How It Feels to Fly (27 page)

“WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS?” DR. LANCASTER LOOKS from me to Zoe and back to me again. Her expression is etched in stone.

“Mine,” I say.

Zoe's quick to add, “But I'm the one who stole your keys and drove the van. I took our phones out of your desk, too.” I don't know if she's trying to protect me from Dr. Lancaster's anger or if she wants to make sure she gets credit for the part she played. Maybe both.

Outside, in the hallway, I hear my mom yelling. “I am going in there to speak to my daughter!”

“Mrs. Wagner.” Yasmin's voice. “I'm sorry, but you need to stay out here—”

“You're lucky I'm not suing you! I still might!” There's a sharp knock at the door. The handle jiggles. “I'm taking Samantha home now,” my mom says through the thick wood.

“I'm leaving?” I say to Dr. Lancaster. “The camp isn't done.”

“It is for you,” she answers. “For both of you. Zoe, your parents are on their way. They were delayed by a luncheon your mom had to attend today.”

“Of course they were,” Zoe grumbles. But then she brightens. “We're getting kicked out! We did it! Third strike's the charm!”

I blanch. “I didn't exactly want to get sent home.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that,” Dr. Lancaster says, “before you stole a van and drove off to God-knows-where without telling anyone.”

“I know, but—I had to.” I lean forward in my chair, toward Dr. Lancaster, needing her to understand. “I didn't do this to cause trouble, even though I know it did.” The police cars outside are evidence of that, never mind my mom's shouts about lawsuits. “I did it because I had to go to that intensive. I had to try. I had to show them what I'm capable of. I had to show
myself
what I'm capable of. I had to”—what I'm about to say is a cheap shot, but it's the truth—“I had to
take the leap
, like you told me.”

“Not quite what I meant, Sam.” Dr. Lancaster's voice is tight.

“Maybe not, but it worked! I didn't get to stay at the intensive—obviously, I'm here now. But I got invited to another program, and I think I'm going to go.”

I'm talking fast. If I'm about to get dragged out of this room and driven home in disgrace, at least I can tell Dr.
Lancaster how much I appreciate her first.

“I couldn't have gotten through today without you, and without this place. I did some of Yasmin's breathing when I got anxious, and I said my power statement in the dressing room before class, and I didn't run away even when I wanted to. Even when I was so intimidated by all of the other girls there. How perfect they looked. That's all really great progress, right?”

“Yes, but the fact remains that—”

“And I had . . . I guess you could call it an epiphany? I really don't like feeling like things are out of my control, and they have been for so long, and I was trying to make everything better, but I couldn't. But today, I took control. And the crazy thing is, it didn't work out the way I wanted it to, but maybe it worked out the way it was supposed to. Or maybe there is no ‘supposed to,' because things just happen and you deal with them and keep moving forward—”

“Sam—”

“And maybe I have to figure out what I can control and what I can't, so I can focus on the right things.” I'm out of breath. “Is that right?”

Dr. Lancaster presses her fingertips into her temples where her blond hair is graying. “Zoe, would you wait outside for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” Zoe stands. “Thanks for the adventure, Ballerina Barbie. And keep in touch. Isn't that what you're supposed to say at the end of summer camp?”

I laugh. “I will. I promise.”

Zoe nods at me, salutes Dr. Lancaster, and then leaves.

“Well,” Dr. Lancaster says as the door clicks shut.

“I'm sorry, again. Not that I went, because like I said, I had to. But for all of this.” I gesture at the door, at everything outside this office. I can't hear my mom yelling anymore, but that's not necessarily a good thing. She only yells when she's really, really mad—and the silence that comes next is the eye of the storm. “When do I have to leave?”

“As soon as we're done here.”

“Oh.” I wait for her to tell me to go, but she doesn't speak again right away.

Instead, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen. It's a text from Bianca:

Just out of rehearsal. WHAT'S GOING ON?!?! Your mom left me four messages. Call me!

“Something important?” Dr. Lancaster asks, in a voice that must be the closest to sarcasm she's able to get.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. Bianca
is
important. More than I've let her know. “But I can answer it later.”

“Is there anything else you'd like to discuss with me?”

We spend a few minutes talking about how I felt before ballet class, during class, and after. I finally tell her about my nasty inner voice. How it's still there, always there, and how sometimes it's louder and sometimes it's softer, and how this morning I was able to start telling it to stop. And we touch
on my issues with control. My epic realization that maybe everything—my anxiety, my body image issues, all of it—comes from wanting to feel in control.

“So now that I figured that out, am I cured?” I joke.

“I'm going to recommend that you keep speaking to a therapist when you get home. I have a few contacts in your area. I'll send you their names and numbers.” She makes a note on her legal pad. “If your anxiety persists, you might also benefit from medication to help you manage it.”

“Oh.”

“But overall, I'm pleased with your progress. The girl I met two weeks ago would never have done what you did today.”

“No kidding.”

She's quiet for a few moments. “You know, I studied dance for a number of years growing up. I truly do love ballet. It's such a wonderful art form.”

My mouth drops open. “Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

“Because we weren't here to talk about me; we were here to talk about you.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Would knowing I used to dance have distracted you?”

I think about that. “Yeah, probably.” I needed her to be impartial. Otherwise I never would've opened up.

“Regardless, my experience wasn't like yours. I wasn't going to be a professional dancer. I didn't have the talent. But my love for the art form eventually led me here.”

This is game-changing information. But whereas with Andrew, I had to rethink every conversation we shared, I've just learned that Dr. Lancaster understood me better than I
ever gave her credit for. “Thanks for telling me now,” I say.

“You're welcome.” She stands and shakes my hand. “Best of luck.”

MOM WANTS TO
get on the road immediately, but I can't leave without saying good-bye. I tell her I need to make sure I didn't forget anything upstairs in the bedroom or bathroom, and wave for Katie and Jenna to follow me.

“So?” Katie hisses the second we're out of sight. “How did it go?”

I give them the short version of the story, and when I'm done, Katie squeals and throws her arms around me.

“We knew you could do it!”

“Congratulations, Sam.” Jenna smiles.

“It stinks that you have to leave, though,” Katie says. “Also . . . your mom is scary.”

I laugh out loud. “She kind of is. It's gonna be a long ride home.”

We quickly exchange contact information. Then my mom starts calling me from downstairs. I can't stall any longer. On my way out the door, I wave at Zoe, who's sitting with Yasmin in the hall next to Dr. Lancaster's office. I hug Dominic and Omar and tell them to get my info from Katie and Jenna. I get one more hug from Katie and, to my surprise, a small squeeze from Jenna. And then the front door closes behind me, and my mom and I are walking down the front steps and across the gravel driveway to her sedan.

She's giving me the silent treatment. Never a good sign.
It's only a matter of time before she boils over.

It happens just after we cross the state line into Tennessee. “What were you
thinking
, Samantha? I did
not
raise you to behave like this. Running away? Stealing a van? And what's this I hear about you getting one of your counselors fired by hitting on him? Explain yourself.”

The guilt over what happened with Andrew rushes back in. Will he have to change his major? Will Dr. Lancaster blacklist him from ever getting a job? I wasn't the only one who got hurt, and I can't even talk to him to apologize.

“That camp was supposed to help you,” Mom goes on. “It was supposed to further your career aspirations. Not turn you into a juvenile delinquent.” She says, louder, “You stole a van!”

“We brought it back—”

“Do you think this is funny?” She looks at me, and then back at the road, and then at me, and then back at the road. “Do you know how hard I worked to pay for your training this summer? Two jobs! I put in so many twelve-hour days! And you're willing to let it all slip away. No—you're
throwing
it away. You're—”

“That's why I did it, Mom! Because I'm
not
willing to let it slip away! You should be proud of me for going today. For making them give me another chance.”

“I'd be prouder if you'd been accepted.”

I sit back, gasping, like she slapped me. “What?”

Mom looks like she's been slapped too. She's gone white. “I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I was angry, and it just . . . came out.”

I stare at her, and I find the words I've been holding back for months. “You can't talk to me like that. Not anymore.”

“Samantha, I—”

“It's not helping me. In fact, it really hurts me.”

“You know I've never said anything like that before—”

“Not exactly like that, no. But . . .” There are so many examples I could give her. So many backhanded compliments. So many harsh critiques. “You keep telling me that I need thick skin to be a professional ballerina.”

“And I believe that to be true—”

“Well, I'm probably not going to be a professional ballerina, Mom. You and I both have to accept that.”

“But—”

“And I don't need you to thicken my skin. I need you to support me.”

“What do you call working extra hours to pay for your training and your therapy? And giving you private coaching? I've done nothing
but
support and encourage you—”

“Not the way I needed it.”

“Well, why didn't you tell me what you needed?” Mom sounds like she's on the verge of tears. She's strangling the steering wheel.

“I didn't know what I needed.”

“And now you do?”

“I'm starting to, yeah.” I'm choked up too. “The past couple months have been . . . really hard. And it would be great if you could, I don't know, acknowledge that. And
maybe tell me I'm awesome from time to time, instead of always telling me I'm fat.”

“I've never told you you're fat!”

“Yes, you have. Maybe you didn't use that word, but . . . yeah.”

There's a long silence from the driver's side.

“Do you want to talk about what happens when we get home?” Mom finally asks, hesitant now. “I put in a few phone calls to private coaches after we spoke on Friday, and I have some leads. Or is that . . . not what you need?”

I take in a shaky breath. The air filling my lungs tastes sweet. Almost . . . hopeful.

“Actually, I know what I want to do.” I tell her about Nicole's contemporary dance intensive. How she saw me in class and invited me personally. “It starts in two weeks. It's not classical ballet. But maybe it's time for me to see what it's like outside the ballet bubble.”

Mom's blinking a lot. “Is this really what you want?”

“I think so, yeah. At least, I want to try it out. It's a great opportunity.”

She's quiet for another long moment. Then, sounding defeated: “I want you to succeed. You know that, right?”

I nod. “But maybe I need to learn how to be happy first.”

When she doesn't say anything more, I turn on the radio. It's playing one of the songs Zoe and I jammed out to this morning. I don't jam out this time. I just listen. I stare out the window. I watch the miles tick by toward home.

I FOCUS ON THE MOVEMENT. MY ARMS EXTENDING away from my shoulders. My back curving and arcing. My knees bending and straightening. My feet pressing into the floor.

It's the first day of Nicole's summer intensive, and yes, I'm anxious. I'm surrounded by the unfamiliar. Dancers I've just met. A new city. A daily schedule filled with dance styles I've barely studied. Even my wardrobe feels strange. Instead of my usual leotard, pink tights, and pointe shoes, I'm in a tank top, leggings, and ankle socks. My hair's in a ponytail instead of a bun.

But the movement, this first-thing-in-the-morning ballet barre—
that
I know. So I'm throwing myself into it. Body, mind, and heart.

My new therapist, Dr. Chen, has me thinking a lot about what I can control and what I can't. We had three sessions
in the two weeks I was home, and I'll be talking to her on the phone twice a week while I'm here. The next time we chat, I'm supposed to report in: Did I latch onto something outside my control? Did I feel the downward spiral start? Was there an instance when I allowed myself to let go and move forward?

I'm not good at letting go and moving forward. Not yet.

I'm still so attached to
Before
. So anxious about
After
.

But I'm working on changing. I'm trying to focus on
Now
.

I watch Nicole demonstrate the next barre combination. I memorize the choreography and perform it to the best of my ability. I trust my years of training. I try to keep my mind open.

This is what I can control.

Someone in the room might be staring at me. Might be judging me.

That, I can't control.

The prickling at the back of my neck, the way my pulse speeds up, the sudden desire to run away, to hide . . . I know how to respond.

I face the barre while Nicole talks to the accompanist. I close my eyes and I breathe in deep, counting to five with each inhale and exhale. I murmur, “My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful. I am taking the leap. And it's going to be
amazing
.”

Dr. Chen suggested that last bit.

The music starts. I put my left hand on the barre. Stand in fifth position. And I begin to move.

I HAVE A
few phone calls to make that night. Promises to keep—not only to the people I'm calling, but also to myself. If being open about what's going on inside my head is supposed to be the new normal, I have to start as soon as possible.

First, a brief check-in with my mom. We've been on eggshells around each other since that tense car ride home from Perform at Your Peak, but I can tell she's been trying. She brought up my diet only once in the past two weeks, and she let me cook dinner twice. She also let me rest at home for a few days instead of pushing me into a ton of extra ballet classes right away. When I said I was ready to go to the studio, she drove me—and then went to the grocery store instead of staying to watch me dance. She's even signed up for some therapy sessions of her own.

For the first time in years—definitely since Dad left, if not before—there's space between us. I know where she ends and I begin.

She answers on the first ring, like she was waiting by the phone. “Samantha?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie! How was your first day?”

“Good. Hard.”

There's a pause. “Anxiety-hard?”

“A little,” I admit. “But also hard physically. I am going to be so sore tomorrow!”

She laughs. “That happens when you jump back into a full schedule after taking time off.” A beat. “I didn't mean that in a negative way. I promise.”

“I know, Mom. Thanks.”

“Do you want to tell me about your teachers?”

I give her the short version. Who I'll be studying with, what they're each like in the classroom, how comfortable I felt with them today. And I tell her a bit about the other students here. Not what they look like. How they move. Some of them are ballet based, like me. Others come from contemporary or jazz backgrounds. A few know one another from the competition circuit. I know no one.

“But my roommate seems nice,” I finish. Suzanne's a petite, muscular modern dancer from Chicago. She welcomed me with a hug and then told me to help myself to her bedside candy stash whenever I wanted. Right now, as Mom and I say our good-byes, I'm sucking on a cherry Life Saver. Turning my tongue crimson.

I call Bianca next. “Sam-a-lam-a!” she squeals into the phone.

“Hey, B.”

“How's Hot-lanta?”

“Hot. How's DC?”

“Also hot. Ooh, but you know what's
so
cold?”

“What?”

“The look I gave Eliana when I passed her in the hall today and she said hi.”

When I got home from Perform at Your Peak, I finally called Bianca. We were on the phone for more than an hour, and I think I was the only one who said anything. I told her about my panic attacks. About what was causing them. I told her why I'd thought Marcus had broken up with me, and why he actually did break up with me. I told her about Perform at Your Peak. What we did there. Everyone I met.

I told her about Andrew.

And I apologized for pushing her away. For being a lousy friend.

Then we both had a good cry and made plans to spend an entire weekend together when we get home from our intensives.

“I can't believe you never told me what Eliana did to you!” Bianca says now. “But don't worry. I already started telling the girls here not to trust her. She's going
down
.”

I laugh. “Thanks.”

“So what's new with you? I want to know everything.”

I give her the same details I gave my mom, but Bianca-fied. That mostly means adding which of the guy choreographers and dancers are hot, so she can look them up online and judge for herself. I'm telling her about the Argentinian dancer who'll be teaching us flamenco when she interrupts me.

“We don't have to talk about guys if you don't want to. If it makes you anxious.”

“It's okay.”

“Obviously, we're not talking about what's-his-face—”

“Andrew.”

“I know that,” she says, sounding exasperated. “I didn't want to say his name because we're not talking about him.”

I can't help but smile at her logic. “Oh. Right.”

“And since Marcus turned out to be a—”

I cut her off. “I don't want to say anything bad about Marcus.”

“He dumped you. It doesn't matter why. That makes him a loser in my book.”

“Yeah, but . . .” I think again about our late-night phone conversation. “He's a good guy. And I wasn't in a good place for a lot of the time we were together.”

“But you're in a better place now, right?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Good. And you know you can talk to me?”

“Yeah. I'll try.”

“Do or do not,” she says solemnly. “There is no ‘try.'”

“Are you quoting
Star Wars
at me?”

“Just dropping some Yoda wisdom on my BFF.”

I check the time. I have one more phone call to make, and then Suzanne wants to introduce me to some girls she danced with at an intensive last summer. We're supposed to go out for frozen yogurt at a spot around the corner from
the dorms, and I'm actually thinking about having a small cup. A kid-sized serving. Just to see what happens.

“Gotta go,” I tell Bianca. “Talk soon?”

“Definitely. Love you, Sam-a-lam-a.”

“Back atcha, B.” It's the phone sign-off we've shared since middle school. It wouldn't feel right hanging up without it.

I plug my phone in to charge and then dial “Thelma.”

“Barbs. 'Sup?” Zoe says when she answers. “You talk to Kwan or Bear yet?”

“Nope. Just you.”

Zoe, Jenna, Katie, Dominic, Omar, and I have had an ongoing email chain since everyone got home from Perform at Your Peak. Somewhere in the middle of the thread, we came up with our Crazy Camp nicknames. Zoe named herself Thelma after our Thelma and Louise–style road trip. I'm Barbs, since I'm coming to grips with maybe not being a ballerina after all. Jenna is Kwan, since she got Zoe to admit that striving to be like one of the greatest female figure skaters of all time wasn't really a bad thing. Katie is Bear, after Mr. Bear, her good-luck charm—and because it's funny to give the toughest name to the tiniest, bubbliest person. Omar is Bruno, thanks to that Bruno Mars hat he bought at the general store, and Dominic is Chunks, not only because he once threw up on the fifty-yard line but also because he's the opposite of chunky.

“Status report?” I ask Zoe. She told her parents a few days ago, in no uncertain terms, that she was not playing
tennis in the fall. They were angry. They threatened to ground her, to take away her phone, to send her to another therapist. But she didn't back down.

“All quiet on the Western Front,” she says.

“Meaning?”

“I'm still getting the silent treatment. Like they think if they just wait me out, I'll change my mind. But Andrew said—” She stops. “Sorry.”

“It's fine.” I know she's been in touch with him. She emailed me about it a week ago. And it stung, for sure. I shut down my computer and cried a little. But then I stopped crying. I pulled myself together. Not in a bad, I'm-ignoring-my-emotions kind of way, but in a good way. A healthy way. I felt what I was feeling, and then I moved on.

I asked Dr. Chen about transference in our second session. I told her what Zoe told me about being in love with your therapist. Dr. Chen said it's not that simple, but that we can talk about my feelings for Andrew—why I fell so hard and so fast—if I want. When I'm ready.

I don't know when I'll be ready. I do know that I'm better off being single for now. Maybe for a while. I can't rely on someone else to make me feel good about myself. I have to learn to do that on my own.

“Sam?” Suzanne sticks her head in the door. “You almost done?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. Then, to Zoe: “I have to go. My roommate wants to hang out.”

“I hate her already.”

“Well, she's no you. She hasn't even insulted me yet. Can you believe it?”

“Amateur,” she scoffs. “Okay, before you hang up, I have to give you your top-secret mission.”

We've all been challenging one another to do things that scare us. And to provide evidence, if possible. A few days ago, Katie sent us a blurry photo of herself, midflip, on the balance beam. She had one of her teammates take it. She captioned it “Bear Gets Back on the Horse.” Meanwhile, Jenna's supposed to tape herself at practice and send us the raw footage—even if she screws up—and Dominic's supposed to send us a screenshot when he emails Florida State to schedule a campus visit.

“Is this new roommate of yours smaller than you?” Zoe asks.

“Yeah.”

“We're going to need a picture of the two of you together. In your tightest dance clothes. No hiding. No slouching. Got it?”

I make a face, but I say, “Got it.”

“You have forty-eight hours to complete your mission. This message will self-destruct, blah blah blah. Later, Barbs.”

“Bye, Thelma.” I hang up.

I let my phone charge for a few more minutes. I fold the dance clothes I went through this morning, trying to pick the right first-day-of-class outfit. I tidy my desk. Put away my new journal and pens. Then I glance at the bulletin board on the wall. I've tacked up my ballerina collage, the
one I ripped in half. There's a tape line running down the center now. I almost like it better this way. Imperfect, like me. Uneven seams and raw edges and still reaching.

Next to the collage, there's a photo of a tiny red balloon, barely a pinprick in the vast blue sky. Since I missed the last day at Perform at Your Peak, I had to release it on my own. I tied a piece of paper with the words “Take the leap” to its tail and let go. Feeling the string slip past my fingertips was like exhaling for the first time.

The only other picture I've put up is one Katie emailed me. It's our whole group on the ropes course, at the very highest point, backed by sky and treetops. Katie's arm is across my shoulder. Jenna's next to us, smiling primly but not touching. Dominic has Omar in a fake headlock. They're both mugging for the camera. Zoe is in the background, arms crossed, wearing her perma-smirk.

At the bottom of the picture is a shadow. The head and shoulders of the person holding the camera.

Andrew.

I know Katie sent me this picture because he isn't in it, but I'm glad that trace of him is there. When I look at the photo, I see everything that mattered about that place. And Andrew mattered. He matters. Even if we never meet again.

I study my own image in the photo. I'm sweaty and frizzy. The ropes-course harness is squeezing my body in strange ways. There are lumps and rolls that shouldn't be there. I'm squinting into the light. And I'm smiling.

“Sam, we're leaving!” Suzanne, from the hallway.

I unplug my phone. Slip on my sandals and grab my messenger bag. Bounce up and down a few times to shake away a burst of nerves. And then I swing the door open and step out into what's next.