How It Feels to Fly(87)

When she doesn’t say anything more, I turn on the radio. It’s playing one of the songs Zoe and I jammed out to this morning. I don’t jam out this time. I just listen. I stare out the window. I watch the miles tick by toward home.





thirty-two


I FOCUS ON THE MOVEMENT. MY ARMS EXTENDING away from my shoulders. My back curving and arcing. My knees bending and straightening. My feet pressing into the floor.

It’s the first day of Nicole’s summer intensive, and yes, I’m anxious. I’m surrounded by the unfamiliar. Dancers I’ve just met. A new city. A daily schedule filled with dance styles I’ve barely studied. Even my wardrobe feels strange. Instead of my usual leotard, pink tights, and pointe shoes, I’m in a tank top, leggings, and ankle socks. My hair’s in a ponytail instead of a bun.

But the movement, this first-thing-in-the-morning ballet barre—that I know. So I’m throwing myself into it. Body, mind, and heart.

My new therapist, Dr. Chen, has me thinking a lot about what I can control and what I can’t. We had three sessions in the two weeks I was home, and I’ll be talking to her on the phone twice a week while I’m here. The next time we chat, I’m supposed to report in: Did I latch onto something outside my control? Did I feel the downward spiral start? Was there an instance when I allowed myself to let go and move forward?

I’m not good at letting go and moving forward. Not yet.

I’m still so attached to Before. So anxious about After.

But I’m working on changing. I’m trying to focus on Now.

I watch Nicole demonstrate the next barre combination. I memorize the choreography and perform it to the best of my ability. I trust my years of training. I try to keep my mind open.

This is what I can control.

Someone in the room might be staring at me. Might be judging me.

That, I can’t control.

The prickling at the back of my neck, the way my pulse speeds up, the sudden desire to run away, to hide . . . I know how to respond.

I face the barre while Nicole talks to the accompanist. I close my eyes and I breathe in deep, counting to five with each inhale and exhale. I murmur, “My body is flexible, and strong, and beautiful. I am taking the leap. And it’s going to be amazing.”

Dr. Chen suggested that last bit.

The music starts. I put my left hand on the barre. Stand in fifth position. And I begin to move.

I HAVE A few phone calls to make that night. Promises to keep—not only to the people I’m calling, but also to myself. If being open about what’s going on inside my head is supposed to be the new normal, I have to start as soon as possible.

First, a brief check-in with my mom. We’ve been on eggshells around each other since that tense car ride home from Perform at Your Peak, but I can tell she’s been trying. She brought up my diet only once in the past two weeks, and she let me cook dinner twice. She also let me rest at home for a few days instead of pushing me into a ton of extra ballet classes right away. When I said I was ready to go to the studio, she drove me—and then went to the grocery store instead of staying to watch me dance. She’s even signed up for some therapy sessions of her own.

For the first time in years—definitely since Dad left, if not before—there’s space between us. I know where she ends and I begin.

She answers on the first ring, like she was waiting by the phone. “Samantha?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie! How was your first day?”

“Good. Hard.”

There’s a pause. “Anxiety-hard?”

“A little,” I admit. “But also hard physically. I am going to be so sore tomorrow!”

She laughs. “That happens when you jump back into a full schedule after taking time off.” A beat. “I didn’t mean that in a negative way. I promise.”

“I know, Mom. Thanks.”

“Do you want to tell me about your teachers?”

I give her the short version. Who I’ll be studying with, what they’re each like in the classroom, how comfortable I felt with them today. And I tell her a bit about the other students here. Not what they look like. How they move. Some of them are ballet based, like me. Others come from contemporary or jazz backgrounds. A few know one another from the competition circuit. I know no one.

“But my roommate seems nice,” I finish. Suzanne’s a petite, muscular modern dancer from Chicago. She welcomed me with a hug and then told me to help myself to her bedside candy stash whenever I wanted. Right now, as Mom and I say our good-byes, I’m sucking on a cherry Life Saver. Turning my tongue crimson.

I call Bianca next. “Sam-a-lam-a!” she squeals into the phone.

“Hey, B.”

“How’s Hot-lanta?”

“Hot. How’s DC?”

“Also hot. Ooh, but you know what’s so cold?”

“What?”

“The look I gave Eliana when I passed her in the hall today and she said hi.”

When I got home from Perform at Your Peak, I finally called Bianca. We were on the phone for more than an hour, and I think I was the only one who said anything. I told her about my panic attacks. About what was causing them. I told her why I’d thought Marcus had broken up with me, and why he actually did break up with me. I told her about Perform at Your Peak. What we did there. Everyone I met.