How It Feels to Fly(75)

“When we decided to send you to Perform at Your Peak, Elise assured me that it wouldn’t impact your training plans. This summer is a vital one for your career. Without this intensive—I don’t know what we’re going to do. You’ll start your junior year off at a deficit. You certainly won’t be invited to a year-round ballet school. And—”

I hold the phone away from my ear for a few seconds. I glance at Dr. Lancaster, who’s sitting on the couch in case I need rescuing again. Everything about this moment feels inevitable. I return to my mom.

“—certainly glad you’ve kept up with your practice while you’re there. We won’t have a moment to waste when you get home. You can do Elise’s summer workshop, of course, and maybe I can hire a private coach to work with you as well. And—”

“Mom.”

“Yes, Samantha?”

“Do you know what I did after I found out?”

A long pause. “What?”

“I ate about three dozen dark chocolate Hershey’s Kisses.” I hang up on her. Then I turn to Dr. Lancaster. “I’m going upstairs.”

She nods. “I’ll get Yasmin—”

“I’d like to be alone.” I shove my trembling hands into my armpits and lie to Dr. Lancaster’s face: “I’m fine. Just tired. You don’t have to worry about me.”

She gives me a searching look. “You’ll come to me if you need anything at all.”

Another lie: “Of course.” I pair the words with a shaky smile that’s as much a performance as any ballet I’ve ever danced. In order for her to leave me alone, I have to strike the right balance of vulnerability and strength. She has to believe that I won’t in a million years do what I’m about to do.

I can barely believe what I’m about to do.

But it’s inevitable.

I go upstairs. Not to my room. To the bathroom. I lock myself inside the farthest stall. I sit on the floor in front of the toilet. I stare it down.

Throw up.

I don’t move.

You want to. You’ll feel better.

I don’t. I won’t.

Take control.

Bile rises up inside me. I swallow it back down. It burns my throat.

Do it.

I get on my knees and lean over the toilet.

Do it!

I stick my finger in my throat.

I gag, and I scoot back fast. I’m pressed against the stall door, crying now, and breathing hard. I wipe my snotty nose with the back of my hand and catch sight of the bruise on my wrist.

My stomach rumbles and roils.

You aren’t strong enough—

You’ll never have what it takes—

I hear Andrew’s voice in my head, too. He wouldn’t want me to be in here.

He lied to you. Everything he said to you was a lie.

Maybe not everything— Everything.

I groan, holding my stomach. I want to throw up. I want to be empty.

Try again.

I do. And again, I gag, and I stop.

You can’t even do that right. You’re useless. You’re nothing— I curl into the corner of the stall, knees to chest, and rock.

This is the thing I never told anyone. The thing I’m constantly trying to forget.

Earlier this year, when I wanted to lose weight and nothing was working—when I started feeling so desperate, so helpless, so scared—I decided to try making myself throw up. I only did it a few times. I hated doing it. I hated myself for even considering it.

I lost a few pounds. It was just water weight. My body getting dehydrated. But people noticed. They told me I was looking good. I knew throwing up was a bad idea, and I knew I shouldn’t keep doing it, but there was a part of me that wished—that still wishes— “Sam?”

I open my eyes to see Jenna crawling under the divider from the next stall.

“I heard you crying in here and I thought maybe I’d given you enough space for today.” She looks from me to the toilet. “Are you sick?”

I shake my head.

“Did you make yourself throw up?”

Another no.

“Are you going to?”

I want to, and I don’t. I’m not sure which side is going to win.

Jenna gets the saddest look on her face. Then the sadness turns to resolve. She lifts up her shirt. Pulls down the waistband of her shorts. Shows me her scars.

“I used to cut myself,” she says. “I did it when I made too many mistakes on the ice. But . . . I stopped.”

I blink, trying to clear away the tears. And I say, out loud for the first time ever, in a voice like sandpaper, “I used to make myself throw up. But . . . I stopped.”

“But you still think about it?”

I nod. “Do you?”

“All the time.” She drops her shirt. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

The tears well up again. “Yes.”

“All right.” She takes my hand.





twenty-seven


SATURDAY.

I get up. I get dressed. I eat a few bites of tasteless breakfast. I sit in the Dogwood Room as Dr. Lancaster introduces Andrew’s last-minute replacement, a thirty-something colleague of hers named Ron, and as she gives the day’s lecture. Something about excellence versus perfection. Something about achieving our goals. Something about looking for opportunities.