How It Feels to Fly(34)

“Uh, yeah, about that . . .” Omar has his hand in the air. His knees are jiggling rapid fire, and he’s blinking a lot.

“Yes, Omar?” Dr. Lancaster says.

“It’s not about the ropes course.”

“That’s okay. What would you like to talk about?”

“Why I’m here, I guess. Can I?”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“So, I get stage fright,” he tells us. “Really bad. Which is so dumb, because I started doing commercials when I was, like, three. I’ve been acting my whole life. But for the past year, ever since Our Town, it’s like . . . I look out at the audience or whatever, and I want to throw up. I used to love acting. But now it makes me feel sick. Even memorizing lines makes me want to puke.”

“So quit,” Zoe says. “I don’t get what the big deal is.”

“I don’t want to quit. At least, I don’t think I do.” Now he’s wiggling in his seat like a toddler who has to go to the bathroom. “But I’m so anxious, all the time. Onstage and offstage. I’m anxious because I’m anxious, if that makes sense. Obviously I can’t sit still. My girlfriend told me I’m like one of those hairless dogs that shake all the time?” He barks out a laugh that makes all of us jump. “And every decision feels huge. Like, what to have for lunch feels like it matters so much. So how can I know if I’m supposed to quit acting?”

“Did you try taking a break from acting?” Katie asks. “To see if you missed it?”

“Yeah, but then I was anxious that acting’s the thing I’m supposed to be doing, and I couldn’t focus on school and my grades were slipping. . . .” He scratches his head. Fixes his glasses. “Maybe I’m just burned out. Or the pressure’s getting to me. It’s hard going from cute-kid jobs to real jobs. There aren’t that many roles for people who look like me. I’m a short, not-that-good-looking, brown kid who wears Harry Potter glasses and has allergies. Casting directors aren’t busting my parents’ door down. So anyway,” he finishes. “That’s why I’m here.”

“What made you feel ready to open up?” Dr. Lancaster asks.

“Katie and Sam. You guys were so honest. It kind of inspired me.”

“Thanks, Omar,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Does anyone want to respond?”

Dominic clears his throat. “Hey, if Omar can do it, I guess I can too.” He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, and talks to the ceiling. “So, I’m here because there were all these college scouts at our spring practices, and my coach kept pointing them out and introducing me. He’d stop our workouts and call me over and put me on the spot. And it started getting inside my head. I’d set up for a pass, and then I’d look over at Coach So-and-So from the University of Wherever with his clipboard and I’d totally screw it up.”

“Who had the idea for you to come to Perform at Your Peak?” Dr. Lancaster asks.

“Coach. And me, I guess. He found you. I signed up.” Dominic looks around the circle. “I’m good. Really good,” he says, and for once it doesn’t sound like cockiness. “And I want to play professional ball, so I need to go to the right college. But wherever I end up, I need a full ride. I’m here on scholarship. And I’m not ashamed of it. I’ve got five siblings. My dad’s a mechanic and my mom’s a nurse. They work hard, and they expect me to. Which is why I gotta stop psyching myself out, like yesterday.” He exhales in frustration. “Plus, the guys on the team, they’ve, uh, been ragging on me. Calling me a *, or whatever.”

“What?” Katie jumps in, indignant. “That’s so mean!”

Dominic laughs. “I’ve heard worse. I’m more worried about going to college.”

“Thank you so much for sharing that, Dominic,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Does anyone else want to share something?”

Jenna’s the next domino to fall. “I suppose it’s my turn.” She pats down her perfect ponytail, laces her fingers together in her lap, and sits up even straighter than she already was. “I’m kind of a perfectionist,” she begins. “I get caught up in doing everything exactly right. Which shouldn’t be a problem—it should make me better. Stronger. Striving for perfection should make me a champion.” I get the feeling this is an argument she’s had with herself many times.

“But . . . ?” I say softly.

Her head whips in my direction. “But it’s causing some issues.” She says the word the same way my mom does. I wonder if someone says it like that to her, or if she does it all on her own.

“Issues like what?” Omar asks.

“I’m not sleeping very well. I can’t turn my brain off.” Jenna’s tone is clipped, like she’s reciting a rehearsed speech. “And I’ll watch videos of myself skating and jot down notes and corrections for hours and hours and hours, without realizing how much time has passed. And when practice doesn’t go well . . .” She clears her throat. “The harder I work, the more I practice—the worse I skate. I’m screwing up the easiest components, and my artistic scores are terrible. I hate what I look like on the ice right now. So I’m here to fix it. To fix myself.”

It’s the same thing I told Dr. Lancaster yesterday—I want this place to fix me. It sounds like we all do.