Read Online How It Feels to Fly by Kathryn Holmes - Free Book Online

waiting arms. He catches her, lifts her, guides her through a series of pirouettes en pointe, and pulls her into a passionate embrace. Of course, I’m embracing myself, and the only thing to catch me when I fall out of my pirouette is Zoe’s bed. I bounce off it, bumping my thigh on the corner of her nightstand. That hurts enough to knock me back to the here and now.
    You’re not Juliet. And you never will be.
    DINNER IS WAY more subdued than lunch. Other than Andrew and Dominic, who are debating college football coaching strategies at the end of the communal table, nobody seems to want to talk. Even Zoe is silent. She stabs at her food like it’s the face of someone she hates, and when she catches me looking at her, she shoots me a glare that could melt glass.
    I stare down at my grilled chicken and green beans and potatoes. I cut everything up into bite-sized pieces before starting to eat. I count the bites: fifteen cubes of chicken, thirty green beans, and six spoonfuls of mashed potatoes. Manageable. Especially with no one distracting me. I put the first bite in my mouth.
    It’s good. The potatoes are buttery and salty, and the chicken is tender. But when I’m about two-thirds of the way finished, I look up to see Dr. Lancaster watching me from the head of the table. She gives me an encouraging nod.
    I take the next bite. I chew. Now it tastes like dirt.
    We’re supposed to have free time before lights-out, but no sooner do I sit down on the couch in the Dogwood Room with Katie to watch TV than Yasmin comes to find me. “Sam,” she says, touching my shoulder. “You have a phone call.”
    I follow her to Dr. Lancaster’s office and pick up the receiver that’s been left on the desk. Yasmin steps outside, shutting the door behind her.
    â€œHello?” I say.
    â€œSamantha?”
    It’s my mom. Even though she can’t see me, I sit up straighter and suck in my stomach.
    â€œI wanted to discuss your first day. How did it go?”
    â€œGood. It was . . . good.”
    â€œWhat did you talk about?”
    â€œUm, things that make us anxious?” I say, keeping my voice light.
    â€œSamantha. That was a serious question.”
    â€œI know, Mom,” I say quickly. And I also know, now, what kind of mood Mom is in. She can be my biggest cheerleader and my biggest critic. Sometimes both in the same sentence. Since she started working at the ballet studio a few months ago, it’s been more of the latter, but I was hoping today she’d cut me a little slack. “So far, it’s been mostly introductory stuff. Getting to know each other, and Dr. Lancaster, and our peer advisers. Those are—”
    She doesn’t let me finish. “Do they have a plan to address your . . . issues?” Mom says issues like it’s a dirty word. I canpractically hear her wrinkling her nose through the phone line.
    â€œDr. Lancaster says it’s not one-size-fits-all. She wants to get to know me first.”
    â€œWell, I hope she figures it out soon. You’ll want to be at your best at the intensive. It’s only three weeks away, you know.”
    Right on cue, my stomach knots up. “I know, Mom.”
    â€œDid you work out today?”
    â€œYeah, for about two hours this afternoon.”
    It’s not enough. It won’t make a difference.
    â€œHmm,” Mom says. “What are they feeding you?”
    â€œSpaghetti and meatballs for lunch. Chicken and vegetables for dinner.”
    â€œ Meatballs ,” Mom says. Another dirty word. “Ask if they can make you a salad tomorrow.”
    â€œOkay.” My knee is bouncing up and down. I put my hand on it to stop it.
    â€œI know I can count on you to make good choices,” Mom says.
    â€œI will. I promise.”
    â€œThis is just a bump in the road. You’re still my beautiful ballerina.”
    No, it isn’t. And no, you’re not.
    I need to get off the