How It Feels to Fly(26)

“Would you like to lie down until the group comes back from the lake?”

“Yes, please.” I get to my feet. Stumble to the door. I pause in the doorway. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Don’t be sorry, Sam. I’m happy you yelled. You needed to yell.”

“I guess.”

“You can even yell again, if there’s more to yell about.” Dr. Lancaster smiles. “I’ll wake you up for lunch, okay?”

“There isn’t any way I can . . . eat in my room?”

“I’m afraid not. But it won’t be as bad as you think.”

It will be exactly as bad as I think. I know it. But I just say, “All right.” I’m too worn out to fight.





nine


I SLEEP, DEEP AND DREAMLESS. I WAKE UP WITH matted hair and pillow folds etched into my face. I sit up. Stretch. Yawn.

I don’t feel much better than I did before. I’m no longer so exhausted that I can barely stand, but the anxiety is still buzzing away in my belly. There’s only one reliable cure.

I spend the next twenty minutes doing a series of relevés, using the closet door for balance. I lift my heels high and lower them to the floor, with control, twenty times each in first, second, fourth, and fifth positions. Then I do twenty relevés on each leg, with the other foot lifted in coupé. I finish with an extended balance on each foot, trying to distill my focus down to a pinpoint on the closet door in front of me.

By the time I’m done, my calves are burning. I have to pace back and forth between the two beds to loosen the muscles up again. But my pulse and my breath are calm. The repetitive up, down, up, down of the movement did its job.

I still don’t want to go downstairs. I’m afraid of what’s waiting for me.

Stares. Whispers.

I’ve been here before: my first day back at my dance studio after my Paquita panic attack. I walked into the room and everyone went silent. I thought that was something that only happened in movies until it happened to me. Then Miss Elise came in, clapped her hands, and cued the accompanist to begin playing our plié music. Bianca stood next to me at the barre, but everyone else gave me a wide berth. Like they thought anxiety was contagious.

And how much worse will it be here, where all of us are battling the same demons? I now represent everything Katie and Jenna and Dominic and Omar and maybe even Zoe don’t want to be: a weak, sobbing failure.

But when Dr. Lancaster comes to get me, I go with her. I get a small scoop of pasta salad. I walk into the dining room, plate in hand, and brace myself. I dig my feet into the floor and clench my muscles, like I’m preparing for a tidal wave to hit me.

The only thing that hits me is Katie. She barrels into me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

I stagger back a step, trying not to drop my meal. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Not a chance—

“I didn’t know what to do. I froze. I’m so sorry. But then Jenna jumped in, and . . .” Katie finally lets go of me.

Jenna’s standing a few feet away. “Are you all right?” she asks, her tone formal.

“Yeah. Thanks for . . .” I fade out, still not sure exactly what she did. All I know is that when I came back to myself, she was hugging me. The last person I’d expect to be doing that, aside from Zoe.

“No problem.” Jenna smooths back a lock of her hair, turns, and walks away.

Katie keeps talking. “Jenna knew just what to do. Dr. Lancaster was still walking over from the house, and Zoe went running to get her, and then the guys got out of the water, and Andrew was ready to carry you, but Jenna waved him off and, like, cocooned you, and . . . it was intense.”

I manage a weak smile. “It was intense for me, too.”

Katie blushes. “Right. I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“Thanks.” I follow Katie over to the dining table and sit down across from Omar and Dominic. Omar gawks at me, then shuts his mouth so fast that it makes a snapping noise. Dominic is staring at his food like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.

“Look who it is!” Zoe calls out. She’s sitting way off to the side with Yasmin, like she’s in time-out. “Feel better, Sleeping Beauty?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. I spear three elbow macaroni and a cherry tomato and pop the bite into my mouth. Delicious. But I don’t think I can stomach any more. Not when I’m the center of attention like this. I start counting the pieces of pasta and veggies on my plate. Moving items from one pile to another. Separating out the little feta cheese cubes.

“Are we going to talk about what happened?” Zoe says into the awkward silence.

Dr. Lancaster sits down at the table. “It’s up to Sam.” I’m glad she said that, but I also kind of wish she hadn’t, because now I feel even more in the spotlight.

Everyone looks at me.

“Um,” I say.

“Come on,” Zoe groans. “You can’t seriously expect us to focus on anything else right now.” She says, slowly and distinctly, “Sam, just say you’re anorexic, or whatever, and we’ll move on with our lives—”

“Zoe!” Dr. Lancaster says.