How It Feels to Fly Read Online Free PDF Page A

There’s a lot of truth in the things people wish they could take back.
    Sure enough: “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry, again.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I say, waiting for this moment to be over. For us to move on.
    â€œI’m gonna make it up to you. Getting off on the wrong foot like that.”
    â€œYou don’t have to—”
    â€œYeah. I do. I want to. I will. So . . . friends?”
    I say, brightly, “Friends! Great.” My smile is on full wattage. And it does its job. Andrew looks relieved.
    â€œSo do you want to be blindfolded first? Or do you want me to start?”
    â€œUm. You go.” I want—I need—to see what he looks like, so I’ll know what to expect when it’s my turn. So I can glimpse what he’ll see of me. I wish I could go a step further. See what my body looks like through outside eyes. Without the filter of my own head, and without the inner voice that mocks and shouts and hisses.
    Andrew ties the blindfold around his head. In the sunlight, his wavy hair is the color of wet sand. It falls over the blue blindfold like one of those sand-in-a-bottle sculptures you can make at a kiosk in the mall. But not ugly.
    Frankly, nothing about Andrew is ugly. He’s not my usual type—if one serious boyfriend counts as a type—but I like what I see. He’s taller than me, and while he’s not made of muscle, he looks like he takes care of himself. Lastnight he was working the farm-boy thing in a T-shirt and faded jeans, but today he’s a little more dressed up—I guess because he’s in “peer adviser” mode. He’s wearing a deep-green polo shirt tucked into a pair of khaki pants. And he—
    â€œUh, Sam? You have to say something.”
    I feel my face flush.
    Nice. You’re checking him out, and he just wants to get on with it .
    â€œSorry!” I say, with a little laugh that rings wrong in my ears. But thinking about how Andrew is cute in a different way than Marcus is cute has me doing exactly what I don’t want to be doing—thinking about Marcus—and now I’m feeling wobbly. Wobbli er . It’s like I’m walking a tightrope, and on one side is outer me and on the other is inner me, and if I fall, the whole circus tent is going to collapse.
    Everything’s already collapsed. You’re delusional if you think otherwise.
    â€œSorry,” I say again fast, almost to myself. I look in all directions and then choose the sidewalk that cuts around the side of the house, past the row of pine trees, heading toward the campus woods. “Turn to your right.”
    Andrew swings right and almost walks into the lamppost at the foot of the stairs.
    â€œWhoa, stop!” I run to his side, grabbing his arm. His bicep tightens under my grip like he’s surprised I touched him. I let go and step back, feeling even more flustered. “Um. Turn back to the left.” Andrew inches left. “A little more. A little more. Now walk straight.”
    He takes a step, arms extended in front of him. Anotherstep. And another. Like each time, he’s not sure whether the ground will rise up to meet him. When we get into a rhythm, he starts making conversation. “So, where are you from?”
    â€œOutside Chattanooga,” I say. “You?”
    â€œNorth Georgia. Small town. You won’t know it. Trust me.”
    We turn the corner and I start describing what’s in front of us, like Dr. Lancaster instructed. “We’re going around the side of the house. By the woods. There’s a big grassy field, and then a bunch of redbrick campus buildings. You can see the mountains in the distance.”
    Perform at Your Peak is in North Carolina, which means my home is on the other side of those mountains. So is the ballet intensive I’ll start three weeks from today.
    If they don’t kick you out the moment they see you.
    â€œThere’s a greenhouse to