How It Feels to Fly(4)

Sure he did. He said exactly what he meant.

And he’s right.

“I was trying to say that this camp is about making you a happier, healthier person—beyond dance. Does that make sense?”

He’s looking at me intently. I want him to stop looking.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Really, I am. Forgive me?”

“Sure,” I mutter, trying to smile like it’s no big deal. “Forgiven.”

There are tears pricking at my eyes. I blink them away and start walking. Around the corner. Up the stairs, my feet silent on the plush beige carpet and my hand gliding along the dark wood of the banister. I feel Andrew’s eyes following me. They burn into me, the way eyes always do these days.

I ignore them. If the past few months have taught me anything, it’s how to ignore the eyes. How to pretend they don’t hurt.





two


MY BODY DIDN’T BETRAY ME ALL AT ONCE. THE change was gradual. Stealthy. Like I was papier-maché and the artist was adding one thin layer at a time, wrapping around and around until the new Sam started to take shape.

November to May. A picture-perfect, music-box ballerina to . . . something else. Someone else.

First my balance was thrown off. I couldn’t find my center of gravity. My pirouettes were shaky, when I used to be able to spin like a top.

I figured I was having some bad dance days. I’d train harder. Get it all back.

Then I noticed soft curves where there used to be straight lines. Roundness and fullness. A hint of an hourglass.

So I cut calories. A little, then a lot.

But cutting calories didn’t help. Exercising more didn’t help.

The layers kept coming.

I hid my new body beneath loose warm-ups in class and rehearsal. I wore sports bras under my leotards. I learned how to suck it in, tuck it under—to camouflage.

None of that kept people from noticing. From commenting. From offering advice. From whispering behind my back.

It’s amazing how much damage fourteen pounds can do.

Those fourteen pounds are all I can think about as I dig through my suitcase, then my dance bag, then my suitcase again. I’m searching for something that makes me feel confident. In control. Thin.

Nothing could make you look thin. Absolutely nothing.

“I know,” I say aloud, to the empty room. But I keep digging.

Today I’m probably going to have to talk about how I’ve been feeling—how I ended up at this place. That’s part of the therapeutic process, according to Dr. Lancaster. The problem is, I’ve trained myself not to talk about it. I’ve gotten good at nodding, and changing the subject, and pretending I don’t hear things. And smiling, always smiling.

If it weren’t for that one panic attack—not my first, but the first one other people saw—I wouldn’t even be here. If I could have made it to the privacy of the bathroom in time, no one would have found out. And having everyone’s eyes on me made it worse. I couldn’t pull myself together, not with all of them gawking.

Miss Elise got to me before I had my walls back up. She convinced me to confide in her—and then she told my mom what I’d said. Next thing I knew, I was here.

So much for following in your mom’s footsteps.

Ballet never gave her a nervous breakdown.

After throwing outfit after outfit in a pile on the floor, I put on skinny jeans and a blousy tank. I glance in the mirror when I’m dressed and immediately wish I hadn’t.

My muffin top. My mom was actually the first one to point it out. “Those jeans don’t fit you quite as well as they used to”—that’s how she put it. Then we had another chat about my diet. Her catchphrase lately has been “Make good choices.” She and I have been “making good choices” together since my weight gain became obvious. Like it was my choice what happened to my body in the first place. Not a combination of bad luck and bad timing and bad genes.

I think she’s disappointed in me. I think she thinks I’m not fighting my changing body hard enough. In reality, fighting’s all I’m doing. It’s just that it’s hard to win when you’re fighting yourself.

I pull my hair into a ponytail and sit on the bed. I should go downstairs. I’m already late. But I couldn’t shower until the bathroom was empty, and I couldn’t get dressed until Zoe went down for breakfast. Which, judging by the time, I’ve now missed. No matter—I haven’t been great at eating in front of people lately. It’s not that I don’t eat. I totally do. But having people watch me eat makes the panic swirl up.

Missing a meal or two won’t kill you. You’re better off hungry.

The door slams open. Zoe scowls at me. “Dr. Lancaster sent me to get you. What are you even doing up here?”

“Oh, hi! Sorry, I lost track of time. I’m almost ready!” I smile, but it doesn’t matter. She’s already walking back down the hall.

I stand, straighten my tank top, breathe in deep, and follow.

WE’LL BE HAVING our morning group sessions in the Dogwood Room—the room Jenna and I were dancing in last night. It’s an open space with large windows looking out over a wide green lawn. There’s a TV and a pair of couches in one corner. The carpet is a dusty rose, and pink and white dogwood flowers climb the wallpaper.

When Zoe and I walk in, everyone else is seated in a folding-chair circle.