How It Feels to Fly(73)

You ruined everything, my inner voice growls. For yourself. And for Andrew.

Your weight gain. Your neediness. Your inability to cope. It all led to this moment.

The ballerina collage I created last week is hanging on the wall. The dancer made of clouds and dandelion puffs and sunshine. I reach up and pull the picture loose. I take a corner in each hand and rip it in half.

It’s not as satisfying as I thought it would be.

I let the pieces drop to the floor.





twenty-six


A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. I DON’T GET UP. I ROLL OVER onto my side to face the wall.

Next, I hear the door swing open. Footsteps coming toward me.

“Sam? It’s time for lunch.” It’s Yasmin. She pats me on the shoulder.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat. Dr. Lancaster said—”

“I’m not hungry.” In the hours I’ve been lying here, thinking about the spectacular way in which my life has fallen apart, I realized that Dr. Lancaster doesn’t matter. This place doesn’t matter. I came here for a single purpose: to make sure I didn’t have a panic attack at my ballet intensive. Now there’s no ballet intensive. Which means I have no further reason to try. To care.

Yasmin leaves. I get about five minutes of peace and quiet. Five minutes of staring at the wall, thinking about nothing.

You have nothing.

You are nothing.

Then Dr. Lancaster shows up. “Sam. It’s lunchtime. I’m sorry you’re hurting, but I can’t take no for an answer.” She sits on the bed by my feet.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I allowed you to skip breakfast. I can’t allow you to skip lunch as well.”

“I told you, I’m not hungry—” My stomach growls. I let out a bark of laughter. Betrayed by my own body, yet again.

“Up,” Dr. Lancaster says.

I roll over. Stand. Follow her out of the safety of my bedroom and down the stairs and around the corner to the kitchen.

“I made you a plate.” Dr. Lancaster hands me a Caesar salad with five strips of grilled chicken on top. It’s lightly drizzled with dressing and sprinkled with flakes of Parmesan.

“I don’t want this.”

“Do you want to make your own salad? That’s fine too.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want any of this.” To my own ears, I sound amazingly calm. Inside, I’m a tsunami roaring toward the shore. I don’t know when—or who—it will hit. But it’s coming.

“What do you want, Sam?”

“I want to be left alone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I need you to sit down and eat some of this salad.”

I stare at the plate in my hand. “What happens if I say no?”

“Please don’t say no.”

“Are you going to force-feed me? Andrew—” I choke on his name. On the pang of rejection and on my own guilt and self-loathing. “He could’ve held me down, but you and Yasmin can’t. Or will you make Dominic do it?”

“No one is going to hold you down, Sam.”

“Then here.” I shove the plate back into Dr. Lancaster’s hands so hard that most of the salad ends up on her blue button-down. I glare at her. “I. Don’t. Want. This.”

“Dr. Lancaster . . . ?” Yasmin, behind me.

I spin around. They’re all there.

Katie’s the first to speak. “We heard about what happened—”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m just not hungry.”

Dr. Lancaster sets my plate down on the kitchen island. She grabs a paper towel to dab at the Caesar dressing on her shirt. “Sam, I know how hard this morning has been for you. After you eat, we’ll talk more about it—”

I interrupt her, and suddenly I’m shouting. “I don’t want to talk about how hard everything is! I want it to stop being so hard!” The wave inside me crashes into the shore. “You want me to eat? Fine. I’ll eat.” I pick up a chicken strip with my fingers and shove it in my mouth. “There! Satisfied?” I chew and swallow. “Look, I’ll have another!”

My breath is coming fast. Not from panic, but from how incredibly unfair all this is. This summer was supposed to be the start of everything. The rest of my life. Now it feels like the beginning of the end.

I gorge myself on chicken strips, and then, without thinking about what I’m doing, I grab the bottle of Caesar dressing and squirt some directly into my mouth. It’s gross, but I manage to keep it down.

“That’s enough, Sam,” Dr. Lancaster says, taking the dressing from me.

“Is it? Did I eat enough for you? I’m so glad.” I fall back against the kitchen island, hands on my heaving stomach. The group is still staring at me. I plaster on my brightest, sparkliest smile and ask, “Enjoy the show?”

I’m outside my body, watching from above. The girl I see standing in the middle of the kitchen has a matted ponytail and salad dressing in one corner of her mouth. Her smile is shattered. Her eyes are wild and sad. She’s out of control.

I’m out of control. I have no control over anything in my life.

My parents didn’t tell me they were separating until the day my dad moved out.