How It Feels to Fly(72)

“To be blunt, Andrew,” Dr. Lancaster says, anger simmering in her voice, “you’re an undergraduate. You’ve taken two semesters of psychology. You don’t have the training or the experience to make those kinds of decisions. It doesn’t matter how good your intentions are. Taking campers’ treatment into your own hands puts them at risk. It puts everything I do here at risk.”

She turns to me, her voice softening once more. “Sam, is there anything else you need to tell me?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Okay. Sit tight here for a second. I’ll be right back.” She stands. “Andrew, you can go pack your things.”

“He’s leaving?” I hear my voice from far away. “You’re leaving?”

Of course he’s leaving.

And it’s your fault.

“I can’t allow him to stay here, Sam,” Dr. Lancaster says gently.

I look at Andrew, lingering in the doorway. “But . . . your college credit . . .”

Andrew winces, and it hits me, hard, how much my stupid kiss has cost him. The guilt, on top of everything else I’m feeling, threatens to capsize me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think. . . .”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Andrew says. “I promise, I didn’t mean to—I would never have wanted—this isn’t what I thought—”

“Enough.” Dr. Lancaster holds the door open for him to exit. When he’s gone, she turns to me. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

I SIT THERE, staring at nothing, until the phone on her desk rings.

I look from the phone to the door, expecting Dr. Lancaster to burst through it. Instead, the ringing stops.

It starts again a minute later. I glance at the digital display. It’s my local area code. But it’s not my mom’s number, and it’s not the ballet studio. Maybe it’s Miss Elise’s cell phone?

I hesitate, my hand hovering over the receiver, and then I pick it up. “Hello?”

“Hi, can I speak to Samantha Wagner?” It is Miss Elise. Her soft, Southern-accented voice is unmistakable.

“Hi, Miss Elise. It’s me.”

“Oh, I’m so glad I reached you,” she says, and despite how horrible the morning has been, my spirits rise. The intensive. I still have that to look forward to. Until: “I don’t know how to tell you this. . . .”

I sink back in my chair.

“I spoke to the director of your intensive this morning. She called me first thing.”

I manage to whisper, “And?”

“I’m so sorry, Sam. The program’s full, so they can’t take anyone from the waiting list.”

This isn’t happening. It can’t be.

It can. It is.

You knew it would.

“They wanted to hold off until the last minute to make sure to give us accurate information, and since the program starts on Monday, the last minute is basically . . . today.”

I’m shaking. I squeeze the phone with one hand and my knee with the other.

“I want you to know how disappointed I am for you. You deserved this opportunity. But I’m so glad you’re where you are. Getting you healthy and happy is the most important thing.”

My throat is closing up. The room is swimming. And spinning.

It’s over. It’s all over. Your plans, your dreams, they’re—

“Do you want to call your mom, or do you want me to do it?”

My mom. She’s going to be so—

I take in a hitched breath. And then I’m gasping. Gulping. Drowning.

I drop the phone.

If you weren’t so fat—

So weak—

So useless—

“Sam! Look at me.” Dr. Lancaster lifts up my chin. I blink away the tears to see her crouching in front of me. “We’re going to breathe together now. In . . . and out. . . . In . . . and out. . . .”

With her coaching, I’m able to fill my lungs with air. I’m still crying—deep, shuddering sobs—but soon that eases too. Then all that’s left is emptiness. Numbness.

The phone rings again, and Dr. Lancaster leans over me to answer it. “Yes,” she says, looking at me. “She’s okay. Listen, we’ll have to call you back. Mm-hmm. Thanks.” She hangs up.

“That was your teacher again. She was worried. She heard you crying, and then the phone went dead.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to fill me in?”

I shake my head.

“You shouldn’t keep those feelings locked inside.”

“I’d like to lie down.” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

“I understand.” She helps me stand up. “I’ll come get you for lunch.”

I don’t plan on eating lunch, but I nod anyway. It’s easier to agree. To give in.

I head upstairs but stop cold in the hallway when I see Andrew coming out of his bedroom, duffel bag in hand. We make eye contact. It’s like he’s giving me a wordless apology. But that’s not what I want. I want him to make it so that last night, the past two weeks, all of it never happened.

He takes a step toward me, reaching out. “Sam—”

I pull away so fast, I hit my wrist on the banister. It hurts. I cradle my arm, eyes stinging. Then I push past him into my and Zoe’s room and shut the door.