How It Feels to Fly(50)

“Yasmin will get you something.” Dr. Lancaster nods at Yasmin, who leaves the room and returns with a plate of food. A waffle topped with fresh strawberries, blueberries, and honey. I stare at it. No panic attacks this week, I remind myself.

I look up to see Dr. Lancaster looking at me. She pushes me with her eyes. So I cut a square of waffle, stab a strawberry, and shove it in my mouth. It’s good. Crispy on the outside and buttery in the middle. The strawberry is fresh and tart and the honey glides down my throat. I cut another square, this time with a blueberry on top. I wonder how many squares Dr. Lancaster will make me eat.

“Now that you know a little bit about each other and your respective struggles, we’re going to spend the coming week doing what I call challenges,” Dr. Lancaster says. “These are activities that focus in on or simulate an issue one or more of you is battling. For instance, the ropes course we did on Thursday became a specific challenge for Katie, even though you all participated—and, I hope, benefited from it.”

I’m chewing on waffle square number three. Now it tastes dry. The honey is too sticky. The blueberry bursts in my mouth like a sour bomb.

“We’ll be using resources around campus, and my colleagues in the psychology department will step in when we need additional people involved,” Dr. Lancaster goes on. “They’re all trained mental health professionals, bound by confidentiality, so you can breathe easy knowing you’re in good hands.” She consults her notepad. “Tomorrow morning we’ll head to the football field for Dominic’s challenge. Then we’ll go to the film department’s screening room for Jenna’s challenge. Wednesday we’ll do Zoe’s tennis challenge first, followed by a cooking challenge for Sam. Thursday we’ll walk over to the college’s theater for Omar’s challenge. And on Sunday, we’ll return to the ropes course so that Katie can cross the suspended beams again.”

“Cooking?” I ask. “What does that have to do with—”

“You’ll see,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Now, did you all bring your notebooks?”

Everyone holds theirs up. When I raise my hand to say that I don’t have mine, Zoe thrusts it into my face. “Here. I swear, I didn’t read it.”

I don’t know whether to believe her. But I smile, out of habit, and say, “Thanks!”

“I want you all to spend a few minutes brainstorming about what motivates you. Then we’ll discuss as a group.”

I put my partially eaten waffle on the floor by my chair and flip to a blank page. I start jotting down ideas. And I find myself thinking in images instead of words. Like I want to make another collage, instead of just a written list.

An empty dance studio, waiting to be filled with life and movement.

A pair of perfectly broken in pointe shoes.

The view from the stage, past the bright stage lights, into the blackness of the auditorium.

Me at six, in my favorite pink leotard with the ruffly skirt.

Me last December, in my Dewdrop Fairy costume.

A piano, to represent the music that moves me: Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet. Arvo P?rt’s Spiegel im Spiegel, the haunting score to the pas de deux from Christopher Wheeldon’s After the Rain.

But how do I show the exhilaration of finally mastering a challenging step or phrase or variation? How do I show the triumph of pushing yourself beyond what you ever thought you could do? How do I show the feeling of being someone else—something else—onstage? Something better than yourself, something stronger, and richer, and fuller, and more beautiful?

THAT AFTERNOON, DR. Lancaster has me pull out the body-part lists I made—what I like and dislike about myself. She doesn’t miss the fact that I was grasping at straws when it came to things I like. I wrote that I have nice fingernails. And that it’s great that my leg hair grows slowly, because I don’t have to shave too often.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” she says. “Let’s see if we can’t reframe some of these negatives as positives.”

“Sure,” I say, humoring her. “Why not.”

“Thick thighs,” she reads. “What about powerful thighs? Do they help you jump?”

“I guess. But there are people with thinner legs who can jump just as high.”

“Big breasts and wide hips. Isn’t it normal for someone your age to start developing a more womanly figure?”

I shudder at the words “womanly figure.” “Not for a serious ballet dancer.”

“Does your strong core support you during difficult balances and partnering?”

“My strong core—” I grab the notebook from her, wanting to make sure my list didn’t change while I wasn’t looking. Nope, it still says Stomach—how it pooches out even when I hold it in. “Now you’re just making stuff up.”

“So you don’t think you have a strong core?”

“No, I do. I wouldn’t be able to do half of what I can do without it. It’s just all this”—I pinch at my layer of chub for emphasis, and then drop it, horrified at myself—“that I hate.”

“What’s more important: what your body looks like, or what it can do?”

Her question feels like a trap. “They’re both important.”

“But do you value one more than the other?”