How It Feels to Fly(62)

“What’s the matter, Ballerina Barbie? Can’t handle the cheesy goodness?”

“Shut up,” I say. But I don’t move forward into the kitchen.

Zoe goes around me. “Good comeback.”

I’m not in the mood to think of a better one. Not when my stomach is doing pirouettes from my chat with Andrew earlier—and from the food in front of me.

Yasmin is at the stove. “Pick your bread, cheese, and whatever else you want,” she says. “I’ll do the rest.”

“Actually, can I make mine myself?” I ask.

“I’m having sourdough and low-fat cheddar with turkey bacon.” Jenna comes into the kitchen from the dining room. “If you need some inspiration.”

Her words startle me. Why did she say that? Did she notice I’ve been copying her meals?

“Sounds good,” I say quickly.

It does sound good. But I decide to test my new skills and build my own sandwich. I get multigrain bread and top it with a single slice of low-fat cheddar. I add fresh tomatoes and onions and spinach. When I count up the calories, it’s not bad at all, so I decide I can have a swipe of butter on each side to help toast the bread. I stand at the grill, spatula in hand, until my sandwich is browned to perfection.

And when I sit down at the table, I’m able to eat it.

Sure, it will probably be harder in a dance environment. Or with my mom. But right now, I’m eating something I made myself, and it tastes great.

“So, Sam . . .” I look up from my last bite to see Katie giving me a mischievous smile. “What’s up with you and Andrew?”

I blush as red as the tomatoes on my sandwich. “Nothing. Why?”

“I don’t know, it seems like you two spend a lot of time talking. . . .” Katie puts extra emphasis on that last word.

“He’s helping me work some stuff out.”

“Work stuff out?” Jenna asks, looking skeptical.

“Anxiety stuff.”

“Right.”

“He’s definitely cute,” Katie says, sneaking a glance over her shoulder at Andrew, who’s in the kitchen with Yasmin. “And he’s funny, and nice, and—”

“And a lot older than you,” Jenna cuts in.

“He’s in college, not a nursing home,” I say. “Not that it matters.”

“You like him,” Jenna says. It’s a statement, not a question. “Does he like you?”

I open my mouth and shut it again.

“Well, I think it’s awesome,” Katie declares. “A summer romance.” She crosses her hands over her heart. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. Have you?”

“Yeah. We broke up before I came here.”

“So you’re on the rebound,” Jenna says, cocking her head to one side.

“Not exactly.” I don’t know how to explain the connection I feel with Andrew, so I try to deflect attention away from myself. “Are you dating anyone, Jenna?”

“No. I am currently single.”

“Sam and Andrew, together—it’s so exciting!” Katie squeals.

“It’s really not anything . . . ,” I say. But I know my face has given me away.

Jenna shakes her head. “Fine. Enjoy your flirtation. Just—” She stops, checking herself. “Never mind. Don’t listen to me. Have fun.”

Zoe plops down next to me. “Have fun with what?”

“Sam was thinking about taking a walk after dinner.” The lie flows seamlessly out of Jenna’s mouth. “But I told her it was going to rain.”

“Oh. Yeah, you should probably skip the wet T-shirt contest,” Zoe says, taking a big bite of her sandwich.

I mouth Thanks at Jenna. After the way Zoe teased me about our private therapy files last night, she’s the last person I want to know about me and Andrew.

He enters the dining room and I let myself stare at him for a second. I take in his broad shoulders and the way his sandy hair is complemented by the color of his polo shirt—burnt orange today, the color of a summer sunrise.

We have a date tonight.

No. You don’t.

My inner voice doesn’t sound convinced.

He walks over to our table. “Sam, your mom left a message while we were out.”

“She did?” I should have known she couldn’t make it a week without calling.

“She wanted us to let you know she left a message with your ballet intensive to make sure you’re officially registered to start a week late. She or your ballet teacher will call here when they have confirmation that you’re good to go.”

“Oh. Great.” I pause. “Did Mom want me to call her back?”

“No. She said she’ll speak to you on Saturday—unless she hears something sooner.”

I’m so relieved. Nothing can spoil my night.

ANDREW AND I are supposed to meet at the back door at twelve thirty. I wait until I’m pretty sure Zoe is asleep to toss back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I went to bed wearing black yoga pants and a black tank top. Now I pull on a black long-sleeved shirt in case it’s chilly outside.

I’m opening the door when Zoe sits up in bed. “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” I whisper.