How It Feels to Fly(38)

And then I tried to put on my tutu.

Something was wrong. The leg holes were too tight; the elastic cut into my thighs. The basque wouldn’t fasten around my hips. The bodice was inches from closing.

I saw my reflection. My worst nightmare had happened overnight.

You are too fat for your costume.

I staggered forward, leaned against the counter, tried to catch my breath. The tutu flapped open at my back, but I felt like I was being squeezed from the inside. My heart was in my clenched fist. I discovered that I was crying when I looked up and saw makeup streaking down my face. I sat down on the floor. Fell, really.

That was when Lauren came into the dressing room and asked, “Um, why are you wearing my tutu?” That was her question, before: “Are you okay?”

I was not okay. I was shaking and sobbing and wheezing and scratching at my skin like after a decade of dancing, I’d suddenly become allergic to tulle and sequins. My chest felt like it was going to explode. I genuinely thought I was dying.

Lauren’s shouts brought all the other girls running. Bianca pushed through the crowd, saw me, and pushed back out into the hallway. She returned with Miss Elise and my mom, who was assisting backstage. Miss Elise helped me stand. She guided me out of Lauren’s tutu and back into my sweats. She unlaced my pointe shoes. She wiped the smeared makeup from my face.

My mom watched all this happen, stunned into silence. Eventually Miss Elise ushered her outside. Asked her to check on the rest of the cast. To report back when it was ten minutes to curtain. My mom left.

Miss Elise sat with me. She got me to talk.

And I ended up here.

That panic attack led to this moment—to me sitting on the girls’ bathroom floor, back against the wall, crying because my mean roommate paid me a sarcastic compliment, and I can no longer tell when people are laughing at me and when they’re being serious, or even nice.

This is what I’ve become.

You’re pathetic.

Realizing how pathetic I am just makes me cry harder.

There’s a knock at the door. I don’t answer. Another knock.

“Go away!”

But the door creaks open.

“Sam?”

I look over. Andrew is standing in the doorway. He’s leaning in, but his feet are still planted in the hall.

“Can I come in?”

“No.” I turn my back on him, resting my cheek against the cold tile.

“Can I get you to come out?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I think I’ve humiliated myself enough for one day. Thanks anyway.”

“You didn’t humiliate yourself—” Andrew begins, but I cut him off.

“I just want to be normal. Why can’t I be normal?” That feeling I had two days ago of wanting to hit something—it’s back. Simmering in my belly, alongside the hum of anxiety that lives there. I want to hit something, and I want to keep crying, and I want to give up, and I want to fight. All at the same time.

A noise behind me. The door clicks shut. For a second, I’m sure Andrew’s gone.

You scared him away. Nice work.

And then he’s sitting next to me, hand on my back. He rubs a circle between my shoulder blades. He doesn’t say a word, but he’s telling me he’s not going anywhere.

Without thinking about what I’m doing, what it might mean, I lean into him. I feel his body tense up, like he’s surprised, and then he relaxes. A little. Not entirely. But he also doesn’t move away. After another moment, he puts his arm around me. I can feel his chest rising and falling. His inhales are my inhales, and my exhales are his.

I fit into his arms differently than I fit into Marcus’s. It’s weird, and it’s wrong, and it’s right. I don’t know how much time passes, whether it’s just a few minutes or much longer. But eventually he clears his throat.

I pull away from him. “Sorry. I—”

“Ready to leave the bathroom now?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

I scramble to my feet and catch sight of myself in the mirror. I’m a disaster. Red-faced from yoga. Messy ponytail. Wet, puffy eyes.

And Andrew’s still here.

“ARE YOU ALL right, Sam?” Dr. Lancaster sits across from me, leaning forward in her chair. “I’ve talked to Zoe. Again. I’ve called her parents again as well.”

I picture Zoe, a ball of misery in her twin bed.

“This is strike two,” Dr. Lancaster goes on. “I won’t take no for an answer from them a third time. Your well-being is too important—”

“I’m okay. I promise.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“You saw what happened. And you know how I feel about people staring at me.”

Except Andrew, my inner voice mocks. I ignore it.

“I guess I’d just . . . had enough. I’m sorry I disrupted the class.”

“You weren’t the only person to disrupt the class,” she says gently.

“Do you think Zoe was telling the truth?”

“About what?”

“About what she said being a compliment. About my—about my butt. Do you think she really was trying to be nice?”

“I think,” she says, seeming to choose her words carefully, “that Zoe didn’t consider the fact that what she said might upset you.”