How It Feels to Fly(81)

As good as you’re ever going to look—

No, I tell my inner voice. Not now.

I check to make sure there’s no one else in the dressing room, and say it out loud: “I look good.” And then, even though thinking of anything related to Andrew makes my heart hurt, I add, “My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful.”

I almost believe it.





twenty-nine


ONE BALLET CLASS WAS ALL IT TOOK. I WAS HOOKED. I loved everything about it: my pink leotard with the attached ruffly skirt, my brand-new pink ballet slippers, getting my hair slicked back into an elegant bun. I loved skipping around the room to tinkly piano music. I loved standing with my spine long and tall, like a princess wearing a sparkly tiara. I loved the graceful curtsy Miss Johanna had us perform to start and end the class. And I loved Miss Johanna herself. I’d seen her perform in The Nutcracker, and I was in complete awe that the Sugar Plum Fairy was my teacher.

I was six, and I’d found what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Flash-forward to when things got more difficult. Less magical; more real. Sore, shaky muscles. Bruised and bloody toenails. Pointe-shoe blisters. Not to mention having to compete for roles, and the agony of waiting for cast lists to be posted. And yet I didn’t waver. I never questioned my dreams—or my ability to reach them.

Until my body betrayed me.

I pause in the doorway to the studio, thinking about how ballet used to make me feel. I look around the room. This is home. I belong here. I have since my very first class.

And yet, right now, I feel a little sick. I’m going to be so out of shape. Everyone’s going to stare at me. Laugh at me. And it will be worse than the front-desk woman, because these girls will see me dance, so they’ll be judging that, too.

What if, in addition to all being skinnier than me, they’re all better dancers? What if I really don’t deserve to be here, no matter how much I want it?

I think about running away. It would be so easy. I could go back to the dressing room and spend the next two hours hiding in a bathroom stall, and then text Zoe that I’m finished, I didn’t get in, too bad, let’s go back to Crazy Camp and face the music.

But I’ve come this far. No more going backward.

There’s an open spot on the other side of the room, at the barre closest to the piano. I walk over, forcing myself to move slowly, to look calm and casual, to ignore the eyes that I feel following me, to ignore the whispers.

And there are stares, and there are whispers. These girls met one another last night. They’re probably all living in the same residence hall. They stayed up late comparing training styles and pointe-shoe makers and favorite ballerinas and dream dance partners. I’m new. I’m unknown.

And you look like an elephant—

I take my place at the barre. I note that everyone’s wearing flat slippers, so I put mine on and tuck my pointe shoes beneath the barre for later. I start to warm up. I roll through my feet, feeling the familiar pops and cracks. I stretch my calves. I swing my legs back and forth, loosening my hips. And then I développé my right leg up onto the barre, stretching it out in front of me and massaging my right arch with my hand.

Facing the blank wall, I can focus on what it feels like to be inside my body, instead of thinking about what I look like. But when I turn to stretch my left leg on the barre, I can see myself in the mirror. I can see how big my thigh looks from this angle, and how bending forward over my leg turns my waistline into rolls despite how hard I’m sucking my stomach in. I can see the dancers spread through the rest of the studio, stretching and chatting. I can see—at least, I think I see—eyes aimed in my direction.

There are two girls across the room. A pale redhead and an African American. Looking my way. Smiling. I stare at them in the mirror, trying to decipher their expressions. Another friend joins them, and I wait for them to point me out. I wait for her to start laughing at me too. But the redhead just puts her hands on her hips and makes a mock-stern face at the newcomer, and then they hug, and . . . maybe whatever joke they’re sharing isn’t about me.

Maybe.

But I’m feeling so anxious right now, and it’s getting worse by the second.

I haven’t exactly enjoyed being around other dancers lately. The girls at my studio fall into two categories: short and thin, or tall and thin. I’m five feet six and a half—smack in the middle, heightwise—and . . . no longer thin.

Admit it. You’re fat.

These girls are all—and I look so—

My breath is coming faster. I’m dizzy. My stomach spins and churns.

The clock on the wall says class starts in two minutes.

I drop to the floor and curl up in child’s pose to do one of Yasmin’s breathing exercises. I put both hands on my back, close my eyes, and inhale, feeling my rib cage expand. I exhale, feeling my hands drop down. I try to block out the room around me. I try to block out the noise in my head. Andrew told me, during my cooking challenge, that he found a way to stop listening to the voices and get done what he needed to get done.

I can too.

I murmur Dr. Lancaster’s words to myself a few times: “Take the leap. Take the leap.” Even though the phrase will be forever linked in my mind with kissing Andrew. Even though I feel like I might be leaping into catastrophe.

Ms. Levanova enters the room, clapping her hands together. “Good morning, ladies. Welcome to your first class of the intensive!”