How It Feels to Fly(20)

“Yeah, I filled out your stupid questionnaire. I signed the forms. It was this place or tennis camp. I chose to come here. But that doesn’t mean I want to be here. Or that I need to be here.”

The way she says “need”—like the rest of us are irreparably screwed up in a way that she isn’t—makes me cringe.

“Does anyone want to respond to Zoe?”

No one speaks except for Jenna, who says, “Pass” in a voice that’s like a slap of icy air to the face.

“I know Zoe will appreciate your support, just as you’ll appreciate hers.”

Zoe snorts.

“Now, let’s discuss your collages. Katie, would you mind going first?”

“I guess not.” Katie holds up her picture. It’s a balance beam over a red mat. There’s a crying baby sitting on the beam, and lots of people around the edges of the page, watching. “This is, um, exactly what it looks like. It’s what I told you yesterday. How I’m afraid of falling.” She pauses. “I’m not exactly an artist.”

“No kidding,” Zoe says, and Katie shrinks back into her chair.

“Zoe.” Dr. Lancaster closes her eyes for a second, breathing in and out through her nose. “Apologize to Katie.”

“Sorry, Katie,” Zoe says.

“Thank you. Katie, great job. Do you want to say anything else?”

“No,” Katie says quietly. “That’s it.”

Dr. Lancaster moves on. “Sam?”

I prop my picture up in my lap, looking down at it. “I guess I went more abstract. The person in the center of the picture is being stared at.” I hesitate, then add, “She doesn’t like it.”

No one speaks for a second. And it’s such a long second. With their eyes on me. Eyes upon eyes upon eyes.

“Weird,” Zoe says.

“It’s cool?” Omar says, like he’s not sure. “But it also kind of freaks me out?”

“It’s very evocative, Sam,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Nice work.” The way she’s looking at me, at my picture, I know we’ll be talking about it in my private session later. But for now, thank goodness, the focus moves off me. I put the picture under my chair and breathe in deep to stop the shuddering in my chest.

Jenna created a scoreboard out of precise black and white squares. When Dr. Lancaster prompts her, she explains, “Figure skating has such a complex scoring system. It can come down to hundredths of a point.” She bites her lip. “I spend a lot of time thinking about those hundredths.”

Dominic used pictures of people: professional football players, but also executives in suits and men driving expensive cars. “It’s, like, the future,” he tells us. “Where I wanna be. Where I’m gonna be.”

Omar filled his page with cameras and theater seats and bright lights. “It’s supposed to be about the first time I got really anxious, and I didn’t know what was happening to me,” he says, frowning at it. “It’s not very good.”

“It’s great, Omar. All of you did a wonderful job,” Dr. Lancaster says, ignoring Zoe’s silent, gagging face. “Can everyone hold your pictures up one more time?”

I pull my collage back onto my lap.

“Take a look around. What can you learn from your fellow campers’ artwork? Is it possible that you have more in common with each other than you realize?” Dr. Lancaster smiles. “I promise, it will be easier to make the most of your time here if you consider yourselves allies rather than adversaries.”

Jenna narrows her eyes. “But we compete alone.”

“Not all of you,” Dr. Lancaster counters. “Remember, Dominic’s on a team.”

“Yeah, but I’m QB,” Dominic says, grinning. “So I’m kind of a big deal.”

“How is what’s helpful for Dominic possibly going to help me?” Jenna asks. “And how will arts and crafts help at all? This isn’t why I’m here.”

“Would you like to tell us why you are here, Jenna?”

She opens her mouth and then slams it shut. “No, thank you. I don’t see how it makes a difference if they know”—she gestures at all of us—“when you and I will be talking about it in private every afternoon.”

“Your fellow campers can empathize. They can make you feel less alone, even if you’ll be competing alone when you return home. They can brainstorm with you. Support you.” Dr. Lancaster finishes, her voice gentle, “The whole point is that you don’t have to go through what you’re going through by yourself.”

“No one here can help me,” Jenna mutters darkly, so quiet, I barely hear her.

No one can help you, either, my inner voice whispers. Enjoy being alone.





seven


INSTEAD OF WAITING TO GET TRICKED INTO EATING lunch with everyone else—in front of everyone else—I slip into the bathroom the moment Dr. Lancaster lets us leave the Dogwood Room. I wait a few minutes, then poke my head out the door to check that the hallway is empty. I sneak into the kitchen, relying on all my dancer’s grace not to make a sound. I grab a six-inch turkey sub and head outside to sit on the front porch.

I down it in nine huge bites. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten since I got here that’s actually satisfying.