How It Feels to Fly(84)

“Yes, ma’am,” I repeat, and she dismisses me with a wave.

Back in the dressing room, I don’t change clothes right away. I sit on the thin wooden bench in front of the mirror, looking at myself. My carefully slicked-back hair is frizzing around my face. I have dark sweat patches on my leotard. And sitting down like this, my thighs are flat and wide and my stomach pooches out in that way I hate.

But I take a deep breath and try to see past my body parts, like Dr. Lancaster and I talked about. I try to see what got me into this intensive, the first time around. What made Ms. Levanova want to fight for me today. What made Nicole invite me to her intensive.

Nothing about this summer is working out how I wanted. But there’s something new on the horizon. A new door opening. I just have to decide whether I want to leap through it.

ZOE’S WAITING FOR me outside. “Did you get in?”

“No.”

She curses, turns on her heel, and storms off toward the parking garage where we left the van, muttering under her breath.

I race to catch up with her. “But,” I say, “I got something else.” I explain it to her, and she slows down to listen, and by the time we’re inside the van, she’s grinning again.

“You’re gonna do it, right?”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“Don’t be an idiot. Go to the stupid intensive.” When I don’t reply right away, she adds, “What else are you going to do the rest of the summer?”

“I could take private lessons at my home studio—”

“This whole intensive business is about getting to the next level, right?”

“Yes.”

“So the next level isn’t exactly what you thought it’d be. So what?”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand that you’re being ridiculous.” She turns the key in the ignition. “Fine. Throw away an unexpected opportunity that got handed to you on a silver platter. See if I care.”

I fasten my seat belt. “You really think I should go?”

“Look, I know nothing about ballet. Except what I saw in Black Swan, and you told me that doesn’t count. But yeah, I think you should go. You’d be stupid not to.”

“Well, I wouldn’t even have the choice without your help today. So thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until we get back,” Zoe says. “Dr. Lancaster is not happy.”

“You talked to her?”

“She called my cell nine times in two hours. I decided to answer before she started checking hospitals and morgues.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, she’s . . . not happy.”

“Well . . . how do we want to spend our last few hours of freedom?”

“Samantha Wagner, I do believe I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” I turn up the radio, and Zoe and I jam the whole way back to Crazy Camp. She drums on the steering wheel. I dance in my seat. We sing at the top of our lungs. And far too soon, we’re turning onto the gravel driveway in front of the Perform at Your Peak house. Zoe slows to a crawl.

We pass two police cars. A campus security truck. And . . . my mom’s car.

Then we can see the house. Everyone’s waiting for us on the porch. Their heads spin in our direction.

“Good luck,” Zoe says, putting the van in park.

“You too.”





thirty-one


“WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS?” DR. LANCASTER LOOKS from me to Zoe and back to me again. Her expression is etched in stone.

“Mine,” I say.

Zoe’s quick to add, “But I’m the one who stole your keys and drove the van. I took our phones out of your desk, too.” I don’t know if she’s trying to protect me from Dr. Lancaster’s anger or if she wants to make sure she gets credit for the part she played. Maybe both.

Outside, in the hallway, I hear my mom yelling. “I am going in there to speak to my daughter!”

“Mrs. Wagner.” Yasmin’s voice. “I’m sorry, but you need to stay out here—”

“You’re lucky I’m not suing you! I still might!” There’s a sharp knock at the door. The handle jiggles. “I’m taking Samantha home now,” my mom says through the thick wood.

“I’m leaving?” I say to Dr. Lancaster. “The camp isn’t done.”

“It is for you,” she answers. “For both of you. Zoe, your parents are on their way. They were delayed by a luncheon your mom had to attend today.”

“Of course they were,” Zoe grumbles. But then she brightens. “We’re getting kicked out! We did it! Third strike’s the charm!”

I blanch. “I didn’t exactly want to get sent home.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that,” Dr. Lancaster says, “before you stole a van and drove off to God-knows-where without telling anyone.”

“I know, but—I had to.” I lean forward in my chair, toward Dr. Lancaster, needing her to understand. “I didn’t do this to cause trouble, even though I know it did.” The police cars outside are evidence of that, never mind my mom’s shouts about lawsuits. “I did it because I had to go to that intensive. I had to try. I had to show them what I’m capable of. I had to show myself what I’m capable of. I had to”—what I’m about to say is a cheap shot, but it’s the truth—“I had to take the leap, like you told me.”