How It Feels to Fly(23)

When I don’t answer right away, she starts smoothing her already-slick hair back from her face. “You don’t have to dance with me. Never mind.” She turns to go.

“Wait. I want to.” I close the notebook and get to my feet.

Those are the only words we say to each other, aside from coming up with barre exercises. And honestly, that’s fine by me. I don’t want to talk. I just want to move.

I head into dinner feeling okay. I burned enough calories to justify eating a proper meal. Dancing did its job. Dr. Lancaster will be thrilled that I’m not running away from the fajita buffet Yasmin has set up. I watch Jenna make her plate and copy her exactly: two fajitas, three chicken strips in each tortilla, no cheese or sour cream or guacamole. As I’m spooning a bit of fresh salsa over each fajita, I realize that this could be my new plan to get through mealtimes. Jenna looks like she lives low-cal, and yet no one’s accusing her of having an eating disorder. If I eat what she eats, maybe Dr. Lancaster—and everyone else—will leave me alone.

But when I talk to my mom later that night, she stops me as soon as I say “fajita.”

“You know you shouldn’t be eating tortillas, Samantha,” she says. “Did you ask for a salad alternative, like I told you?”

The guilt hits—I totally forgot. I lie: “I have to eat what they provide, Mom.”

“Well, then you need to do a better job of adapting.” It’s the start of a lecture I’ve heard so many times over the past few months. One I’m usually able to sit through. Even tune out. But tonight, by the end of it, I’m crying silently into the phone.

“Samantha? Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Were you listening?”

“Yes.”

Mom’s voice softens. “I love you. I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you too, Mom.” I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand and smile into the phone, because I don’t want her to hear the tears in my voice. I’m supposed to be better than this.

There is no “better.” Not for you.





eight


ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, I GET UP EARLY SO I CAN shower and get dressed in peace. I head down to the kitchen, where Yasmin is setting out bagels and muffins and other things I’m not supposed to let tempt me. I help her chop fruit. I peel clementines, and I eat one, slowly, because that worked yesterday. And then I sit in the Dogwood Room and listen to Dr. Lancaster lecture about not being so hard on yourself.

You should be hard on yourself, my inner voice sneers. You deserve it.

“And on the topic of giving yourself a break, I have a surprise for you!” Dr. Lancaster announces. “I’m so glad the sun is out, because we’ve gotten permission from the campus to spend the rest of the morning swimming in the lake.”

She keeps talking, but I don’t hear a thing after “swimming.”

I can’t.

I won’t.

I’ll say I don’t know how. Or that I forgot my suit. Or that I’m afraid of fish.

I’ll say anything.

But not right now, because everyone looks so happy. I force myself to smile. To cheer along with them. When the others run upstairs to change into their swimsuits, I go too. I’m on autopilot, rooting around in my suitcase until I find the black one-piece my mom bought me last week. I never intended to wear it. I almost didn’t pack it.

I rip off the tag with my teeth.

I change in a bathroom stall. Slowly.

“We’ll see you downstairs!” Katie calls, letting the door slam shut behind her.

I count to sixty once. Twice. Three times.

And then I open the bathroom stall to look at myself in the mirror.

No no no no no no no—

“It’s not any different than a leotard,” I whisper. I spin, taking in all the angles.

Cellulite. Stomach rolls. Boobs that are about to escape from their halter.

Suck it in. Suck it up.

The suit is getting tighter and tighter. The ties are strangling me. I’m tingling all over, losing circulation, losing air.

I want to curl up in the fetal position on the floor. That’s what I did last month, the last time I put on a swimsuit. Bianca decided to have a pool party to celebrate the end of the school year. An hour before the party, I tried on last year’s swimsuits, one after another, growing more and more anxious. The bottom one in the stack was a high-waisted, bright yellow, polka-dotted two-piece. I loved that suit. I thought I’d saved the best for last.

But no. I was a sausage escaping its casing, skin and flesh bulging out all over.

I turned into a puddle of tears and snot on my bathroom floor. It wasn’t as bad as the Paquita incident . . . but it was close. I called Bianca and told her I was sick. I asked whether I could take a pool-party rain check. Not that I ever planned to cash that check.

Now I stare at myself in the mirror. When my mom handed me this swimsuit, she told me, “Black is slimming.”

If this is slim, imagine what you’d look like wearing a color— “Sam?” Katie calls from downstairs. “You coming?”

I poke my head out the door. “Almost ready!”

Why are you doing this? What’s wrong with you?

I’m fine. I don’t even have to get undressed when we get there. I’ll just sit in the sun and watch everyone else swim. It’ll be fun.