How It Feels to Fly(29)

I didn’t mind. I don’t mind.

But there was one night in late March, about three weeks before our spring show, when I thought I was finished. I couldn’t handle it anymore. Mom had reserved the small downstairs studio for a private coaching session, just the two of us. She’d brought a list of technique issues she wanted to address. My extensions could be higher. I was sickling my feet when I pointed really hard. My shoulders were lifting in my pirouettes. I was holding too much tension in my hands.

“I’m tired, Mom,” I told her when she wanted me to repeat an exercise for the fourth time. Really, what I was feeling wasn’t exhaustion. It was pinpricks all over my skin and a sick swirling in my stomach and tightness in my chest. By that point, I knew where those sensations could lead. And I didn’t want to break down in front of her.

“You’re not too tired to do the exercise correctly.”

“Mom, I—” I walked over to lean on the wall-mounted barre, resting my head in my hands. “I don’t think this is good for me.” That was the only way I could say it. It was the most honest I was able to be. And she didn’t hear me.

“What was that?”

“I don’t think . . .” I couldn’t get it out a second time. “Never mind.” I walked back to the center of the studio. I did the exercise again, trying to incorporate all her feedback, trembling with the effort and barely keeping the tears in.

When I was through, I looked at Mom. She was standing by the stereo. Hands clasped in front of her heart. Eyes moist. Sad smile dancing on her lips. “That was beautiful,” she said.

The weight lifted a little. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. If we can get rid of those pesky extra pounds, you’ll be unstoppable.”

And the heaviness settled back in. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I told her.

“Go ahead and get changed. I’ll wait for you upstairs. We have to go to the store on the way home, so don’t dawdle.”

I nodded and went to my favorite toilet stall. The one where I ate my lunch and snacks on long rehearsal days. The one where I found my breath when I’d lost it. The one where I cried hot, silent tears. I didn’t do any of that that night. I sat on the closed toilet lid, pulling my knees up to my chin and wrapping my arms around my legs. I stared at the peeling gray paint on the stall door. I practiced my smile.

I had to make it home, to my own bedroom, before I could let go.

Now I look at Zoe balled up on her bed. I could tell her about my mom. She might get it. “Zoe—”

“Didn’t I tell you to go away?” she says from under her blanket. “I want to be alone. Don’t you have a twinkle or a toe touch to do somewhere? Anywhere that isn’t around me?”

I leave without saying good-bye.

AFTER DINNER, I’M sitting on the back porch, watching the sun set over the mountains, when Andrew sits down next to me.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

My inner voice doesn’t even have to chime in. We both know I’m not fine. It’s no longer a secret.

“Maybe it has to feel worse before it feels better?”

“I hope it doesn’t feel much worse than this.” As soon as I say it, my eyes fill up. Because of course it can feel worse.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Since talking to Zoe, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my mom. If some of why Zoe is so obnoxious is because of how her parents treat her, does some of my anxiety come from my mom? Obviously, there have been times she’s made me anxious—but she’s not the reason for it, right? My anxiety’s on me. Because it’s my body that betrayed me.

“When you were here, did you and Dr. Lancaster talk about your dad?” I ask Andrew.

“It’s one of the things we talked about.”

“How he put pressure on you, and it made you anxious?”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t just about him. I’m a people pleaser. I don’t ever want to let anyone down. In high school, that was my dad, my coach, my teammates, my school—even my hometown.”

“You really felt like you’d let your entire town down if you didn’t play well?”

“I was the star of the team. Regional MVP. I was on the front page of the local sports section just about every Saturday morning.” He says that last part with a snort of self-deprecating laughter, and I can’t help but laugh with him.

“I get it. You were kind of a big deal.”

“I was.” He pauses. “But I never loved football as much as my dad loved it.”

“Oh.” Now it’s my turn to pause. “I love ballet as much as my mom loved it.”

Andrew lets a few seconds go by. “Are you telling me that, like a fact, or are you trying to convince yourself?”

“I’m telling you,” I say firmly. “I love ballet.”

“Good. I think you have to love something if you’re gonna make sacrifices for it.”

Sacrifices. My stomach rumbles.

I’m starving right now. I had a clementine for breakfast, a few forkfuls of elbow macaroni and raw veggies for lunch, and half a turkey burger and five asparagus spears for dinner. I could totally have a snack without going over my calorie limit. But it’s 8:17 p.m. Not eating after eight o’clock is one of my biggest rules, ever since I read that article online about how the time of day you eat is almost as important as what you eat when it comes to losing weight.