How It Feels to Fly(66)

“Ugh, I guess it should be about my body. Right?”

“If your body is what causes you to panic, then probably.” He pauses. “And you need to stop thinking about your body as ‘ugh.’”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t even realize I said that.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s hard to change your mental patterns. And I think you’re saying stuff like that less than you were even a week ago, so that’s good.”

“Yeah, I’m trying—”

“Because you’re not fat, or ugly, or whatever you think about yourself.”

“I—”

He takes me by both shoulders. “Really. You’re not.”

Another nervous laugh escapes. “Well, I’m certainly not beautiful.”

“Yes, you are.” He looks thoughtful. “You’re beautiful. That could be part of your power statement.”

As if this moment is just about a power statement. I can’t move, I can’t breathe, I can’t think. All I can do is stare into Andrew’s eyes.

“Try this: ‘My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful.’”

“My body is flexible, and strong, and . . . and beautiful.” I choke on that last part.

Liar.

“My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful,” Andrew repeats.

“My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful.” I’m able to say it more firmly, and this time there’s no answer in my head.

“That’s not so hard, is it?”

“It’s easier to say than to believe.”

“Believe it.” He lets go of my shoulders and faces the lake again. I stare at him, unable to pick out one emotion from the storm inside me.

Marcus never told me I was beautiful. Pretty or cute or hot, depending on his mood and what I was wearing, but not beautiful. Having heard it from Andrew, I don’t think I can ever go back.

I have no idea how to respond.

Luckily, Andrew doesn’t ask me to say anything. He lies down on the dock, tucking his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

I look down at him. His handsome face. The sliver of skin I can see where his polo has come untucked from his khakis. He kicks his feet as they dangle off the edge of the dock, like a little kid. I lie down next to him. I put my hands behind my head too. Our elbows touch, but he doesn’t move his, so I don’t move mine.

I feel like I’m in this perfect space. It’s only the width of a soap bubble—strongly bonded, but liable to burst at any moment. I don’t want it to burst. So I stay inside it, letting the sun’s rays warm my skin and Andrew’s words warm my heart.

DR. LANCASTER CAN tell something is different about me. “You seem happy today,” she says. “Anything special going on that you want to share?”

Yes.

“Nothing in particular.”

“Are you looking forward to going to your ballet intensive?”

“Yeah, I’m really excited.” Only ten days until I’m there. No phone call from my mom or Miss Elise yet, confirming my spot, but I’m not worried.

“Do you feel like you’ve picked up some skills over the past week and a half that you can put into practice in the dance studio?”

I nod. “I can try some of Yasmin’s breathing exercises when I start feeling anxious. I’ve tried them once already, after . . . after the last time I talked to my mom. I was feeling wound up, and breathing actually helped me calm down.”

Dr. Lancaster doesn’t ask what my mom had me wound up about, but I know she’s filing that bit of info away for later. “Good. What else?”

“Um. I think I want to do more cooking when I get home. That’s not something for the ballet studio, but I guess for life.”

“Wonderful.”

“And maybe I’ll take art in school next year?” I add, thinking about my photo collages. My mom might not like it, since art isn’t in my career plan, but maybe if I say it’s for therapy, she’ll back down.

“All of this is excellent. How about when you’re in a situation where you need to push past any anxious or panicky feelings and perform? Did you come up with a power statement that might help you?”

I take a deep breath and spit out the mantra Andrew created for me: “My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful.”

Dr. Lancaster looks impressed. She lets my words dance in the silence for a few seconds before speaking. “Wow, Sam. Do you think you could have said that when you came here?”

I answer honestly. “No. And I’m not sure I really believe it yet. But . . . maybe I could. One day. I mean, I believe the first two parts, but not . . .”

“‘Beautiful’ is a powerful word,” she says.

“Yeah.”

I can’t tell Dr. Lancaster about Andrew. Not yet—when I don’t know for certain that he feels about me the way I feel about him. Maybe not ever, since he’s a peer adviser here. I don’t want him to get in trouble.

I can’t tell her about the way he held me in the moonlight.

I can’t tell her that the word “beautiful” came from him, not me.

But I do wish I could tell her how he listens to me and hears me and understands. How he sees me, maybe even better than I see myself. He’s good for me, I’m certain of it, and if I hadn’t come to Perform at Your Peak, I never would’ve met him.