How It Feels to Fly by Kathryn Holmes
one
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.
I focus on all that, and for just a moment, I’m able to forget that I’m in a cozy meeting room, not a dance studio. That my ballet slippers are brushing across carpet. That I’m holding the back of a folding chair instead of a barre. That I’m seeing my reflection in a dark window instead of a mirror.
In that window, I’m not much more than a shadow. Ghostly. You can see right through me to the trees outside.
Even transparent, you’re fat. Look at you. You’re disgusting. You’re—
I flinch, turning away from the window. I rearrange my face into its usual pleasant mask. I try to let the choreography distract me.
In front of me, Jenna’s doing the same series of movements. I watch her extend her leg into a high développé and then lower it, with control, back to the floor. Her legs are lean, her muscles streamlined. Her thin arms move through the port de bras like clockwork. She’s a blade slicing the air, petite and precise.
She’s a figure skater, but she clearly has ballet training. Proper training. Russian, maybe. As we turn to do the other side, I tell her, “You’re really good.”
“Thanks,” Jenna answers coolly, giving me a brisk nod as she settles into fifth position. She doesn’t say anything else. Just waits for the music to cue up.
I take my own preparatory position, right hand on my folding chair-barre. Then I unfold my left leg into the air in front of me, pointing my toes as hard as I can. I try to keep my port de bras soft and airy, even as my quad quivers with effort. I carry my leg to the side, then to arabesque. I drop my face toward the floor in a deep penché, my toe pointing straight up to the ceiling.
My muscles feel strong and limber. My form feels perfect. But then I look past my own standing leg at Jenna, behind me.
She’s judging you. Your bubble butt and your thunder thighs and your C cups and the way your stomach pooches out. That’s why she didn’t say anything back when you complimented her earlier. That’s why—
My knee buckles a little as I pull myself upright. I move from arabesque to a back attitude, lifting onto demi-pointe. I bring my arms to fifth position overhead. I balance, and I breathe, and I smile.
Because that’s what I do. I don’t let anyone see what’s happening inside my head. Not my friends, not my classmates, not my mom. It’s a performance that never ends.
Jenna and I move on to battements. I kick my legs up and up and up, punctuating each downbeat in the music with my pointed toe. I try to bring my focus back to the movement. The movement is what matters.
But just as I’m getting into the zone, the door swings open, slams hard against the wall, and bounces back. Zoe, my roommate for the next three weeks, catches it in one hand. “What are you two losers doing?” She walks over to the stereo and switches it off, midcrescendo.
“We’re exercising,” Jenna says, sounding annoyed. “You might want to try it while you’re here. Twenty-one days is a long time without a consistent training regimen.”
I ask Zoe, “Do you want to join us?”
Zoe barks out a laugh. “Um, no. This”—she rises onto her tiptoes and flutters around, mocking us—“is not exercise. And who says I want to stay in shape while I’m here, anyway?”
“Suit yourself.” Jenna slides into a split on the floor, forehead touching her knee.
I give it one more shot. “Seriously,” I say, “you’re more than welcome to—”
“Whoa, Ballerina Barbie. What part of ‘no’ do you not understand?” Zoe saunters over to the sofa on the other side of the room and grabs the TV remote. She flips channels, stopping when she comes to a horror film. There’s a skinny blond girl in a torn T-shirt and underwear running from a guy with an axe. The camera cuts in close on the girl’s tear-streaked face as she screams. Zoe turns the volume up. “This won’t mess up your concentration, will it?” she asks, grinning.
I turn around, wanting backup, but Jenna is already standing to leave. “I’ll stretch in my room,” she says, picking up her folding chair and leaning it against the wall.
“Oh. Um, okay.” I’m surprised that she’s giving in so easily.
And now I’m torn. I don’t want to tick Zoe off—she looks like she could break me in half and would enjoy doing it, never mind the whole we-have-to-share-a-bedroom thing. But I’d planned on getting in at least another hour of strength training and light cardio tonight. It’s really important that I stay in shape while I’m here.
In shape. Ha! No such thing.
The panic swirls up. It’s like there’s a tornado brewing in my belly. But I don’t let it show on my face.
I say, “Stay, Jenna, please.”
Jenna looks at me over her shoulder. “Sam, no offense—you seem nice and all—but I’m not really here to make friends.” She pauses. “If you want, we can do barre again tomorrow. Good night.” She glides from the room, leaving me standing there.
“Burn,” Zoe says from the couch. “And props to her for pulling out that line. Welcome to America’s Next Top Neurotic Teenager, the group therapy camp where we are absolutely not here to make friends.” She laughs to herself as, on-screen, the axe murderer finally catches up with his victim.