How It Feels to Fly(61)

“I don’t know. So far, most of my coursework has been about history and theory—like, Freud’s thoughts on human development versus Jung’s versus Erikson’s. I did take Abnormal Psychology last semester, but it was an overview of all the mental and emotional disorders out there. We didn’t talk so much about treatment.”

“Oh.”

“I guess my question to you, as your peer adviser, would be: how do you feel, knowing we’re about to eat that lasagna?”

I peel off my rubber gloves. I think of the look on my mom’s face if she caught me with a plate of pasta. “Anxious. But maybe not as anxious as I should be.”

“The whole point is that eating shouldn’t make you anxious, Sam. Neither should looking at yourself in the mirror, or having other people look at you.”

“But it does. All of it.”

“I know.” He smiles at me. And despite my nerves, his smile makes me feel warm inside. Whatever I think of myself, there’s nothing wrong with me in his eyes.

He has a girlfriend.

He said they’re having issues. He practically told me they’re breaking up.

He’s too old for you.

Four years isn’t that big a deal, really.

You’re a camper. He’s a counselor.

I don’t care.

When the lasagna comes out of the oven, sizzling and steaming, Lisa gives me the first plate. I cut a small sliver and blow on it to cool it. Everyone is watching me, waiting for the verdict. “Can you all, um, turn around?” I’ll never get this bite down with their eyes on me.

Everyone turns except Zoe. She stares at me a few seconds too long before saying, “Oh, you mean right now?” Then she turns.

I open my mouth and I put the lasagna in and I chew. I suppress a moan of satisfaction. It is so good. The cheese is creamy and the veggies are tender and the sauce is bright and tart.

“Delicious,” I say to the group. “And hot.” I exhale steam.

“All right, folks—dig in!” Lisa says, slicing more squares.

I eat my entire serving in eleven bites. I use my fork to scoop up the sauce and spinach that remain on my plate. Then I push back from the table. I’m perfectly full. And I’m happy, too. I completed the challenge. I was anxious, and I still saw it through. When I look over at Andrew and see him smiling at me, I feel even better.

AS WE WALK back to the Perform at Your Peak house, Andrew stays beside me. I wish we were holding hands. I wish he had his arm around my waist.

Once I start thinking about his hands, his arms, I get this picture in my head of us dancing together. I bet he’d be a great dance partner. Strong, attentive, gentle.

I love partnering.

Or at least I used to. Before I gained fourteen pounds.

It isn’t necessarily my fault I didn’t get to do any pas de deux this year. After Bryce graduated, Theo was the only guy left in our senior company. He’s really talented—but he’s also shorter and skinnier than me. No way could he lift me more than a few inches off the ground.

But Andrew . . . I bet he could make me fly.

His voice cuts into my thoughts: “What’s up? You’re making a funny face.”

“Nothing,” I say, rearranging my features.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Come on. I thought we were past that.” He bumps my shoulder, and the tornado swirls up inside me, but instead of anxiety, it’s all anticipation.

“I was thinking about partnering.”

“Partnering?”

“Yeah, you know, when a guy and a girl dance together, and the guy lifts the girl—of course, it doesn’t have to be a guy and a girl, it could be two guys or two girls, or a whole group—” I’m getting off track. “The point is, I miss it.”

Floating through the air. Leaping farther than I could ever have leaped on my own. Turning faster, balancing longer. Feeling two bodies become one, shaping the space.

“Why do you miss it? What’s stopping you from partnering?”

I gesture at my body.

Andrew looks me up and down. I try not to squirm.

“Okay,” he says, his voice neutral. “You’re gonna have to clue me in.”

“There’s no one at my studio who can lift me.”

“You’re kidding. What kind of scrawny guys do you have at that ballet school?”

That makes me laugh. “One. Not exactly a body builder.”

“Huh. Well, I bet I could do one of your fancy ballet lifts with you. And I barely do any weight training anymore.”

I catch my breath. Move over, daydream. “Are you serious?”

He looks thoughtful. “I wasn’t . . . but why not? I’ll let you teach me some ballet lifts. I bet you ten dollars I can get you above my head.” He glances at the rest of the group. “We should probably do it tonight. After curfew.”

The two of us. Alone together. Dancing.

I can’t wait.





twenty-two


DIY GRILLED-CHEESE SANDWICHES. THAT’S WHAT greets me when I step into the kitchen at dinnertime. The buffet is filled with fixings. The scent of butter and melted cheese and bacon and onions drifts through the air. I stop in the doorway, and Zoe runs right into my back.