How It Feels to Fly(57)

“BRB,” she says, a wicked smile on her face.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Forgot something.”

“What?” As far as I can tell, she has everything we left with. Bikini, shorts, swim cap, shoes, towel—not much to forget.

Zoe gives a dramatic sigh. “Oh, fine. You caught me. You can come with.”

“Come with you where?”

“Come on, Barbs. Live a little.” She holds the door open and beckons me closer.

I don’t know exactly why I follow her, but I do. We sneak down the stairs and down the hall, our footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. Zoe stops in front of Dr. Lancaster’s office. She turns the doorknob. The door swings open, and Zoe pushes me inside fast.

“What are we—”

“Shh!” She claps her hand over my mouth.

We wait to hear whether anyone followed us. I decide that the moment she lets me go, I am running—running—back upstairs. This was a horrible idea. I can’t get caught in here with her. I should never have listened. There’s only so far “live a little” should take you.

But when Zoe releases my mouth, she doesn’t release my wrist. She pulls me over to Dr. Lancaster’s desk and slides open the top right drawer. “Which one’s yours?”

There are six cell phones in the drawer. I point at mine. Zoe hands it to me, then picks up the one that must be hers.

“How did you know—”

“I’ve been in here before.”

“When?”

“The other night. I wanted to snoop around. It’s a win-win—I either find out more stuff about all of you, or I get caught and sent home. Or I find out more stuff about all of you and I get caught and sent home. Guess that’s a win-win-win.”

“You read our files? Those are private!”

“Not anymore,” she says with a smirk. Then she laughs. “You should see your face right now. No, I did not read anyone’s private file. They’re in a locked cabinet, and I couldn’t find the key. Maybe Dr. Lancaster sleeps with it around her neck.”

My hands are trembling. I wring them, trying to make the trembling stop. “Okay.”

“I swear. Scout’s honor. Your secrets are still safe.”

“Okay.”

She powers her phone on and starts texting.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I hold my phone up, still uncertain.

Zoe flashes me a bright grin. “Whatever you want.”

Whatever I want.

What do I want?

All at once, I know. On Sunday, in the blue room at the Biltmore, Andrew said I should talk to Marcus. To get closure. To move on. I don’t give it any more thought. I turn on my phone, find Marcus in my contacts, and call him.

He answers on the third ring, sleep-groggy and yawning. “Hello?”

“Hey. It’s me.”

A long pause. “Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“Is everything okay? What time is it?”

“Late. Early. Sorry.”

“Aren’t you at that therapy camp?”

“I am.”

“Are you supposed to be calling me?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” He yawns again. “Well, how are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m okay. It’s hard here, you know? But I think I’m—” I stop. Marcus doesn’t get to have a window into my thoughts anymore. It’s his turn to talk to me. “I’m calling because . . .” I glance at Zoe and then decide that hearing what Marcus has to say is more important than hiding from her. “Why did you break up with me?”

“Wow, straight to the point. That’s, um . . . new.” He groans, like he’s pushing himself to sitting. “I told you. You were . . . different. And I didn’t know how to—”

A flash of righteous anger. “So you dumped me because I’m not as—because I— How shallow are you?”

“Wait, what? What are you even talking about? It’s the middle of the night, Sam. Be straight with me.”

I force myself to say it. “I got fat.”

There’s a bark of laughter on the other end of the line. It makes me want to throw the phone across the room. But I keep my grip. I wait.

“Hold on—were you being serious?”

“Yes,” I say in a small voice.

“Sam. We didn’t break up because you got . . . fat. Which you aren’t, by the way. Not unless you’ve changed an awful lot in two weeks. If we’re being honest here, I liked the curves.” Now I can hear the smile in the corner of his mouth.

“Why, then?”

“You were so down all the time. Like anything was gonna make you cry. Nothing I did cheered you up. And when I’d ask you about it, you’d bite my head off. So then I didn’t want to ask you at all. And whenever we’d go out, you were, like, so self-conscious. . . .” He pauses.

“Keep going. Please.”

“I didn’t know how to make you feel better. It didn’t seem like you wanted to feel better. And I—I’ve had a lot on my plate, with baseball and science club and—being with you—it wasn’t fun anymore. It was stressful. Frustrating. And I didn’t need that.”