How It Feels to Fly(37)

I’m thinking about talking to Dr. Lancaster about my mom.

I’m thinking about Andrew. Why I can’t shake the feeling that he likes me back.

I’m thinking about Marcus, and how I shouldn’t be falling for Andrew right after Marcus dumped me.

And I’m thinking about my body. Always and forever my body.

Your hips and thighs look enormous in these leggings, my inner voice taunts me as I return to downward-facing dog. When you’re upside down like this, your top rides up, and your stomach hangs out. Look at all that fat! We hop our feet into forward bend, and I try to surreptitiously pull my leggings up and my shirt down. Too late. I close my eyes and I roll up to standing, hands in a prayer gesture in front of my chest.

If I keep my eyes closed, I won’t have to see the looks on all their faces.

Yasmin opened our session by sharing her journey from yoga newbie to fully certified instructor. Then she led us in thirty minutes of breathing exercises, to help us learn how to regulate our breath when the anxiety comes. We breathed lying on our backs with our hands on our stomachs. We breathed folded into child’s pose, foreheads pressed to the floor. We breathed sitting cross-legged and we breathed standing like we are now. It was nice. Soothing.

But now, in motion, I can’t get that calm back.

We start another Sun Salutation. I bend forward and then jump my feet into downward-facing dog. I drop my head and look through my legs. Andrew is sitting behind me. I try to follow the line of his eyes. It’s hard to tell upside down, but I think he’s looking at Yasmin. Petite, gorgeous Yasmin, whose perfect makeup and blown-out waves and toned body look straight out of a fitness-wear ad. Of course he’s staring at her. I huff in frustration, blowing a stray hair out of my eyes. I watch Yasmin help Omar transition from downward-facing dog into a long lunge. She lunges forward with him. She’s almost as flexible as I am. And she looks way better in spandex.

I bring my right foot forward into a runner’s stretch, feeling my left hip flexor lengthen. I flatten my spine. Lift my chest. I glance back at Andrew a second time.

Now he’s looking at me. He smiles.

I turn away fast. I wish I hadn’t seen him looking. I’m glad I did.

I sneak another peek. Now he’s looking toward Yasmin again. Or maybe at Jenna.

It makes me think about when Marcus stopped by the ballet studio to pick me up after a Saturday rehearsal, back in April—about a week and a half before spring show. I came up from the dressing room to find him chatting with Lauren and Tabitha and Becca. They were kind of fawning over him. He didn’t look like he minded. And when Tabitha turned away, I swear he checked out her butt.

The stab I felt then—the utter certainty that Marcus found those other girls so much more attractive than he found the new, not-so-skinny me—I feel it now, with Andrew.

“Step back into downward-facing dog, and then roll forward into plank,” Yasmin intones. “Drop your knees, chest, and chin to the mat, keeping your heart open. . . .”

I lower into the pose, trying not to think about whether Andrew is looking at me right this second, or about whether Marcus liked me less after I gained weight. I focus on arching my back. I feel my abs stretch.

Then I hear a wolf whistle. “Lookin’ good, Ballerina Barbie! Show off that butt!”

I flatten myself to the floor. A split second later, I’m standing, and I’m angry. “No!” I say loudly, just a note below a shout. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Lancaster coming toward me and Zoe. I know I should let her handle this, but I can’t stop. “No more!”

“No more what?” Zoe looks amused by my outburst.

Her twitching lips only make me madder. “You can’t say things like that to me. To any of us. You have to stop.”

“Jeez, Ballerina Barbie, it was a compliment. Hand to God.”

Dr. Lancaster crouches down between the yoga mats. “Up, Zoe.”

“Come on. I was doing her a favor, letting her know everyone’s staring at her butt.” Zoe looks at me, amusement turning to annoyance. “I said your butt looked good. What is your problem?”

“Up,” Dr. Lancaster repeats. And something in her tone, in her eyes, makes Zoe actually do it. I watch them leave the room, and then I deflate. I look around. My stomach begins to churn.

Everyone’s staring at you.

If they weren’t looking at your butt before, they are now.

You have to get out of here.

“Sam,” Katie starts, sounding impressed. “That was—”

I don’t wait for her to finish. I run for the door.

HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED at the end of April.

It was opening night for our spring show. I was excited—but more than that, I was nervous. I couldn’t stop thinking about the audience watching me dance. Or really, watching my new, heavier, curvier body dance. Most of them were probably at Nutcracker. They’d seen me as Dewdrop. Would they recognize me now? Did I even look like the same person?

I didn’t feel like the same person.

After a jittery warm-up onstage, I headed back to the soloists’ dressing room to finish getting ready. I styled my hair into a braided bun. I pinned my Paquita headpiece into place. I did my stage makeup: thick black eyeliner, fake lashes, rosy cheeks, red lips. The ritual of it all started to make me feel better. More prepared. More normal.