How It Feels to Fly(63)

“Why are you wearing a different shirt than before?”

“I got cold. Why do you care what I’m wearing?”

“It’s, like, a hundred degrees in here.” She flops back down onto her pillow.

I wait to see whether she’s going to say anything else, and then I leave.

I do go to the bathroom—partly because I have a little time to kill and partly because if Zoe follows me, I want her to find me in here. I run my fingers through my hair and pull it into a loose ponytail. I put cover-up on the two zits that have appeared in the middle of my chin, and I apply a little mascara. I stare at my reflection. I look . . . I look okay. Pretty good, even.

When it’s 12:32, I head downstairs, carrying my sneakers and walking silently on the carpet. I round the corner at the bottom of the staircase and tiptoe to the kitchen.

When Andrew sees me, he smiles. “You look like a cat burglar.”

Is that a good thing? Does he think my all-black outfit is sexy, or ridiculous?

“Thanks.”

“Ready?”

I nod.

He slips a key into the lock. “Yasmin’s giving us an hour. She’s reading in the Dogwood Room. She’ll text me if anything happens here.”

“You told Yasmin?”

“I needed backup. Don’t worry. She knows nothing’s really going on.”

For a moment, I’m crushed. But then I realize: of course he has to tell her that.

“Any problems with Zoe?”

“She’s asleep.” I hope she stays that way.

“Good. Then let’s do this.”

We go out to the gazebo—not far from the house, in case we need to get back fast, but mostly out of view of the bedroom windows. We should be safe. Still, as we jog through the grass, wet from the evening’s rain shower, I keep looking behind me. I can’t shake the feeling that all the lights in the building are going to turn on at the same time, the windows bright and blazing, to catch us in the act. But it doesn’t happen. We walk up the painted wood stairs and set our flashlights on the benches so the beams point in toward us.

“So. How do we do this?” Andrew asks.

“I need to warm up a little first.”

“Go for it.”

I squat down in a wide second position, feeling my hamstrings lengthen. I shift from side to side, stretching out first one leg and then the other. Then I drop down into a straddle split and lean forward until my stomach touches the wooden floor.

“You’re really flexible.” Andrew says.

“Not really. This one girl at my studio, Becca, could moonlight as a contortionist.”

“Come on. I can barely touch my toes,” Andrew says. “See?”

I push up onto my elbows. Andrew is bending over, knees nowhere near straight, fingertips brushing the floor. When he sees me looking, he twists his face like the stretch is killing him. Then he sits and pulls his legs into the worst butterfly stretch I’ve ever seen. His knees point toward the ceiling and his back is hunched, like he’s Quasimodo.

“How long did it take you to be able to do that?” he asks.

I move into a butterfly stretch that’s like his in name only; when I press the soles of my feet together, my knees rest on the floor. “I’ve always been pretty flexible. And I’ve danced for ten years. Every day after school, and for a few weeks every summer.”

“You’re pretty hard-core.”

That makes me smile. I am hard-core. Ballet dancers are super hard-core. But it’s not often that football players—or anyone else who runs and jumps and throws and catches a ball—recognize how hard dancers work. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Though maybe being too hard-core is part of the problem?”

My smile drops away. “We’re moving right into ‘therapy’ mode, then?”

“I just meant, maybe taking some time off to be here, and giving yourself a break now and then the rest of the year, might not be such a bad thing. That’s it.”

“Being hard-core is the only way I’ll make it as a dancer, with my body. If I try any less, I’ll keep getting fatter and fatter, and then I’ll be nowhere.”

“You’re not fat,” Andrew says.

“I am.”

“No, Sam, you’re not.”

It’s a Wild West standoff. High noon instead of the middle of the night. I can practically see the tumbleweeds blowing between us.

He’s the first to break. “If I can’t change your mind, let’s get to this partnering thing. Turn me into a dancer.” He exaggerates the word—don-suh—and gets to his feet.

I stand too. “First, we should just see if you can even lift me. Trying anything more advanced won’t work if I’m too heavy—”

Before I even finish my sentence, he’s scooped me up, one arm behind my back and the other behind my knees. “Done.” He bounces me up and down in his arms a few times. “You’re about to owe me ten bucks. I take cash or credit.”

I relax into his arms. And then I feel incredibly awkward, so I wriggle free and drop to the ground, stumbling to stay on my feet. Not my most graceful moment.

“Okay, Baryshnikov,” I say. “Why don’t we start with a basic assisted sauté.”