slink back to the dressing room, but she holds up her hand: a silent but commanding
Stay put
.

“Your body, for classical ballet—maybe it will not work. But does that mean you must stop dancing entirely? No!” She pounds the desk for emphasis. “If you must dance, and you feel that in here”—now she pounds her chest—“you find a way.”

As she talks, I see how she must have been as a performer, back in the day. Her power and her fire fill the small room.

“Ballet is not for everyone. This is the way it is. But
dance
—she is for everyone.”

I think about the conversation Dr. Lancaster and I had a week ago, when I realized that as much as I love ballet, ballet might not love me back.

“Are you saying I should quit ballet?”

Ms. Levanova looks affronted. “Of course not! Ballet is the root. She is the tree from which so many other forms grow. She is the backbone. You must not stop. But perhaps . . .”

I wait with bated breath. Perhaps
what
?

“Perhaps you must broaden your horizons. See what else there is.”

“But what if . . . what if I'm not good at anything else?”

“Nonsense. Good ballet training can go with you anywhere. Will you immediately become a contemporary dancer, or a modern dancer, or a jazz dancer? No, but that is why we study. That is why we practice. That is why we explore.” Now she has a mischievous look in her eyes. “Many of my colleagues would not give you this advice. They would say, ‘Ballet is all! To do anything else is to settle! To diminish yourself!'”

I can hear my mom saying those very things, minus the Russian accent. Mom is the main reason I've studied ballet and only ballet thus far. Maybe I'm not the only one who needs to broaden her horizons.

“I have been in the world of ballet a long time,” Ms. Levanova says. “Much longer than you. So you must trust what I'm saying.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Are you certain to have a career in another style of dance? No. You have only a small amount of control over the future. You could become injured. You could lose your
passion. You could discover something else that interests you more. But there is no reason not to try everything you can to reach a career, if it is your dream.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“On that note, I would like for you to meet someone.”

She gets up and goes out into the hallway. I hear voices, and then she returns with a younger African American woman.

“Samantha,” Ms. Levanova says, “this is Nicole Paxton. She is a former dancer with us, and she now directs a contemporary dance company in Atlanta. She is here to choreograph a ballet for our students. I asked her to look in on the class.”

I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Samantha.” Nicole perches on the edge of Ms. Levanova's desk, her long, muscular legs dangling down. “I'm gonna cut to the chase. I love the way you move. And I understand you're looking for summer training opportunities.”

I nod.

“My company's pretty new, and this is our first year hosting a summer intensive. I'd like to invite you to take part. Unfortunately, I can't offer you any sort of scholarship—it starts in two weeks, and we've given out all the funds we have. But I think you'd be a good fit for the work I do and could learn a lot. So what do you say?”

“It's—is it a ballet intensive?” I stammer out.

“Yes and no. It won't be what you'd get here. Less focus
on pure classical technique. We'll push you to move in a different way. Have you done much contemporary work?”

“Not really. My studio's pretty classical.”

“Well, you can't be a bunhead forever.” Nicole glances at Ms. Levanova like this is an inside joke between the two of them, and Ms. Levanova lets out a soft laugh.

“How soon do I have to let you know? I'm totally interested, but—”

But this isn't what you want,
my inner voice whispers
.

Contemporary dance, instead of classical ballet.

A new company holding its first-ever intensive, instead of the established, prestigious program I've dreamed of attending for years.

But Ms. Levanova said it flat out, and I have to admit that she's right: classical ballet might not be the place for me anymore. I had plans. Goals. But things changed. I changed. So maybe all that's left to do now is to let go.

Is that what “take the leap” really means?

“Talk to your folks about it,” Nicole says. “Can you let me know by Wednesday?” She stands, fishing around in her pocket. “Here's my card. Website, phone number—everything you need's on there.”

I take the card, running my fingers around its crisp edges. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by coming to the intensive and showing up ready to work.” With a wave of her hand, Nicole's out the door.

Ms. Levanova inclines her head at me, looking pleased.
“I hope is not too much of a consolation prize?”

“It's—it's a wonderful opportunity. Thank you.”

“You're quite welcome. Now I must make a few phone calls. And you—I understand you have a long drive ahead of you.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I stand and drop into a quick curtsy.

“I will see you at auditions for next summer.” It's not a question.

“Yes, ma'am,” I repeat, and she dismisses me with a wave.

Back in the dressing room, I don't change clothes right away. I sit on the thin wooden bench in front of the mirror, looking at myself. My carefully slicked-back hair is frizzing around my face. I have dark sweat patches on my leotard. And sitting down like this, my thighs are flat and wide and my stomach pooches out in that way I hate.

But I take a deep breath and try to see past my body parts, like Dr. Lancaster and I talked about. I try to see what got me into this intensive, the first time around. What made Ms. Levanova want to fight for me today. What made Nicole invite me to her intensive.

Nothing about this summer is working out how I wanted. But there's something new on the horizon. A new door opening. I just have to decide whether I want to leap through it.

ZOE'S WAITING FOR
me outside. “Did you get in?”

“No.”

She curses, turns on her heel, and storms off toward the parking garage where we left the van, muttering under her breath.

I race to catch up with her. “But,” I say, “I got something else.” I explain it to her, and she slows down to listen, and by the time we're inside the van, she's grinning again.

“You're gonna do it, right?”

“I don't know. . . .”

“Don't be an idiot. Go to the stupid intensive.” When I don't reply right away, she adds, “What else are you going to do the rest of the summer?”

“I could take private lessons at my home studio—”

“This whole intensive business is about getting to the next level, right?”

“Yes.”

“So the next level isn't exactly what you thought it'd be. So what?”

“You don't understand—”

“I understand that you're being ridiculous.” She turns the key in the ignition. “Fine. Throw away an unexpected opportunity that got handed to you on a silver platter. See if I care.”

I fasten my seat belt. “You really think I should go?”

“Look, I know nothing about ballet. Except what I saw in
Black Swan
, and you told me that doesn't count. But yeah, I think you should go. You'd be stupid not to.”

“Well, I wouldn't even have the choice without your help today. So thank you.”

“Don't thank me until we get back,” Zoe says. “Dr. Lancaster is
not
happy.”

“You talked to her?”

“She called my cell nine times in two hours. I decided to answer before she started checking hospitals and morgues.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, she's . . . not happy.”

“Well . . . how do we want to spend our last few hours of freedom?”

“Samantha Wagner, I do believe I'm rubbing off on you.”

“Maybe that's not such a bad thing.” I turn up the radio, and Zoe and I jam the whole way back to Crazy Camp. She drums on the steering wheel. I dance in my seat. We sing at the top of our lungs. And far too soon, we're turning onto the gravel driveway in front of the Perform at Your Peak house. Zoe slows to a crawl.

We pass two police cars. A campus security truck. And . . . my mom's car.

Then we can see the house. Everyone's waiting for us on the porch. Their heads spin in our direction.

“Good luck,” Zoe says, putting the van in park.

“You too.”