How It Feels to Fly(7)

Exquisite—the last word anyone would use to describe you—

“Thanks.”

“What made this performance so special?” Dr. Lancaster asks.

It wasn’t special. You’re nothing special.

“It was the best I’ve ever danced. Everyone said so. My mom was so proud. It was like I wasn’t playing the Dewdrop Fairy, I was a fairy. Light and sparkling and—”

“Light and sparkling?” Zoe’s eyes are rolled up so far into her head, they’re about to fall out the back of her skull. “You can’t be serious.”

“Zoe.” Dr. Lancaster points at the rules on the wall again but keeps her focus on me. I think that’s supposed to be comforting, but it makes me want to become invisible. “What were you thinking about and feeling before that show?” she asks me.

“I—I was excited. I was thinking about how lucky I was to have the part. How much I wanted to dance it well. Do the choreography justice. And I felt . . .” I fade out. I’ve gone one step further than I wanted to go.

“You felt . . . ?” Dr. Lancaster prompts.

I spit it out all in one breath: “I felt really pretty in my costume.”

Maybe you felt pretty. But you weren’t. You aren’t. You never will be.

“Thank you, Sam,” Dr. Lancaster says. She turns away from me. I close my eyes and try to get my equilibrium back.

And then Andrew puts his hand on my shoulder. A jolt runs through me, like he’s pinned me to my chair. I’m one of those butterflies in a frame. Caught and put on display. I don’t look at him, but I feel him lean closer. “Thanks for sharing that, Sam,” he says in a low voice. He leaves his hand there a second longer, and then drops it to his lap.

“So. When you did your best—” Dr. Lancaster starts ticking things off on her fingers. “You felt prepared to compete or perform. You were thinking about entertaining your audience or your fans. You had fun. You were in a no-pressure scenario. Or less pressure than usual. You felt grateful for the chance to be doing what you love. And your self-image was good. Right?”

Heads nod around the room.

“Over the next three weeks, we’ll be working to help you get those feelings back. Whatever you’re going through now, there’s no reason you can’t experience those happy moments again.” Dr. Lancaster nods to Yasmin, who stands and leaves the room. “But before we dive in any further, we’ll do another trust exercise. Here, you can say anything you feel. No matter how embarrassing. Or painful. Our job is to listen, not to judge you. And we’re certainly not here to tattle on you to your parents or coaches. Confidentiality is important.”

Yasmin comes back holding a bunch of bandannas and starts handing them out.

“Turn to the person next to you—it doesn’t matter whether it’s a camper or a peer adviser. You’ll be doing this next trust exercise in pairs.”

I look to Katie, but she’s already talking to Dominic. Which means Andrew is my partner.

Dr. Lancaster goes on, “In order to trust one another with your emotions and your anxieties, it can help to trust each other with your physical safety.”

“Seriously?” Zoe groans. “Trust falls? How cliché is this place?”

“We’re not doing trust falls,” Dr. Lancaster says. “You and your partner will take turns being blindfolded. Your partner will guide you in exploring the grounds. It’s a gorgeous morning out there, and the property we’re on is gorgeous as well. I want you to be each other’s eyes. Share what you’re seeing, to help the other person see it. Use your words, rather than just pulling the person along. Keep each other safe. And be back here in the Dogwood Room by ten thirty. Okay?”

“What if we just . . . don’t do it?” Zoe asks loudly. Next to her, Jenna lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I suppose you could say that I’m choosing to trust that you want to learn something from this experience.” Dr. Lancaster walks over and kneels right in front of Zoe, which makes Zoe squirm in her seat. “Just try it, okay?”

After a moment, Zoe nods. But her frown deepens.

“Ready?” Andrew’s standing. Waiting for me. He holds out his hand.





three


WE GO OUT THE FRONT DOOR AND DOWN THE STEPS from the porch. The gravel driveway stretches out ahead of us, disappearing behind a grove of trees before it reaches the main road. We’re at the edge of a small college campus—the school where Dr. Lancaster heads up the psychology department. The house we’re staying in has bedrooms, meeting rooms, a kitchen, a front and a back porch—the works—so the school rents it out for events and retreats. And, apparently, summer camps for teenagers who are stressing themselves into the loony bin.

“Which way do you want to—” I begin, just as Andrew says, “Can we talk for a second, before we get started?”

I nod, holding back a sigh. “Go ahead.” I know what he’s going to say, now that it’s just the two of us. He’s going to apologize for last night. Which is nice of him but doesn’t mean a whole lot. Whether or not he intended to say what he did about me never becoming a professional dancer—the words are out there. I know what he thinks of me. There’s a lot of truth in the things people wish they could take back.