How It Feels to Fly by Kathryn Holmes

slams it shut. “No, thank you. I don’t see how it makes a difference if they know”—she gestures at all of us—“when you and I will be talking about it in private every afternoon.”
    â€œYour fellow campers can empathize. They can make you feel less alone, even if you’ll be competing alone when you return home. They can brainstorm with you. Support you.” Dr. Lancaster finishes, her voice gentle, “The whole point is that you don’t have to go through what you’re going through by yourself.”
    â€œNo one here can help me,” Jenna mutters darkly, so quiet, I barely hear her.
    No one can help you, either, my inner voice whispers . Enjoy being alone.

seven
    INSTEAD OF WAITING TO GET TRICKED INTO EATING lunch with everyone else—in front of everyone else—I slip into the bathroom the moment Dr. Lancaster lets us leave the Dogwood Room. I wait a few minutes, then poke my head out the door to check that the hallway is empty. I sneak into the kitchen, relying on all my dancer’s grace not to make a sound. I grab a six-inch turkey sub and head outside to sit on the front porch.
    I down it in nine huge bites. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten since I got here that’s actually satisfying.
    But then Dr. Lancaster finds me. “Sam,” she says. “We need to discuss why you’re avoiding meals.”
    â€œI’m not—”
    â€œDid you eat?”
    I show her my empty plate, complete with bread crumbs.
    â€œThen we’ll start your afternoon session a few minutesearly. Come with me.”
    We go to her office. She shuts the door and points at the couch. I drop into it, the feeling of peace I got from my private lunch evaporating.
    â€œYou need to eat, Sam—in the dining room, with everyone else.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œIt’s not negotiable. Part of my job here is to keep all of you safe and healthy. For you, that means making sure you’re eating.”
    â€œI eat! I promise, I do.”
    Too much. And too often.
    â€œI don’t have a problem with food.” Frustrated tears prick at my eyes, and feeling those tears makes me even more frustrated. “Why do I have to prove it? Why can’t you trust me?”
    â€œBecause—” For a second, I think Dr. Lancaster is going to pull a Because I said so , but instead she says, “I see your reluctance to eat. I see you counting what’s on your plate. Forcing yourself to eat more than you want—or less.”
    The fight drains out of me. Shame settles in. “You see all that?” I whisper.
    â€œI’m trained to see it,” Dr. Lancaster says patiently.
    I curl up on the couch, the sandwich I wolfed down becoming a knife in my gut.
    â€œDo you want to tell me about the eyes?” She pulls out the collage I left under my chair in the Dogwood Room. “What do they symbolize?”
    â€œYou’re the therapist. You tell me.”
    â€œCan you tell me about a time when someone was looking at you and you didn’t like it?” She’s quoting my own words back at me.
    â€œWant me to make a list?”
    Dr. Lancaster looks thoughtful. “Actually, yes.”
    I sit upright. “I was being sarcastic.”
    She smiles. “I know. But you’re all going to get journals tomorrow anyway. Maybe I’ll give you a head start.”
    â€œGreat.” I wait a beat. “That was also sarcasm, by the way.”
    Dr. Lancaster rummages around in a desk drawer and pulls out a selection of spiral-bound notebooks. “Blue, green, or purple?” she asks, fanning them out.
    â€œUm. Green, I guess.”
    â€œExcellent choice.” She hands it to me. “Before tomorrow’s session, I want you to write about at least three instances when you struggled with being looked at.”
    â€œThree? By tomorrow?”
    â€œYou don’t have to write a novel about each one. A few