How It Feels to Fly by Kathryn Holmes Page A

see how I’m feeling all the time? What if I want to keep my anxiety to myself?”
    â€œThere’s a difference between being a private person and being so bottled up that it’s harmful to you.” Dr. Lancaster leans forward in her seat. “Picture yourself as a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke that is tightly sealed, and someone starts shaking it. And shaking. And shaking. The minute you open the bottle, even if you turn the lid oh so slowly, it’s going to explode, right?”
    I nod.
    â€œYou don’t have to share everything with everyone. But you have to know when to let some of that fizz out.”
    â€œFizz. Right.” I yawn, suddenly incredibly tired.
    â€œWould you like to lie down until the group comes back from the lake?”
    â€œYes, please.” I get to my feet. Stumble to the door. I pause in the doorway. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
    â€œDon’t be sorry, Sam. I’m happy you yelled. You needed to yell.”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œYou can even yell again, if there’s more to yell about.”Dr. Lancaster smiles. “I’ll wake you up for lunch, okay?”
    â€œThere isn’t any way I can . . . eat in my room?”
    â€œI’m afraid not. But it won’t be as bad as you think.”
    It will be exactly as bad as I think. I know it. But I just say, “All right.” I’m too worn out to fight.

nine
    I SLEEP, DEEP AND DREAMLESS. I WAKE UP WITH matted hair and pillow folds etched into my face. I sit up. Stretch. Yawn.
    I don’t feel much better than I did before. I’m no longer so exhausted that I can barely stand, but the anxiety is still buzzing away in my belly. There’s only one reliable cure.
    I spend the next twenty minutes doing a series of relevés, using the closet door for balance. I lift my heels high and lower them to the floor, with control, twenty times each in first, second, fourth, and fifth positions. Then I do twenty relevés on each leg, with the other foot lifted in coupé. I finish with an extended balance on each foot, trying to distill my focus down to a pinpoint on the closet door in front of me.
    By the time I’m done, my calves are burning. I have to pace back and forth between the two beds to loosen themuscles up again. But my pulse and my breath are calm. The repetitive up, down, up, down of the movement did its job.
    I still don’t want to go downstairs. I’m afraid of what’s waiting for me.
    Stares. Whispers.
    I’ve been here before: my first day back at my dance studio after my Paquita panic attack. I walked into the room and everyone went silent. I thought that was something that only happened in movies until it happened to me. Then Miss Elise came in, clapped her hands, and cued the accompanist to begin playing our plié music. Bianca stood next to me at the barre, but everyone else gave me a wide berth. Like they thought anxiety was contagious.
    And how much worse will it be here, where all of us are battling the same demons? I now represent everything Katie and Jenna and Dominic and Omar and maybe even Zoe don’t want to be: a weak, sobbing failure.
    But when Dr. Lancaster comes to get me, I go with her. I get a small scoop of pasta salad. I walk into the dining room, plate in hand, and brace myself. I dig my feet into the floor and clench my muscles, like I’m preparing for a tidal wave to hit me.
    The only thing that hits me is Katie. She barrels into me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”
    I stagger back a step, trying not to drop my meal. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
    Not a chance—
    â€œI didn’t know what to do. I froze. I’m so sorry. But then Jenna jumped in, and . . .” Katie finally lets go of me.
    Jenna’s standing a few feet away. “Are you all right?” she asks, her tone formal.
    â€œYeah. Thanks for . . .” I fade out, still not