How It Feels to Fly(28)

“Arts and crafts again,” Jenna says, sounding disappointed. She smooths her ponytail and then gets to her feet, brushing invisible crumbs from her shorts.

I think about what Dominic said about toughing it out. “Whatever works, right?”

“Right,” Katie says firmly.

I SPEND THE afternoon making a ballerina out of weightless things. Ethereal and graceful things. Floating and soaring and spinning things.

I start with a picture of a dancer in arabesque—a lucky find in an entertainment magazine article about a new TV show with a ballerina main character. But she’s just my template. I cover her body with photos that represent everything beautiful about ballet. Her torso and arms are made of water and bubbles and clouds. Her feet and ankles become tree roots. Her calves and shins are blades of grass bending in the breeze. Her chest is a dandelion puff. Her fingers are rays of light, shining out.

“Wow,” Yasmin says when she sees. “That’s gorgeous, Sam.”

I actually agree. And so does Dr. Lancaster, when I show it to her.

“This is what you want to be?” she asks. “Your perfect dancer?”

“Yeah. She’s light, but grounded. She moves like water, like a reed, like the wind. She shines onstage. . . .” I realize I’m doing it again, the thing that made Zoe laugh at me during our first group session, when I said dancing the Dewdrop Fairy made me feel light and sparkling. But Zoe isn’t here now. It’s just me and Dr. Lancaster.

“Do you feel like this collage represents you, at your best?”

“I—yes? No. Sometimes.” I chew on my lip. “I guess I might move this way, but I don’t look this way.”

That’s it in a nutshell—and it’s the thing I can’t seem to change.





ten


AFTER MY SESSION WITH DR. LANCASTER, I HEAD upstairs to my bedroom. My plan is to work out more. The twenty minutes of relevés I squeezed in earlier aren’t going to cut it. Not in terms of my fitness goals, and not in terms of shaking off the residue from my panic attack earlier.

But when I swing the door open, I hear: “Go away.”

Zoe’s curled up in a lump on her bed. She’s under the covers, just the top of her head poking out.

“It’s my room too,” I tell her.

“Go away!” she shouts.

“No!” I shout back, surprising myself.

I think about everything she said to me at lunch. Everything she’s said to me since I got here. Then I think about what Dominic said: we have to quit giving Zoe attention. So although I could yell at her more—I probably have every right to, and it might feel good—I don’t.

I crouch next to my suitcase and start folding the clothes I dumped on the floor during this morning’s marathon what-am-I-going-to-wear session. Every day I do this. Rumple the clothes in the morning, fold them back up later. I know I could fold them again right away, but I kind of like waiting until it’s a big project. I like restoring order to the mess I’ve made.

I’ve just tucked the last tank top back into my suitcase when Zoe says quietly, “They said no.”

I glance at the door to our bedroom. I could just walk out. There’s no reason for me to talk to Zoe.

But then she repeats, even softer, like she can’t believe it: “They said no.”

I lean back against my bed. I ask, even though I’m not sure I should, “Who?”

“My parents.”

“What did they say no to?”

“Coming to get me.”

“So you were trying to get sent home?” I know I sound skeptical. But I’m not ready to give her the benefit of the doubt.

She sits up, eyes blazing. “I’m not like you. Don’t think for a second that I’m anything like you!”

I keep my voice calm, even though my pulse has quickened. “Not like me how?”

“I shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong.”

“You said you chose to come here.”

“I made a mistake.” She flops down in the bed and pulls the covers over her head.

“Um, okay.” I pick up my workout clothes and get to my feet.

Zoe doesn’t speak again until I’m at the door. “I lied,” she says, her voice muffled by the blankets. “I wanted to quit tennis, so I lied and told my parents it was giving me panic attacks. I thought it was a great plan. But they went online and found this place.”

I pause with my hand on the knob. “But you still had to agree to come here.”

“Like I said yesterday. I had a choice: here, or elite tennis camp. I thought if I came here but got kicked out, oops, it’s too late to sign up for tennis camp. But—my parents—they won’t—” Her voice cracks. “My dad told me to ‘straighten up and fly right.’ Like he’s some 1950s sitcom parent. My mom wouldn’t even come to the phone. She couldn’t be bothered to talk to me. They don’t listen.” She takes a ragged breath. “They never listen.”

I think about my own mom. I only tried to tell her once how bad I was feeling. The rest of the time, I worked so hard not to let her see. Because she didn’t need to see that. She was finally acting like herself again after splitting from my dad two years ago.

When Dad first filed for divorce, I was Mom’s lifeline. My dancing made her happy when nothing else could. And when the curvy genes on Dad’s side of the family finally caught up with me, I became more than her lifeline. I turned into her project.