How It Feels to Fly(35)

Except for Zoe. “In case you think I’m about to spill my guts,” she says loudly, “I’m not. Get your gawk on somewhere else.”

Dr. Lancaster sighs and rolls her eyes the tiniest bit. I think I’m the only one who sees it. The gesture makes her look human. And it makes me like her a little more.

Then the placid therapist smile reappears. “This has been such a good session,” she says. “Thank you all for participating, and for supporting each other. I want to touch base with each of you privately for a few minutes. Sam?”

I get to my feet. As I pass Jenna’s chair, she taps me on the arm. “Barre later?”

“Okay.” I hesitate, then add, “We don’t have to be friends if you don’t want to. But it seems like we have some things in common.”

She just looks at me. I can’t read her expression.

“So . . . maybe we should compare notes.”

“Maybe.” She sounds wary. But it’s not a no.

“I’M PROUD OF you, Sam,” Dr. Lancaster says.

“Proud?”

“I just heard you reach out to Jenna. And you were such a strong support for Katie on the elevated beams. You’re becoming a vital member of our little community.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“I promise, leaning on your fellow campers—and letting them lean on you—will enhance this whole experience.” She goes on about the benefits of bonding with each other. It’s nothing she hasn’t told us before. Honestly, I zone out until I hear her say, “. . . message from your mother this morning.”

I sit up straighter. “Mom? What did she want?”

“She was concerned that you didn’t return her call last night.”

“Oh. I forgot.” Yasmin told me that Mom had called, but then Andrew sat beside me on the porch and gave me chocolate and made me feel like the world wasn’t such a bad place after all, and calling Mom back wasn’t even on my radar. “Was she mad?”

Dr. Lancaster gives me a keen look. “Do you expect your mother to be angry?”

I squirm under her gaze, wishing she’d look somewhere else. “Um. No. I guess more . . . disappointed?”

“Why?”

“She said she wanted to check in with me every day while I’m here.”

“Do you feel like it helps you to speak to her every day?”

“I don’t mind talking to her. It makes her feel better.”

“Let’s talk about how you feel, Sam. Not how your mother feels.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Mom and I are fine.”

“Do you want to call her now?” Dr. Lancaster pushes the phone on her desk toward me. She’s giving me that look I don’t like again. The one where she’s trying to see inside me.

“No. I’ll do it later. If that’s okay.”

“It is.” Dr. Lancaster jots down a note on her pad.

“What are you writing?” I don’t know why I’m suddenly so jittery. Her pen’s scratching is like nails on a chalkboard. I’m tempted to snatch the pen away from her and stuff it down into the couch cushions.

“Just notes for my records.”

“Why are you asking me about my mom?”

“You seem agitated, Sam.”

“My mom supports me,” I tell her. “She cares so much about my career. She wants me to succeed. She’s helping me fight for it. We’re a team. Since my dad left, it’s just Mom and me.”

Dr. Lancaster makes an mm-hmm noise. She doesn’t sound convinced.

“Can we talk about something else?” I pull out my notebook. “I did my homework assignment.”

She nods. “Of course, Sam. Go ahead.”

I flip past the story about my mom and Mrs. Hoyt and the unitards. Instead, I share the pages I wrote about my first costume fitting for Paquita.

Miss Elise rented tutus from a nearby ballet company, but none of the soloist costumes were my size. So my mom put her in touch with a tutu specialist who could create a new one for me. Which sounds nice in theory, but costume fittings are bad enough when it’s only a matter of trying on different tutus until you find the right one. When there’s no right one in the box and you’re the only person getting a costume made from scratch . . .

“The costume designer has me put on the largest tutu, even though we know it won’t work,” I read to Dr. Lancaster. “She wants to see how big I am, compared to the size I should be. The tutu gapes open in the back. She tugs at it until I can barely breathe, and still it won’t fasten.”

While all my classmates admired their reflections in their tutus—while they practiced pirouettes and fouettés and applauded each other—I stood there having my measurements taken. Bust, waist, hips, and on and on. The costume designer didn’t speak to me or look me in the eye. I wasn’t a person to her. I was a collection of wrong-sized body parts.

When she was done, she told Miss Elise, not even bothering to lower her voice, that this wasn’t going to be easy. Or cheap. She’d have to find lace and sequins that matched the existing tutus. She’d have to create a new pattern based on my measurements. “I’ll send an invoice,” she said, and then it was over.

And that wasn’t even the worst part.