How It Feels to Fly(10)

We move like that, a few feet at a time, his deep voice pulling me toward him. The dirt and twigs of the woods give way to mown lawn. A breeze brushes my face and a blade of grass tickles my ankle. I feel the sunlight on my shoulders.

Just as I start to think this isn’t so bad, I take a step forward and my foot doesn’t meet the ground—not right away. I land, hard, a few inches down. I feel the jolt in my knee, in my hip, in my teeth.

At first, I’m stunned. Then—the flip of a switch—I’m freaking out.

I hear Andrew’s voice: “Whoa, are you okay?”

I rip off the blindfold. “What was that?”

“A step down I should’ve warned you about?” He squats to look at the dip where I’m standing. “Sorry, I totally missed it. Looks like a groundhog hole or something.”

“Do you know what could’ve happened?” Now I’m panic-breathing, in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out, thinking about the possibilities: a sprained ankle, a stress fracture, a broken toe, a torn ACL, a pulled hamstring. “I just told you that an injury ended my mom’s dance career. And then you drop me into a huge hole and say ‘sorry’?”

“Are you hurt?” He stands, reaching toward me.

I step back. “I’m not. But I could’ve been! And it would’ve been your fault!”

I know I’m overreacting. But once the panic breath starts, it’s all downhill. My mind is racing. I can’t control it.

It doesn’t matter if you get injured. Your dance career is a fantasy. It’s a joke.

I need to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one will see if I lose it completely.

Your dreams are a joke. Your body is a joke. You are a joke.

There’s no time to get away. No time to hide. I crouch, wrap my arms around my body, and squeeze everything. My forearms across my chest. My knees together. My eyes closed.

You’re a joke. A disappointment. You should be so ashamed of yourself— “Sam! Sam!”

That snaps me out of it.

I look up. Andrew’s eyes are wide.

“I’m going to get Dr. Lancaster,” he says. “Stay here. No, wait—come with me. Can you walk? Never mind, you should probably stay here. Or—”

“It’s okay,” I say, taking in a shuddering breath. “I’m okay now.”

You’re not okay you’re not okay you’re not okay.

“Really.” I muster a smile and sit in the grass. “Can we stay here for a bit?”

“I—um—I guess, yeah.” He looks back at the house, clearly conflicted, and then plops down next to me. A few beats of silence pass. Then he asks, his voice gentle, like he’s talking to a skittish wild animal, “Was that a panic attack?”

I look over at him. I want to pretend it was nothing. I want to laugh it off. But now he’s seen what happens. Now he knows why I’m here. And he isn’t laughing at me. He doesn’t look shocked or disgusted. Rattled, but that’s about it.

Because of that, I trust him enough to say, “Yes.”

“For me, it was chest pain. Like an elephant was sitting on my ribcage. For you, it’s trouble breathing?”

I nod.

“Is it always that sudden? And that bad?”

I answer the second part first. “Sometimes it’s worse.” And as for sudden—if I’m honest with myself, that’s been building in me since last night. A full-out, sweat-drenched ballet class this morning might have warded it off. Maybe. But between Zoe and Jenna and Andrew and thinking about Marcus and wearing the blindfold and stepping in that hole and just being here . . . the tightrope snapped.

I unspool another length of cord. Stretch it back across the chasm inside my head.

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

He blinks at me. “You know I have to tell Dr. Lancaster.”

“Let me tell her.” It’s only delaying the inevitable, but this feels important. “I’ll even say I asked you not to tell her before I could, so you don’t get in trouble. Please?”

After an excruciating pause, he nods. “Only because I owe you for last night.”

“Thanks.”

I look around the grounds, taking everything in. Katie is leading blindfolded Dominic toward the gazebo. Omar is with Yasmin by the vegetable garden. Zoe and Jenna are nowhere to be seen. I can’t even imagine how they’re interacting. I think about last night, in the Dogwood Room: Jenna’s precision and chill versus Zoe’s chaos and fire.

“So can I ask what that was about?” Andrew asks. I must look alarmed—I feel alarmed—because he adds, “I’m curious what’s going on inside your head. That’s all.”

That’s all. That’s. All.

“I freaked out when I stepped in that hole. You saw it happen.”

We’re so close, I can see that he has sandy eyelashes to match his sandy hair, and that his brown eyes have flecks of gold. His gaze makes me want to scoot away fast. But because he’s looking at my face, and not at the rest of me, I’m able to stay.

“I have a lot on my mind right now,” I tell him.

“Like what?”

“Like . . . my ballet intensive, where I’m going next. If everything goes well there, I could get asked to train at that school year-round. And that could lead to them offering me an apprenticeship, which could lead to a professional company position.”