How It Feels to Fly(15)

I remind myself that this is her job—and that mine, right now, is to stop having panic attacks. But my heart is beating faster. And I’m sweating, despite the office’s arctic AC. I shiver and wipe the beads of moisture from the back of my neck.

Dr. Lancaster is still watching me.

I blurt, “Can you turn around or something?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I can’t think with you staring at me. Or writing things about me.”

She puts the pad on her desk and turns to look out the window. “Is that better?”

Now I feel stupid. But it does help. “Sure.”

“So, why were you feeling anxious?”

“I, um, didn’t like the blindfold. He could see me, but I couldn’t see him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t like it when people look at me behind my back. And this felt like that. It made me . . . uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“If I can’t see someone’s face, I don’t know what they think of me. I can’t see if they’re judging me, or whatever.”

“Do you generally feel that when people are looking at you, they’re judging you?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

Because they are.

“Even when you can see their faces?” She turns to look back at me, meets my eyes, and then returns her gaze to the window.

“I just don’t like being looked at, okay?”

“Do you want to say anything more about that?”

“Nope.” I want this to be over.

And I’m drowning in memories.

I auditioned for a bunch of summer intensives this year. There was one audition I knew I’d aced. I danced so well. Everything felt effortless. I was practically levitating in the final series of leaps across the floor.

And then, in the hallway outside the studio, I got that neck-prickling feeling you get when someone’s looking at you. I thought maybe I was being paranoid, but I turned around anyway. And someone was staring. Two someones. The teacher who’d led the class I just took, and the director of the summer intensive. They were frowning. At me. The program director shook his head, and the teacher shrugged and said something I couldn’t hear.

That’s when I knew I wasn’t getting in.

At my next audition, we had to fill out a form with our personal information—including our current weight. Below that question, there was an asterisk: *Dancers who are deemed over-or underweight may be put on probation. But how heavy was too heavy? What was the exact right number? If I told the truth, would they discount me before I even got a chance to dance? If I lied, would they know right away? Would they laugh me out of the building?

I decided to lie. And I had a terrible class, worrying the whole time about whether the number I’d written matched what the adjudicators saw in front of them. Whether I’d made the right choice. I didn’t get into that program, either.

Both of those auditions were in February. Four months and eight pounds ago.

Imagine if they could see you now.

The audition for the program I’m going to attend was in January. Five months and eleven pounds ago— “Sam? Is there anything else you’d like to get out of your time here?”

“Not unless you can help me lose fourteen pounds. . . .”

It’s a joke. Sort of.

Dr. Lancaster doesn’t laugh.

“But since that’s not going to happen,” I add quickly, “at least, not without me doing something drastic . . . not having panic attacks is enough.”

“Something drastic. Like what?”

“Um. You know, like starving myself, or whatever.”

“Have you ever tried doing something drastic?”

“No. I mean—no. Of course not.”

She glances at the notepad on her desk, and then at me, without responding. Her silence only makes me more nervous.

“Other than—”

Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

I make myself study Dr. Lancaster instead of speaking. Her oatmeal-colored cardigan is paired with a white top and crisp khaki pants. Her gray-blond hair is pulled into a low bun and wrapped in an off-white scrunchie. Her wardrobe, on top of her calm, soothing voice and her gentle, reassuring expression—she’s the definition of bland. But maybe that’s on purpose. So we focus on ourselves, not on her— “Well, our time is almost up. I think we’re off to a great start. We have a lot to unpack, and it won’t be easy, but I know you can handle it.” My skepticism must show on my face, because she goes on, “You’re training to be a professional ballet dancer. Is that easy?”

“No.”

“I’m confident that we’ll find some of those answers you’re looking for. But I need you to work with me. I can’t offer you coping mechanisms that are specific to your needs until I know what those needs are. It’s like cross-training—not every type of exercise is right for every person. If it makes it easier, you can think of me as your emotional personal trainer.”

I wonder how long she’s been saving that line.

She stands, so I do too. “Thank you for talking with me today. Can you send Omar in next?” She guides me to the door.

Hand on the knob, I remember something else I need to say. “Dr. Lancaster—about this morning. When it happened, when I had my . . . you know. Andrew wanted to get you right away, but I asked him not to. I wanted to tell you. Well, I didn’t want to tell you, but I wanted me to tell you more than I wanted him to. . . . Anyway, I thought you should know that.”