How It Feels to Fly (17 page)

Dr. Lancaster is still waiting for me to answer her. “I don't know,” I whisper.

“Tell me what you do know.”

I think for a second. “I know that I love ballet.”

“Good—”

“I just don't know if ballet loves me back.”

We sit in silence for another long second.

“Is it okay for me to love ballet, if ballet doesn't love me back?” My voice is still hushed. I feel like I'm getting at the crux of something big.

“I can't answer that for you, Sam. I wish I could, but there are some things you have to figure out for yourself.”

“It would be easier if I didn't care so much.”

“That may be true.”

“But I don't want to care less. I wouldn't be me if I cared less.”

Dr. Lancaster leans forward in her chair. “So how do you hold on to your love for your art, while also finding a way to love your body? Can those two loves coexist?”

With that million-dollar question, she sends me on my way.

I'M STILL THINKING ABOUT HER QUESTION ON Tuesday morning, as we walk across campus to the football field for Dominic's challenge. Why do I continue to love something that gives me panic attacks? That makes me despise almost every inch of myself? And if I
can
start to accept my current body and how it will change my future, like Dr. Lancaster wants me to—a huge “if”—will I still love ballet just as much? Or will it become
this thing I used to do
?

I don't want that. But I don't want the panic or the self-hatred, either.

“What are you thinking about?” It's Katie. She's fallen into step with me.

“Something Dr. Lancaster and I talked about yesterday.”

“Ah. Say no more.” A beat. “Unless you want to? But no pressure.”

“How do you . . . ?” I wish it was Andrew beside me and not Katie. Not only because of my crush on him, but also because this is something I know he'll understand. “How do you know when it's time to quit?”

“Like, quit ballet?” Katie says. “That escalated quickly.”

“I'm not exactly planning on it. But what would make you quit gymnastics?”

She doesn't hesitate. “If I didn't enjoy it anymore, I'd stop.”

“But how do you know when you're at that point?”

“I think I'd . . . know. Maybe I wouldn't want to practice. I'd resent having to get up early to go to the gym. I wouldn't feel like trying my best at meets.”

“That makes sense.”

“Do you still enjoy dancing?”

“Yeah. But it's hard with all this other stuff in my head. . . .”

“Totally.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence.

And then we're on the field. It's not a huge stadium, but in the bright morning sunshine, surrounded by empty seats, it makes me feel small.

It doesn't have the same effect on Dominic. He puffs out his chest and starts strutting around like he owns the place. “My high school stadium is bigger than this,” he says. Then he yells into the air, “Please welcome . . . Your! State! Champions!” He imitates the roar of the crowd and jogs to the fifty-yard line, waving.

Dr. Lancaster walks out from under the home-side stands. There are three men with her, each holding a clipboard and wearing a polo shirt for an SEC school: Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee. After what Dr. Lancaster said yesterday, I know they're not real recruiters; they're psychology professors. Still, they look pretty official. Their presence changes the energy in the air.

“Uh, hi,” Dominic says to the men. Dr. Lancaster gives him a look, and he sticks out his hand. “Nice to meet you guys.”

“Nice to meet you, son,” the man in the Alabama shirt says. “Why don't you run some drills? Show us what you've got.”

“Yes, sir,” Dominic says. He jogs in place, rolling his shoulders and his head around. “But, uh, who am I supposed to play with?”

Tennessee-shirt points at the rest of us. “Looks like your team's right there.”

I jump, and Omar blurts, “What?”

Dominic looks from us to the fake scouts and back again at us, frowning. “They don't know anything about football.”

“So teach 'em,” Georgia-shirt says. “Give us something to watch.”

“Great. Uh, huddle up,” Dominic says, drawing us into a tight circle. “Katie, Zoe, we've thrown the ball around, so, uh, I know you don't suck at catching it. You'll be my receivers. Sam, Jenna, Omar, you'll be the other team. Your job is to, um, stop Katie and Zoe from catching the ball. And stop
me from throwing it.” He makes a frustrated noise, looking over at Andrew, who's standing off to the side with Yasmin. “This is nuts.”

Andrew grins. “Just go with it.”

So Dominic does. He sets us up in formation on the field. Gives us instructions. Yells, “Hike!” We run. Omar goes toward Dominic, but stops short and ducks as Dominic rears back to throw. Jenna's chasing Katie and I'm chasing Zoe. She's faster than me. And yet not fast enough—the ball sails past her and hits the ground.

I see Dominic glance at the clipboards on the sidelines and wince. He calls out, “Bring it back in! We're running that play again.”

We do. Again and again and again.

And all of a sudden, Dominic snaps.

“I told you to go
long
, Zoe. Do you even freakin' know what that means? It means to run far and fast. And then to catch the stupid ball!”

Zoe's eyes are narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“You're not even listening to me. When the quarterback tells you to do something, you freakin' do it!” He throws the ball at her, hard. “Catch this!”

It drops into her arms and she makes a surprised
oof
noise.

“Okay, so you
can
catch it,” Dominic sneers. “Good to know.” He turns to the rest of us. I take an involuntary step back. This is not the Dominic we've seen over the past week. I don't know who this person is. “Huddle up. We're starting over—”

Zoe slams into him. “You total—” She calls him a few choice names, shoving him with each one. “You know what? This doesn't matter! Football doesn't matter! Your whole life is
so
not important. When are you gonna get that through your thick head—”

“It matters to me!” he shouts. I can tell he wants to shove her back, but he's restraining himself. Andrew steps in between them, but they keep yelling around him.

“This”—Zoe gestures at the stadium, the field, Dominic—“it's just a stupid game, and you need to get over yourself—”

“It's not just a game!” Dominic's mouth is twisted and his face is red and he's breathing hard. “It's—it's—”

“It's
what
?”

Dominic sits down on the ground. Puts his head in his hands. He doesn't speak for a long moment. Then I realize that he's crying. He curses, and says, wiping angrily at his face, “It's my future. Okay?” He drops his head in his hands again.

Andrew gives Zoe a look. “Don't move.” He crouches next to Dominic, talking quietly.

“Are you okay?” Yasmin asks Omar, who looks like he's about to cry too. He nods fast, gulping. “Katie?” She nods. Yasmin looks to me. “Sam?” I nod.

Zoe lets out a guttural roar. She stomps over to Dr. Lancaster and yells, “I did not start that. You saw him! It wasn't me! And he shouldn't have started something he didn't want to finish, anyway—”

Dr. Lancaster steers Zoe off to the sidelines, talking to her in a low, firm voice.

I notice that the men with the clipboards have disappeared.

“Let's go sit down,” Yasmin says, putting one arm around my shoulders and the other around Jenna's. We walk with her to the bleachers. Katie and Omar follow. We sit.

“Wow,” Jenna says after a few minutes, her voice tight.

“Wow,” I agree. Of all of us, Dominic seemed the most chill, the most . . . normal. But he told us last week he needed to be here. We just hadn't seen why.

Andrew helps Dominic to his feet. He picks up the football and holds it in front of Dominic, and Dominic nods. They jog away from each other, and Andrew fires off a pass. The ball soars high and long. Dominic runs until he's underneath it, and it drops into his hands. He sends it flying back.

Next to me, Jenna is uncharacteristically fidgety. She smooths back her ponytail, then adjusts her tank top, then dabs at her face with a tissue, then fixes her hair again. And I remember: her challenge is next.

“How are you doing?” I ask her.

She blinks at me. “Fine.”

I hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“Mm-hmm.” She squints at me, shading her eyes. “You're getting sunburned.”

I move the strap of my tank top to check. She's right. “Good thing we're going inside soon.”

“Good thing,” she echoes, running her fingers over her ponytail another time.

Dr. Lancaster comes over to us a few minutes later,
Zoe trailing behind her. “Everyone okay? We're due at the screening room in fifteen minutes.”

“We're still going through with Jenna's challenge?” Omar says. “After . . . that?” His voice rises to a squeak, and he clears his throat.

“Jenna, are you all right to proceed?” Dr. Lancaster asks.

“Mm-hmm.” Her throat sounds even tighter than before, but she gets to her feet.

IN THE FILM
department's screening room, Dr. Lancaster sets Jenna up at a podium in front of the giant video screen. Jenna grips the sides of the podium like it's the only thing keeping her on her feet. Her eyes are wide and her lips are pressed into a thin line.

“Do you think she's going to freak out like Dominic did?” Katie whispers from the seat next to me.

“I hope not.” For her sake and for ours. I feel so on edge right now, and I know I'm not the only one. Katie, Omar, and I are all in the second row together, and our nerves jangle in the air around us. Dominic and Andrew are behind us, and Yasmin and Zoe are five rows farther back, in the corner. I imagine I can feel Zoe seething and sulking from all the way back there.

The AC is blasting. I'm shivering, despite my sunburned shoulders, as I watch Dr. Lancaster fuss with the wires connecting the laptop to the projector. Finally she gets the screen to flicker to life. As it comes into focus, I see that it's an online video site. The thumbnail image is of a skater in a
royal-blue dress, bent almost in half as she spins.

Dr. Lancaster steps up to the microphone. “I'm excited to introduce today's very special guest commentator,” she says, and Katie looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Jenna Lai is here to dissect a few skating videos for us. She'll be telling us each and every
good
and
correct
thing the skater does, so we know what to look for when we're watching skating in the future.”

The lights dim. The video begins. The skater takes her opening pose at center ice. Her routine is to Gershwin's
Rhapsody in Blue
, and she starts by skating in a slow, luxurious circle, arms floating down to her sides. Then she travels backward, building up speed.

Jenna takes in a shaky breath. The microphone picks it up. “Jackie's known for having really solid short programs,” she says. “Her energy grows in a nice way. She has a tough jump combination coming up here. I think it's a triple lutz, double loop. . . .”

On-screen, Jackie launches herself into the air, spins three times, lands, jumps again, spins twice, and lands in an arabesque, a triumphant look on her face.

“That was a strong landing,” Jenna tells us as Jackie does a footwork pass across the ice. “Here comes another jump combination. . . .” We all watch. “And she sticks it again. She's skating so cleanly. And look at the fluidity in her arm movements. . . .”

Jenna talks us through the rest of the video, and then three more routines, sounding more and more at ease as
she goes. She's almost clinical, the way she breaks down what's successful about each program. For one skater, it's all about flexibility. “Look at how straight her knee is in that arabesque!” Jenna says. For another, it's the passion she displays. “She wobbled there,” Jenna points out, “but you feel her fire.”

And then a video cues up that makes Jenna grab onto the podium again. “Um,” she says, a crack in her voice. “That's me.”

I sit forward in my chair.

“It is you,” Dr. Lancaster agrees. “And I'd like you to dissect the video for us, just like you did with the others.”

“But—” Jenna breaks off, looking lost.

On-screen, Jenna takes her opening pose. And in front of us, Jenna stumbles through an introduction. “This is my—it's Jenna's first time skating this routine on competitive ice. I got a—
she
has a new choreographer, with an increased focus on ballet technique. You can tell because of the . . . because of . . .” She watches herself start to skate. “Her arm movements are much more fluid than they used to be.”

Skater-Jenna steps into a spin, her deep pink skirt fluttering behind her. She arches back, one leg lifted behind her, arms reaching for the sky. The effect is like a water lily swirling in a stream.

“Her arms—” Jenna says. “Her hands, they're—she—” The spin is done. Skater-Jenna starts picking up speed for a jump. “Okay, she's going to do a triple loop, double
loop. She's going to try, anyway. Her preparation is strong, and . . .”

I feel like we all hold our breath as skater-Jenna launches herself into the air.

It looks good to me, but Jenna frowns. “She under-rotated the triple, so her preparation for the double was off—”

Dr. Lancaster clears her throat and Jenna blanches.

“But she saved it,” she says quickly. “She won't necessarily lose component points. Um, there's a footwork sequence coming up. Jenna's been working on speed and clarity in her footwork. . . .” She keeps talking, through gritted teeth, until her on-screen self falls on a jump near the end of the program. Then she full-body winces and clamps her mouth shut.

Dr. Lancaster pauses the video with skater-Jenna scrambling up from the ice. “Tell us what's happening, Jenna,” she says.

Jenna shakes her head, staring at the screen. Horror and disgust flicker across her features. “There is absolutely nothing good I can say about that.”

“Take a moment. Think.”

Jenna shifts from foot to foot. She closes her eyes. And she chokes out, “That's a new jump combination for Jenna. A lot of senior ladies don't have that one in their repertoire yet.”

“Good.”

The video continues. Skater-Jenna does a final sit-spin, jumps up, and glides to a stop. The crowd applauds, but
when the camera goes to close-up on her face, she's wearing the same guarded expression she had when she first got here.

And she's wearing it now. “Are we done?”

“I'd like to go through a few more,” Dr. Lancaster says, cueing up the next video.