How It Feels to Fly(17)

Right on cue, my stomach knots up. “I know, Mom.”

“Did you work out today?”

“Yeah, for about two hours this afternoon.”

It’s not enough. It won’t make a difference.

“Hmm,” Mom says. “What are they feeding you?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs for lunch. Chicken and vegetables for dinner.”

“Meatballs,” Mom says. Another dirty word. “Ask if they can make you a salad tomorrow.”

“Okay.” My knee is bouncing up and down. I put my hand on it to stop it.

“I know I can count on you to make good choices,” Mom says.

“I will. I promise.”

“This is just a bump in the road. You’re still my beautiful ballerina.”

No, it isn’t. And no, you’re not.

I need to get off the phone. I’m a ball of electricity, shaking in my seat. But I can’t tell her that. Especially not after she says, “I miss you already! The house feels so empty. I hate being by myself.”

So I pretend to yawn. “I miss you too, Mom. But I need to get ready for bed. It’s been a really long day.” Understatement of the year.

“All right,” Mom says. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I echo.

“Tomorrow,” she confirms. “Good night, Samantha.”

I sit there for a second after I hang up the phone. I love my mom. She cares about me and my future. I should want to talk to her every day, right?

I leave Dr. Lancaster’s office, walk back down the hall, and sit next to Katie on the sofa. She glances at me and opens her mouth, but I must have a Do Not Disturb sign on my forehead, because in the end, she doesn’t say a word.





six


I’M IN THE WINGS, TUCKED BEHIND A CURTAIN, staring out onto the brightly lit stage. It’s Nutcracker, Act II—all gumdrops and sparkles. Clara is sitting on the Sugar Plum Fairy’s throne. She claps her hands with delight as Mother Ginger’s gingerbread children cartwheel and somersault in front of her. The music is building to a crescendo.

I roll through my feet, pressing over onto one pointe, then the other. I run my hands over the bodice of my costume, stopping at the delicate pink lace draped across my hips. I shake my head a few times to make sure my tiara is securely pinned in.

Onstage, Mother Ginger’s children are bowing and curtseying.

The audience is clapping.

I’m next.

Bianca, still dressed in her tutu from the Spanish variation, leans in close to wish me good luck: “Merde, Sam-a-lam-a!” From the opposite wing, my mom gives me a radiant smile and a thumbs-up.

In the moment of silence before the orchestra begins to play “Waltz of the Flowers,” I hear my pulse and my breath. Time slows down. Then the music starts.

I rise up onto my toes, let my arms float up like a breath.

I run onstage.

It’s my last performance as the Dewdrop Fairy. I give it everything I have. I spin and soar through space. I feel free and effortless and perfect. For seven and a half minutes, nothing exists but the beautiful, magical now.

I pirouette into my final pose, with the corps de ballet fanned out around me. The applause is like thunder. It almost brings tears to my eyes. We move into a straight line. At center stage, I curtsy deep, touching my hand to my heart. I—

I wake up.

And then I do start crying, because I’m not onstage, after the performance of a lifetime. I’m here. The place my awful roommate won’t stop calling Crazy Camp.

Zoe stirs in the bed across from me. The last thing I want to do is talk to her, so I jump up and gather my towel, my toiletries, and a sundress to change into after I shower. I slip silently down the dark hallway to the bathroom. It’s empty; I’m safe. I step into the shower stall, leaving my pajamas on the floor. I turn the faucet. And then I stand there, with water running down my back and tears running down my face.

The joy I felt in my dream—the joy I felt onstage that night, back in December—I want to feel it again. I want that with every fiber of my being.

You won’t get it back. You can’t.

I pull myself together and finish washing up. I shut off the water. The bathroom is still empty, still quiet, so I’m able to dry off and get dressed in peace.

When I go downstairs to the kitchen, Andrew is standing in front of the open fridge. “Hi! You’re up early.”

“So are you,” I say, climbing onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

“Ah, but I have a reason.” He gets out a massive fruit bowl and a cling-wrapped cookie sheet laden with unbaked cinnamon rolls.

Don’t even think about it.

“I have to make breakfast for you guys.”

“Dr. Lancaster’s really putting you to work, huh?”

“I don’t mind. Believe it or not, I’m a morning person.”

I pretend to grimace. “Ugh.”

He laughs. “I know, right? But I like being up when the rest of the world is still sleeping. It’s, I don’t know, magical or something.”

“Magical,” I repeat, shaking my head. “To me, the only good thing about getting up early is having the bathroom to myself.”

“That is another perk,” he says. “Though I bet my morning routine is a lot more stripped-down than yours.” He sets the oven to preheat, then starts washing grapes in the sink, dropping them one by one into a colander. “That’s the great thing about being a guy.”