How It Feels to Fly(12)

“Thank you, Katie,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Does anyone want to respond?”

I shake my head. So do Omar and Jenna and Dominic. And Zoe’s eyes are closed, chin dropped to her chest. She’s faking being asleep, which is almost more obnoxious than actually being asleep.

“Then we’ll break for lunch,” Dr. Lancaster says. “You’ll each have your initial private session with me this afternoon. Sam, you’re first, with Omar on deck.”

I nod. And I look at Katie. She seems calmer now that her secrets are out in the open. I envy her a little bit.

That still doesn’t mean I’m ready to talk.

THE KITCHEN ISLAND is set up buffet style for lunch: first a big pot of spaghetti, then a pot of tomato sauce, and finally a platter of meatballs and a bowl of grated Parmesan. It looks—and smells—amazing. It also looks—and smells—incredibly fattening.

And I’m back to thinking about eating in front of everyone. Their eyes on my plate, on my fork as it travels from my plate to my mouth, on my face as I chew and swallow. The hunger I’ve been ignoring since I woke up—it’s replaced by butterflies. Lead butterflies, clanking around and scratching my insides with their wings.

I step out of line, swallowing past a thick lump in my throat. “I’ll be right back . . . ,” I say to Katie, behind me, and I head for the stairs. I’ll hide in my room, or in the bathroom, and eat when everyone else is done. It’s a foolproof plan.

But Dr. Lancaster appears out of nowhere. “Sam,” she says. “You must be starving; I know you missed breakfast. You’re going to love this spaghetti.”

“Great,” I say, giving her my everything’s-totally-fine smile. “I just, um, need to go to the restroom first.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll make you up a plate and leave it at the table for you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can make my own plate when I get back.”

“It’s my pleasure. See you in there.”

I do end up going to the bathroom, for appearance’s sake. Then I head back to the dining room, feeling dread settle in over my shoulders like a woolen blanket.

It’s not that I’m worried about having another panic attack. They don’t usually happen right on top of each other. But as I stare at the plate of spaghetti in front of me—a huge serving, and way too heavy for lunch—I just. Don’t. Want. To eat it.

So I turn to talk to Katie instead. She’s sitting next to me, and Dominic’s across from her, and they’re both chowing down like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“That was brave, how you opened up back there,” I say, twirling pasta around my fork. I twirl. And twirl. And twirl.

“Thanks. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. You should go next!” Katie squeaks. Then, like she realizes that might’ve been too pushy, she adds, “If you want. If you’re ready.”

“Maybe,” I say, even though I don’t mean it.

Honestly, I don’t know where I’d begin. I don’t have a cut-and-dried story like Katie’s, where one awful thing happened and everything changed. Would I start with the Saturday in February when Tabitha saw me holding a sandwich after ballet class and asked, all fake concern, “Are you sure you need to eat that?” That’s when I stopped eating in front of other dancers. I’d rather snack in the bathroom, perched on the toilet, than let them see me with a single almond or grape.

Or I could talk about that rehearsal in March, when the guest choreographer patted my stomach and poked at the wobbly part of my upper arm and said, “Work on this”—in front of everyone. I barely made it to the janitor’s closet before breaking down.

Or I could go straight to the panic attack that sent me here. It was April. Backstage before Paquita. I put on Lauren’s tiny tutu by mistake and caught sight of myself in the mirror, and all the air left the room.

Or should I describe how I feel every day? The storm in my stomach. The mocking voice that fills my thoughts. The way my skin crawls when people look at me for more than a few seconds. The tears trapped behind my smile.

“It might make you feel better to get it off your chest,” Katie says, slurping up a strand of spaghetti with a satisfying smack.

The only thing that makes me feel better is keeping it in. Acting like nothing’s wrong. Fooling everyone.

But I say, “I’ll think about it.”

Katie looks pleased.

I’ve been twirling my spaghetti the whole time Katie and I have been talking. The pasta spirals out from my fork, and a large meatball teeters at the edge of the plate. I use my knife to tip it back into safety and start slicing it into bite-sized chunks.

“Hey, Ballerina Barbie’s making progress!” Zoe says.

I look over at her, startled. “What?”

“You think I didn’t notice that you’re not eating?”

I say the first lie I can think of. “It was hot. I was letting it cool down.”

“Hot. Huh.” Zoe opens her mouth and crams in an entire meatball. “Nope!” she says as she chews. “Try again.”

“I’m eating!” I stab a cube of meatball and stick it in my mouth. It’s every bit as delicious as it smells, perfectly seasoned and sprinkled with melting Parmesan.

Now take the rest of your lunch and stick it around your waistline—