How It Feels to Fly (16 page)

Could he mean him and me? “I hope so.”

“I know so.” He bumps my arm. “We should catch up to the group.”

OUR TOUR OF
the house finishes with the servants' quarters, the gymnasium, and the swimming pool in the basement. Then we wander around the lush, well-manicured gardens until we can't stand the oppressive summer humidity one more minute. Finally we pile back into our Perform at Your Peak van.

I sit between Katie and Omar. I listen to them come up with our Biltmore alter egos. Apparently I'm Lady Samantha, a debutante on holiday from the English countryside. Lord Andrew is a distant Scottish cousin, in the States on business. I want to tell them about the adjoining bedrooms—how that must mean Andrew and I are husband and wife—but I can't figure out how to say it in a way that doesn't sound gross. Or like I have a crush on him.

And my inner voice is going at full throttle:

He's your camp counselor. He's too old for you. He has a girlfriend.

But he's kind and funny and strong and smart and
cute.
He gets me. He makes me smile. He puts me at ease. He's the last thing I expected to find at therapy camp, for so many reasons.

You're not pretty enough. Not thin enough. Not stable enough.

Zoe's kicking the back of my seat, like a four-year-old in an airplane. My inner voice syncs up with her feet:
No. No. No. No.

When we reach our house, it's dinnertime. Dr. Lancaster has ordered pizza. Cheese and veggie and meat lover's and Hawaiian. I grab a slice of veggie. The one that seems to have the least amount of cheese on it. I take it out to the back porch, breathe in deep, and eat it in twelve bites.

Andrew is sitting on the other side of the porch. With Zoe. They're deep in conversation. He's wearing the same attentive, sympathetic face he puts on when he and I talk about serious stuff. He's listening to her. Nodding. He leans toward her and says something, too low for me to hear. Not that I want to eavesdrop; this looks private. But . . . I want to know.

Is he like this with everyone? Am I stupid to think it's just me?

Yes. Stop being so stupid.

He's allowed to talk to other campers. In fact, it's his job as a peer adviser.

“Sam,” Jenna says, snapping me out of it. I look over at her. She's giving me a funny look. “Want to do a ballet barre?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. I need to get off this porch, away
from Andrew and Zoe, before I drive myself crazy. Crazier. I'm starting to think Zoe might be right, calling this place Crazy Camp.

Inside, I dance
hard
. Not because of my upcoming ballet intensive. Not because I have to burn away the slice of delicious pizza. Because of Andrew. I have to stop thinking about him.

I close my eyes for développés, imagining myself not in the Dogwood Room, not in a dance studio, but onstage. The lights are warm on my face, but the cavernous auditorium is empty. There's no one in the wings, no other dancers onstage with me, no orchestra in the pit, no audience out in the house staring back. I'm doing these développés for me. For only me.

I open my eyes when the exercise is done, facing the window as I stretch out my calves. It's twilight, and I can see my reflection in the glass. Ghostly, like on my first night here.

Over my shoulder, another ghost: Andrew.

He's standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Our eyes meet in the window, and I spin to face him, feeling my cheeks flush. My first instinct, like it so often is, is to run from the room. But his eyes hold me where I am.

The seconds we look at each other feel longer. They slow and warp and stretch. And then he gives me a thumbs-up and continues down the hall.

I feel like a tiny piece of me trails after him.

YASMIN FINDS ME IN THE BATHROOM THE NEXT morning. “Sam?”

I startle at her voice. I've gotten used to being by myself in the mornings. Getting up early so nobody will see me shower or change clothes. It's weird to have to interact with someone before I make the choice to go downstairs.

“You have a phone call. It's your mom.”

I meet her eyes in the mirror. “My mom? At seven thirty?”

“Yeah. She says it's important.”

I put my makeup in my shower caddy and follow her to Dr. Lancaster's office.

“Andrew and I are in the kitchen, if you need us,” Yasmin says. And if I wasn't nervous before, her gentle tone of voice does it.

I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Samantha. You've been ignoring my phone calls.”

“Mom, I—”

“I shouldn't have to catch you by surprise first thing in the morning in order to have the privilege of speaking with my daughter.”

“I know. It's just been so busy here, and—”

“I miss you, Samantha,” she says, softening. “It's nice to hear your voice.”

“It's nice to hear your voice too.” I have to force the words out. My chest is tight.

“Tell me what you've been up to.”

“Well, yesterday we went to the Biltmore Estate—”

“That sounds like fun. But I meant, what kind of discussions are you and Dr. Lancaster having? Have you been given any strategies to deal with your panic? Your summer intensive starts in two weeks, you know. You need to be ready, especially since you'll be joining a week late. All of the other girls will have a leg up.”

“I know.”

“Have you been exercising every day? And have you been improving your eating habits? I don't want to hear any more about spaghetti and meatballs. . . .” She says that last bit in a joking way, but I know she's completely serious.

I answer her questions. But I don't tell her everything.

I don't tell Mom that Dr. Lancaster and I talked about
her
. Or how much I've been thinking about the things she says to me. Or how anxious this call is making me.

I also don't mention Andrew. Not even in the context
of a random guy I might like. Mom wouldn't approve. She didn't like me dating Marcus, either. It may have had something to do with him asking me out while she was finalizing her divorce from Dad, but that wasn't the only reason. She likes to remind me that boys are a distraction from what really matters. She says I'll have plenty of time to date once I've joined a ballet company—which is probably not even true. I think she was a little relieved when Marcus broke up with me.

And that hurt. A lot.

When Mom starts in on ballet gossip—which of my classmates start their summer intensives today, which choreographers Miss Elise is planning to bring to our studio in the coming year, how many students my intensive accepts into the school's year-round program annually—I can't listen anymore.

“Mom,” I say, stopping her midsentence, “I have to go.”

“Your first session doesn't start until eight thirty. We still have seven minutes. And I'm already at work.”

“Dr. Lancaster is calling me,” I lie.

“Oh. Well, we'll talk tonight then.”

“No, we won't.” I surprise myself by saying it. And I immediately start backtracking. “We have a weird schedule today. I'm not sure what time I'll be available—actually it's that way all week, and I'd hate for you to keep calling and missing me—so, um. Why don't we just talk on Saturday?”

“Saturday.” Mom sounds so disappointed.

“I'm eating well, I'm working out every day, and I think
I just”—I gulp and come out with it—“I need a little space. While I'm here.”

“Space.”

“Yeah. So I can figure everything out.”

There's a long silence on the other end of the line. I want to fill it, but I force myself to hold out. I've said what I need to say, and I absolutely don't want to make things worse.

“All right,” Mom finally says. “If that's what you need. But I'm trusting you to stay on track. And to be honest with me.”

“I will. And thanks.”

“Have a good day, Samantha. I love you.”

“I love you too.” I hang up and sit there for a few seconds, feeling exhilarated and relieved. And antsy. I've never stood up to Mom like that. I've never felt like I needed to. I meant what I told Dr. Lancaster: Mom and I are a team. But maybe it's okay to need to take a break from your teammate. To have some time apart. To get some air.

I close my eyes and do some of the breathing exercises Yasmin taught us on Friday. I don't know what the day is going to bring, but I don't want to start it feeling wound up like this. In fact, I want to set a goal for myself. “I will not have a panic attack this week,” I whisper. “No panic attacks.” Inhale. “No panic attacks.” Exhale.

I'm interrupted a couple minutes later by a knock at the door. I jump to my feet, brushing myself off and straightening my tank top. I swing the door open.

It's Andrew. “Hey. You okay?”

I nod, trying not to look like my entire body has lit up because he's standing in front of me. Even though it has.

“I'm glad.” He holds out a mug of black coffee. “Thought you might need this.”

I take it, giving him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“Missed you this morning.” He bumps my shoulder, and I grip the coffee so it doesn't slosh.

He missed me. I feel my smile widening, and I bring the mug up to my lips to hide it. “Yeah, I had to talk to my mom. . . .”

“I know. Yasmin said she sounded upset. Everything all right?”

I think about the six days of freedom I have in front of me. “It will be.”

“Awesome. Well, we better get in there.” He nudges me again, and we head into the Dogwood Room.

“Good morning, Sam,” Dr. Lancaster says as I sit between Dominic and Zoe.

“Morning. Sorry I'm late.”

Dr. Lancaster looks at my coffee. “Did you get a chance to eat?”

“No, but I'm okay—”

“Yasmin will get you something.” Dr. Lancaster nods at Yasmin, who leaves the room and returns with a plate of food. A waffle topped with fresh strawberries, blueberries, and honey. I stare at it.
No panic attacks this week
, I remind myself
.

I look up to see Dr. Lancaster looking at me. She pushes me with her eyes. So I cut a square of waffle, stab a strawberry, and shove it in my mouth. It's good. Crispy on the outside and buttery in the middle. The strawberry is fresh and tart and the honey glides down my throat. I cut another square, this time with a blueberry on top. I wonder how many squares Dr. Lancaster will make me eat.

“Now that you know a little bit about each other and your respective struggles, we're going to spend the coming week doing what I call challenges,” Dr. Lancaster says. “These are activities that focus in on or simulate an issue one or more of you is battling. For instance, the ropes course we did on Thursday became a specific challenge for Katie, even though you all participated—and, I hope, benefited from it.”

I'm chewing on waffle square number three. Now it tastes dry. The honey is too sticky. The blueberry bursts in my mouth like a sour bomb.

“We'll be using resources around campus, and my colleagues in the psychology department will step in when we need additional people involved,” Dr. Lancaster goes on. “They're all trained mental health professionals, bound by confidentiality, so you can breathe easy knowing you're in good hands.” She consults her notepad. “Tomorrow morning we'll head to the football field for Dominic's challenge. Then we'll go to the film department's screening room for Jenna's challenge. Wednesday we'll do Zoe's tennis challenge first, followed by a cooking challenge for Sam. Thursday we'll walk over to the college's theater for Omar's challenge. And
on Sunday, we'll return to the ropes course so that Katie can cross the suspended beams again.”

“Cooking?” I ask. “What does that have to do with—”

“You'll see,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Now, did you all bring your notebooks?”

Everyone holds theirs up. When I raise my hand to say that I don't have mine, Zoe thrusts it into my face. “Here. I swear, I didn't read it.”

I don't know whether to believe her. But I smile, out of habit, and say, “Thanks!”

“I want you all to spend a few minutes brainstorming about what motivates you. Then we'll discuss as a group.”

I put my partially eaten waffle on the floor by my chair and flip to a blank page. I start jotting down ideas. And I find myself thinking in images instead of words. Like I want to make another collage, instead of just a written list.

An empty dance studio, waiting to be filled with life and movement.

A pair of perfectly broken in pointe shoes.

The view from the stage, past the bright stage lights, into the blackness of the auditorium.

Me at six, in my favorite pink leotard with the ruffly skirt.

Me last December, in my Dewdrop Fairy costume.

A piano, to represent the music that moves me: Tchaikovsky's
Swan Lake.
Prokofiev's
Romeo and Juliet.
Arvo Pärt's
Spiegel im Spiegel
, the haunting score to the pas de deux from Christopher Wheeldon's
After the Rain
.

But how do I show the exhilaration of finally mastering a challenging step or phrase or variation? How do I show the triumph of pushing yourself beyond what you ever thought you could do? How do I show the feeling of being someone else—some
thing
else—onstage? Something better than yourself, something stronger, and richer, and fuller, and more beautiful?

THAT AFTERNOON, DR.
Lancaster has me pull out the body-part lists I made—what I like and dislike about myself. She doesn't miss the fact that I was grasping at straws when it came to things I like. I wrote that I have nice fingernails. And that it's great that my leg hair grows slowly, because I don't have to shave too often.

“I'm going to ask you some questions,” she says. “Let's see if we can't reframe some of these negatives as positives.”

“Sure,” I say, humoring her. “Why not.”

“Thick thighs,” she reads. “What about
powerful
thighs? Do they help you jump?”

“I guess. But there are people with thinner legs who can jump just as high.”

“Big breasts and wide hips. Isn't it normal for someone your age to start developing a more womanly figure?”

I shudder at the words “womanly figure.” “Not for a serious ballet dancer.”

“Does your strong core support you during difficult balances and partnering?”

“My strong core—” I grab the notebook from her, wanting
to make sure my list didn't change while I wasn't looking. Nope, it still says
Stomach—how it pooches out even when I hold it in.
“Now you're just making stuff up.”

“So you don't think you have a strong core?”

“No, I do. I wouldn't be able to do half of what I can do without it. It's just all this”—I pinch at my layer of chub for emphasis, and then drop it, horrified at myself—“that I hate.”

“What's more important: what your body looks like, or what it can do?”

Her question feels like a trap. “They're both important.”

“But do you value one more than the other?”

“Ballet is a visual art. It's about shapes in space. The transitions between shapes. But it's also about the bodies that are creating those shapes. What they look like.”

“So you feel like only thin bodies belong onstage.”

“That's not what I said.” She's twisting my words. “And it's not about what I think belongs onstage. It's about what ballet company directors want. What audiences expect to see.”

In a nutshell: not you.

“When did you start seeing yourself the way you think everyone else sees you?”

It takes me a second to figure out what she's asking. Which came first: my hatred of myself and the changes my body was going through, or my realization that other people didn't like how I looked? Chicken or egg?

I remember a specific ballet class this past winter. After barre, I took my usual place in the front right corner of the
studio for center exercises. Not the middle of the room, generally reserved for juniors and seniors, but still in the first row. I danced where I could see myself in the mirror. Where I could be seen. Back then, I
liked
being seen.

We started our adagio exercise, filled with one-legged balances and high extensions. As I développéd my leg up toward the ceiling, I noticed something. A small roll at my waist, like my thigh was pushing against excess flesh. I frowned at it, and then carried my leg to arabesque a count late.

Miss Elise called out, “Watch your timing, Sam!”

But I couldn't stop watching my waist. Every movement wrinkled it in a new way. A forward port de bras gave me a pinch in the front, while an arching cambré gave me a lump of back fat. It felt like I was staring at a creature in a zoo. Or an alien. Not at the reflection I'd watched in daily ballet classes for almost ten years.

I finished the combination and stood in fifth position, breathing hard. My eyes darted around the room. In a matter of seconds, my body had become something unfamiliar and unwelcome. But had anyone else noticed?

A few weeks later, without telling me beforehand, my mom scheduled an appointment with the nutritionist who gave annual talks at our studio. He reminded me that the body is a dancer's instrument and that eating well is like rolling out tight muscles and bathing in Epsom salts—a way to be your healthiest, best-performing self.

I heard:
You're getting fat.

My mom sat in the corner, nodding along. She stuck the charts and lists he gave me on our fridge at home, in the same place of honor where she used to put my crayon drawings of flowers and dinosaurs. Looking at the food pyramid later that night, I had my first panic attack.