How It Feels to Fly(86)

I give them the short version of the story, and when I’m done, Katie squeals and throws her arms around me.

“We knew you could do it!”

“Congratulations, Sam.” Jenna smiles.

“It stinks that you have to leave, though,” Katie says. “Also . . . your mom is scary.”

I laugh out loud. “She kind of is. It’s gonna be a long ride home.”

We quickly exchange contact information. Then my mom starts calling me from downstairs. I can’t stall any longer. On my way out the door, I wave at Zoe, who’s sitting with Yasmin in the hall next to Dr. Lancaster’s office. I hug Dominic and Omar and tell them to get my info from Katie and Jenna. I get one more hug from Katie and, to my surprise, a small squeeze from Jenna. And then the front door closes behind me, and my mom and I are walking down the front steps and across the gravel driveway to her sedan.

She’s giving me the silent treatment. Never a good sign. It’s only a matter of time before she boils over.

It happens just after we cross the state line into Tennessee. “What were you thinking, Samantha? I did not raise you to behave like this. Running away? Stealing a van? And what’s this I hear about you getting one of your counselors fired by hitting on him? Explain yourself.”

The guilt over what happened with Andrew rushes back in. Will he have to change his major? Will Dr. Lancaster blacklist him from ever getting a job? I wasn’t the only one who got hurt, and I can’t even talk to him to apologize.

“That camp was supposed to help you,” Mom goes on. “It was supposed to further your career aspirations. Not turn you into a juvenile delinquent.” She says, louder, “You stole a van!”

“We brought it back—”

“Do you think this is funny?” She looks at me, and then back at the road, and then at me, and then back at the road. “Do you know how hard I worked to pay for your training this summer? Two jobs! I put in so many twelve-hour days! And you’re willing to let it all slip away. No—you’re throwing it away. You’re—”

“That’s why I did it, Mom! Because I’m not willing to let it slip away! You should be proud of me for going today. For making them give me another chance.”

“I’d be prouder if you’d been accepted.”

I sit back, gasping, like she slapped me. “What?”

Mom looks like she’s been slapped too. She’s gone white. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I was angry, and it just . . . came out.”

I stare at her, and I find the words I’ve been holding back for months. “You can’t talk to me like that. Not anymore.”

“Samantha, I—”

“It’s not helping me. In fact, it really hurts me.”

“You know I’ve never said anything like that before—”

“Not exactly like that, no. But . . .” There are so many examples I could give her. So many backhanded compliments. So many harsh critiques. “You keep telling me that I need thick skin to be a professional ballerina.”

“And I believe that to be true—”

“Well, I’m probably not going to be a professional ballerina, Mom. You and I both have to accept that.”

“But—”

“And I don’t need you to thicken my skin. I need you to support me.”

“What do you call working extra hours to pay for your training and your therapy? And giving you private coaching? I’ve done nothing but support and encourage you—”

“Not the way I needed it.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me what you needed?” Mom sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. She’s strangling the steering wheel.

“I didn’t know what I needed.”

“And now you do?”

“I’m starting to, yeah.” I’m choked up too. “The past couple months have been . . . really hard. And it would be great if you could, I don’t know, acknowledge that. And maybe tell me I’m awesome from time to time, instead of always telling me I’m fat.”

“I’ve never told you you’re fat!”

“Yes, you have. Maybe you didn’t use that word, but . . . yeah.”

There’s a long silence from the driver’s side.

“Do you want to talk about what happens when we get home?” Mom finally asks, hesitant now. “I put in a few phone calls to private coaches after we spoke on Friday, and I have some leads. Or is that . . . not what you need?”

I take in a shaky breath. The air filling my lungs tastes sweet. Almost . . . hopeful.

“Actually, I know what I want to do.” I tell her about Nicole’s contemporary dance intensive. How she saw me in class and invited me personally. “It starts in two weeks. It’s not classical ballet. But maybe it’s time for me to see what it’s like outside the ballet bubble.”

Mom’s blinking a lot. “Is this really what you want?”

“I think so, yeah. At least, I want to try it out. It’s a great opportunity.”

She’s quiet for another long moment. Then, sounding defeated: “I want you to succeed. You know that, right?”

I nod. “But maybe I need to learn how to be happy first.”