How It Feels to Fly(13)

Zoe applauds. Then her tone turns conversational. “So are you here because you’re anorexic? Or are you going to go upstairs and throw up the one bite you ate?”

“Zoe!” Katie exclaims. “You can’t say things like that. It’s in the rules. And it’s not nice.”

“This isn’t group. I can say whatever I want,” Zoe says. “Unless you wanna stop me? I’d like to see you try. How old are you, anyway? Eleven? Did you bring your teddy bear here with you?”

“I’m fourteen,” Katie says, reddening. “And no, Mr. Bear stayed home.”

Zoe cracks up. “Mr. Bear! I knew it!” She turns her attention back to me. “Eating disorder—yes or no? I’m living with you; I need to know what I’m dealing with. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

I’m chewing my second bite of spaghetti, trying to savor the rich tomato tang—and to look like all this is just rolling off my back. But Zoe is getting dangerously close to the thing I won’t ever, ever, ever say, not to anyone, and it’s making my heart pound. “I don’t have an eating disorder,” I tell her.

“Sure you do. I saw Black Swan.”

I stiffen. “Not every ballet dancer has an eating disorder.”

But you’ve thought about it. A lot. And what about those times you—

I take another bite, a bigger one. It probably counts as bites three and four. As I swallow, I imagine my nasty inner voice getting quieter and quieter, being choked and smothered by deliciousness. I think about covering the noise in my head with food. And then I think about how fat that would make me, and I have to put my fork down.

Omar has been watching the back-and-forth between me and Zoe like a Ping-Pong match. His eyes are wide and he’s drumming his fingers on the table. “Please stop,” he says. “Dominic, make them stop.”

“Not my fight.” Dominic’s leaning away from us, looking uncomfortable.

Zoe stares me down as I eat bites five and six.

This—this—is why I don’t eat in front of people. I’m either eating too much or too little. I can’t make anyone happy. No matter what I choose, I choose wrong.

Jenna finally breaks the silence. “If the two of you are done, I’d like to finish my lunch in peace.”

“Roger that, Michelle Kwan,” Zoe says.

“Michelle Kwan,” Jenna repeats, in a voice like dry ice. “Because I’m Asian. How original. Does that mean I can call you Venus or Serena?”

“Come on. I’m obviously Anna Kournikova.” Zoe tosses her braids like she’s in a shampoo commercial. “So do you skate like Michelle Kwan, too? Isn’t she the one who never won a gold medal?”

“Isn’t Anna Kournikova a glorified underwear model?” Jenna shoots back.

“Hey—if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Now Zoe strikes a model pose in her chair.

Jenna opens her mouth to say something more, but Zoe cuts her off.

“Seriously, do any of you have a sense of humor? Or did they forget to put that on the Crazy Camp packing list?”

“Crazy Camp?” Katie echoes.

“Yeah,” Zoe says, in a voice that screams duh. “As in, a summer camp for teenagers who are crazy.”

“We’re not crazy,” Jenna argues.

“Ri-i-i-i-ight.” Zoe says, “Tell me more about how not-crazy you are.”

Instead of answering, Jenna picks up her plate and walks away.

A second later, Yasmin comes into the dining room with her plate and sits down in Jenna’s empty chair. “Looked like a lively discussion over here!” she says. “Sorry I missed it. Dr. Lancaster was talking to me and Andrew in the kitchen. Who wants to tell me something they learned about one of their fellow campers during lunch?”

I expect Zoe to point an accusing finger at my plate. Instead she says, with glee in her voice, “Katie still sleeps with a teddy bear.”

“I didn’t say that!” Katie yelps. “He’s, like, a good-luck charm. For meets.”

“Sure he is,” Zoe says.

“Anyone else?” Yasmin asks. “Sam?”

I’m saved from answering by Dr. Lancaster, who comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Sam, I have to whisk you away. We need to start our private session.”

“Oh. Okay.” I stand, glad not to have to force down any more food. I had six bites. Barely enough to get me through the afternoon, but maybe I can grab a snack later.

“Good luck!” Katie squeals. “Tell me how it goes! If you want. . . .”

I nod, and I square my shoulders, and I follow Dr. Lancaster through the kitchen. We pass Andrew, who’s filling his plate at the buffet. He gives me that same meaningful look from earlier. The don’t-forget-to-tell-her-about-your-panic-attack look. I avert my eyes. Dr. Lancaster leads me down the hall to her office. She holds the heavy wooden door open. I step inside.





five


“TAKE A SEAT, SAM,” DR. LANCASTER SAYS, POINTING to the couch at one side of the room. She circles around the large wooden desk to get a yellow legal pad, then settles into a wood-and-leather armchair across from me. She smiles. It’s the same gentle, welcoming smile she’s been giving us since we got here. It’s so consistent, I’m starting to wonder whether she practices it. I picture her standing in front of her bathroom mirror in the morning, doing her exercises: smile, and release. Smile, and release.