How It Feels to Fly(46)

“Yeah,” I whisper to Jenna. “I’m jealous.”

I don’t like thinking about Bianca like this. I don’t like realizing that I’m the kind of person who is jealous of—even a little bit angry at—my best friend for something she can’t control. Especially when, as Dr. Lancaster pointed out, Bianca’s been nothing but supportive. It makes me feel like a terrible person. A terrible friend.

I need to change the subject. Lighten the mood.

“But as far as jealousy,” I say to Jenna, “you don’t have to worry about me, like, whacking you on the kneecap or anything.”

Jenna blinks at me. “I’m sorry, did you just make a Nancy Kerrigan joke?”

“Too soon?”

“Yeah, you know, 1994 called. . . .” She gives me a tight smile. “What’s the equivalent for ballet? Don’t you all, like, put glass in your rivals’ pointe shoes?”

“Oh, all the time. I see a mirror or a window and I’m like, Must break and sprinkle fragments in pointe shoes.”

Katie overhears this last part. “What are you two talking about?” Her voice comes out strained; she and Dominic are in matching push-up positions, staring each other down.

“Sabotage,” Jenna says.

“Speaking of which, would you two mind sitting on Dominic’s back right now?”

“I’d still win,” Dominic says through gritted teeth.

“Keep . . . telling . . . yourself . . . that. . . .” Katie shifts from one arm to the other.

“I’ll give you this,” Dominic says. “You’re pretty tough for someone so small.”

“Thanks.”

“My money’s on the kid,” Zoe calls from the couch.

In the end, it’s a draw. They have us count to three so they can drop at the same time. And then Katie looks at Dominic and says fiercely, “Rematch?”

He laughs. “Another time.” They shake on it, and then we all join Zoe and Omar on the couches. “So what’s this movie about?” Dominic asks.

“There’s this ghost—she died, like, fifty years ago,” Zoe says. “And this family moves into her house without knowing it. . . .” On-screen, a hot twenty-something playing a teenage boy waves a baseball bat at sharp objects that are flying through the room toward him. “You know what? Just watch it,” Zoe says.

So we do.

DINNER’S A COOKOUT. Andrew’s at the grill, wearing a “Kiss the Cook” apron. Omar and I sit nearby with our notebooks. I’m trying to work on the body part lists Dr. Lancaster assigned me yesterday, but it’s hard to concentrate. It’s Andrew’s presence—and the smell of the hamburgers on the grill.

Maybe it won’t kill me to have a burger. I could ask Andrew to make me a miniature one. Like, four bites. It would be so worth it.

Slippery slope, Sam, my inner voice chides.

I put pen to paper. What I dislike about myself: Wide hips. What I like about myself: High arches—feet look great in pointe shoes. What I dislike: Stomach—how it pooches out even when I hold it in. What I like: My hair. I have good hair. What I dislike: Thick thighs. What I like: . . .

“How’s it going?” Andrew drops into the rocking chair next to me. He pinches his tongs in my direction.

“It’s going okay,” I say, frowning at my list. How can I have already run out of things I like about my body? What about my eyes? I write that down.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“You can stay. I don’t mind.” I look up at him. He’s backlit; there’s a halo of early-evening light surrounding his sandy hair and the red-brown polo he’s wearing. “Honestly, I think I—I think I’m better with you.” I say the last part fast and soft, so Omar won’t hear.

“I’m glad,” Andrew says, just as soft.

I return my focus to my notebook. I try to let all the distractions fade away. The smell of cooking meat. Katie and Yasmin laughing in the kitchen. Omar humming to himself as he writes. Dominic jogging laps around the house, passing us again and again. The buzzing of insects and the calling of owls, getting louder as we drift toward sundown. The fireflies flickering on the lawn.

And Andrew. Next to me.

HE’S NEXT TO me again the next day, as I’m standing in front of the largest dining table I’ve ever seen. It has to seat at least fifty people. The place settings are immaculate. The wax fruit centerpieces look good enough to eat. There are more plush velvet chairs around the sides of the room, underneath enormous tapestries. A huge pipe organ covers one of the side walls, and two circular chandeliers hang from the high arched ceiling.

This room makes me think of fancy dinner parties where the women wear gloves and the men wear tuxes with tails. If I were invited to a party like that, I don’t think I’d have any problem eating. I’d finish every bite and ask for more.

Of course, I’d probably also be wearing a corset, which would limit the bites I could fit in. I’d have to be smart. One taste of each delicacy—

“Sam? Andrew? We’re moving on,” Dr. Lancaster calls. I leave the Banquet Hall reluctantly, looking back over my shoulder before I turn the corner.

We continue on the self-guided tour, winding through room after extravagant room. The Biltmore House was built in the late 1800s by George Vanderbilt, the heir to the Vanderbilt shipping and railroad fortune. It’s the largest privately owned home in the United States, with 250 rooms. Basically, it’s like someone plopped a European castle in the middle of North Carolina.