How It Feels to Fly(3)

Imagine if you ate twice as much as anyone you know.

You look bad enough as it is—

I fill my glass with tap water and sit on one of the stools at the kitchen island.

“So, Sam-short-for-Samantha,” Andrew says, quoting my stammered-out intro from orientation. He takes two slices of bread and waves them at me. “Prepare yourself. You’re about to see something pretty special.”

I raise my eyebrows and lean forward, resting my elbows on the gray marble countertop. “Oh yeah?” I make eye contact, smile, and then look down. Which is when I see how slouching like this is making my stomach stick out.

Ugh. You’re disgusting—

Slowly, casually, I lean back and cross my arms in front of my midsection.

Better. I don’t think he saw.

Andrew assembles his sandwich, stacking ingredients like he’s building a Jenga tower. Pull out the wrong pickle and the whole thing falls down. When the sandwich is done, it looks too big to possibly bite. But he lifts it up, grins at me, opens his mouth wide, and shoves what looks like a third of it inside.

“Mmm.” He chews and swallows. “It’s good. Sure you don’t want one?” He makes the cold cuts and bread do a little shimmy dance on the countertop.

“I’m okay. But thanks.”

“How are you settling in?” he asks, before taking another giant bite. Chew, swallow. “Orientation is always kind of awkward. Icebreakers are the worst.” He gives me a knowing smile. “But do you feel like you’ll get along with everyone?”

I don’t know whether I should tell him about “I’m not here to make friends” Jenna or “what are you losers doing” Zoe. As a peer adviser, he’s basically a camp counselor—not a trained therapist, but not one of the campers, either. I don’t know whose side he’s on. “Dr. Lancaster seems nice,” I finally say. It seems like a safe statement.

“Dr. Lancaster’s great. She really helped me when I was a camper here.” Andrew finishes his sandwich and brushes the crumbs from his hands. “I think you’re going to get a lot out of this program.”

Yeah, right, my inner voice cuts in. Like anything will make a difference for you at this point. Unless Perform at Your Peak is a front for Dr. Frankenstein’s lab and you’re about to get a total body transplant, you’re out of luck.

“I hope so,” I answer, raising my voice so it drowns out the noise in my head. “I have a ballet intensive to go to when this is done. I’m really looking forward to it.”

As long as they don’t see how much weight you’ve put on since the audition and send you packing.

“That’s great,” Andrew says. “When does it start?”

“It actually overlaps with this place by a week. But my mom—she used to be a ballerina, before I was born—she and my teacher got permission for me to start the intensive a week late.”

It’s the only reason I agreed to come here. My best friend, Bianca, got into four ballet intensives this summer, including her top choice. I was accepted to one program. I only have one shot.

“Since I can’t do the whole program, they bumped me to the wait list, but my mom’s not worried. Spots always open up. People pick other schools, or get injured. I’m definitely going.” And I’m definitely babbling. Andrew’s been looking at me long enough that it’s making me uncomfortable. I don’t really like it when people look at me. Not while I’m dancing, not while I’m sitting still—not ever.

“Well, I’m glad they could make the schedule work for you.” He turns to put his plate in the sink, and I’m able to exhale.

“I guess. But I’d rather be dancing than . . .”

He finishes my sentence when I can’t. “Going to therapy camp? I’m not surprised. But if you can’t become a professional dancer—”

I’m on edge again immediately. “What do you mean, if I can’t?”

“What you learn here should help you in any career—”

“I don’t want any career. I want to dance. That’s all I want.” The panic is back. Rising from my swirling stomach, wrapping itself around my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I try to steady my voice. “This place is supposed to help me do that, right?”

My mask is slipping. Any second now, Andrew is going to see me. The real me. Messed up and broken and flailing. I can’t let him.

Andrew runs a hand through his hair, frowning. “It’s just that there are six of you here, and you probably won’t all become professionals in your field. But you can learn how to take good mental care of yourself, whatever you decide to do—”

“So you think I can’t be a ballet dancer. It’s because of how I look, isn’t it?” I clap my hand over my mouth and scramble down from the stool. “I didn’t mean—never mind. I’m going upstairs. Forget we had this conversation.” I practically run for the door.

Andrew calls after me: “Sam, wait!”

I stop, not wanting to look back. But because I’m a glutton for punishment, I do. I wrap my arms around my body, squeezing myself thinner, wishing I could make myself disappear entirely. And I stare at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “None of that came out right. I didn’t mean to suggest you won’t be a professional dancer.”