How It Feels to Fly(16)

“Thank you, Sam.”

I escape out into the hallway. I lean against the wall, closing my eyes. I am so, so tired. It’s early afternoon, but I feel like I’m at the end of a marathon dance day. And I can’t rest now. I have calories to burn. It won’t do me any good to fix my panic problem if I’m so fat by the time this is over that my dance dreams are done.

They already are. You know that, right? You’re kidding yourself if you think, with how you look, you can— I push myself to standing and go to find Omar. After I track him down—on the front porch, showing Yasmin how to play a game on his phone—I stop in the kitchen to grab a granola bar. Then I head upstairs to change into yoga pants and a T-shirt.

My bedroom is empty. I peek out the window and spot Zoe outside, lying on the lawn in a hot-pink two-piece. Off to the side of the house, Dominic is teaching Katie how to hold a football. He guides her arm back, then steps away and lets her throw. It almost hits the tree she was aiming at. To celebrate, she does a roundoff back handspring and then gives Dominic a high five.

I’m wondering where Jenna is when I hear strains of classical music coming from the next bedroom. I press my ear to the wall. It’s Tchaikovsky, muffled but unmistakable.

I consider going over to knock on her door. She’d probably dance with me again, even if she doesn’t care to know a thing about me as a person. But she left lunch so fast, after Zoe insulted her. Maybe she wants to be alone.

I know something about wanting to be alone.

I put in my earbuds and crank up Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet. I drop to the floor and start doing Pilates exercises. When my muscles feel warm, I do a ballet barre, holding on to the closet door for balance. Then I go into the center of the room and jump: sautés in first, second, and fifth, then changements, then échappés, and on and on and on. I do every exercise I can think of that fits into a three-by-six-foot space, including a mega crunch series, push-ups, and jumping jacks. I don’t stop to rest until I’m pouring sweat. Until I’m gasping and my muscles are screaming.

It’s not just about staying in shape. It’s also that, after the day I’ve had so far, I need the release. Only when my body is sore and tired and trembling can I turn off my overactive brain.

I skip to the track for the balcony scene, where Romeo whisks Juliet away to dance in the moonlight. I mime Juliet’s breathless leap into Romeo’s waiting arms. He catches her, lifts her, guides her through a series of pirouettes en pointe, and pulls her into a passionate embrace. Of course, I’m embracing myself, and the only thing to catch me when I fall out of my pirouette is Zoe’s bed. I bounce off it, bumping my thigh on the corner of her nightstand. That hurts enough to knock me back to the here and now.

You’re not Juliet. And you never will be.

DINNER IS WAY more subdued than lunch. Other than Andrew and Dominic, who are debating college football coaching strategies at the end of the communal table, nobody seems to want to talk. Even Zoe is silent. She stabs at her food like it’s the face of someone she hates, and when she catches me looking at her, she shoots me a glare that could melt glass.

I stare down at my grilled chicken and green beans and potatoes. I cut everything up into bite-sized pieces before starting to eat. I count the bites: fifteen cubes of chicken, thirty green beans, and six spoonfuls of mashed potatoes. Manageable. Especially with no one distracting me. I put the first bite in my mouth.

It’s good. The potatoes are buttery and salty, and the chicken is tender. But when I’m about two-thirds of the way finished, I look up to see Dr. Lancaster watching me from the head of the table. She gives me an encouraging nod.

I take the next bite. I chew. Now it tastes like dirt.

We’re supposed to have free time before lights-out, but no sooner do I sit down on the couch in the Dogwood Room with Katie to watch TV than Yasmin comes to find me. “Sam,” she says, touching my shoulder. “You have a phone call.”

I follow her to Dr. Lancaster’s office and pick up the receiver that’s been left on the desk. Yasmin steps outside, shutting the door behind her.

“Hello?” I say.

“Samantha?”

It’s my mom. Even though she can’t see me, I sit up straighter and suck in my stomach.

“I wanted to discuss your first day. How did it go?”

“Good. It was . . . good.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Um, things that make us anxious?” I say, keeping my voice light.

“Samantha. That was a serious question.”

“I know, Mom,” I say quickly. And I also know, now, what kind of mood Mom is in. She can be my biggest cheerleader and my biggest critic. Sometimes both in the same sentence. Since she started working at the ballet studio a few months ago, it’s been more of the latter, but I was hoping today she’d cut me a little slack. “So far, it’s been mostly introductory stuff. Getting to know each other, and Dr. Lancaster, and our peer advisers. Those are—”

She doesn’t let me finish. “Do they have a plan to address your . . . issues?” Mom says issues like it’s a dirty word. I can practically hear her wrinkling her nose through the phone line.

“Dr. Lancaster says it’s not one-size-fits-all. She wants to get to know me first.”

“Well, I hope she figures it out soon. You’ll want to be at your best at the intensive. It’s only three weeks away, you know.”