Being Sloane Jacobs Page 10

“She kicks when she sleeps. Kind of like my dog,” an unfamiliar voice says.

  “Don’t be mean,” Andy singsongs.

  I peel my eyes open and see a tall girl with a mop of frizzy, carrot-colored hair and sparkling emerald eyes opposite me, splayed out on a leather wingback chair that matches the couch I’m still lying on. Her skin, where it isn’t blanketed in freckles, is pale, nearly translucent. I recognize her from this morning’s group skate. Andy is perched next to her.

  “Hey.” I sit up and try to shake off the sleep and the memory of the nightmare. I hope it’s not a sign of things to come.

  “Skating dream?” the girl asks. When I stare at her, she explains: “Your little feet were just flying on that couch.”

  “Yeah. More like skating nightmare.”

  She nods sympathetically. “I’m Beatrice Browne, but you can call me Bee.”

  “Sloane Jacobs,” I say, straightening my throbbing knee gently.

  “Nice to meet you, Sloane,” she says. She lowers her voice. “Andy here says you’re one of us.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Junk food junkie,” she says. Andy nods heartily. “Not gonna subsist on baked chicken and steamed veggies. Am I right?”

  “That is correct,” I reply, happy I’ve met another person here I don’t have to lie to about my hockey player’s appetite.

  “Then let’s go.” She hops up from the chair and cocks her head toward the door.

  “But dinner—”

  “If you’re interested in hanging around for variations on the theme of leafy green things, be my guest. But we’re going out for burgers.” At the mention of burgers, my body jolts awake, and suddenly my energy reserves skyrocket.

  “Won’t we get in trouble if we skip dinner?” I ask.

  “Please, no one will miss us,” Andy says. “BSI is like college. As long as you show up to class and do the work, no one cares what you do the rest of the time.”

  I haven’t yet been off the BSI campus, and I’m glad for the chance to explore. A few blocks away from the campus are residential blocks filled with these crazy row houses: three floors with outdoor entrances and winding staircases climbing all over the façades like metallic ivy. I can only imagine what they’re like shellacked with ice in the brutal Canadian winters.

  Bee seems to know where she’s going and leads the way, turning onto a busy commercial street. A white sign reads RUE ST. DENIS. The street is crammed with boutiques, salons, restaurants, and pubs, not to mention people. We pass a shop with a window full of pastries, and I stop to press my nose against the glass, trying not to drool.

  “I know a much better place a couple blocks up,” Bee says. She grabs the strap on my bag and pulls me up the street.

  “Bee’s a native,” Andy says. We have to double-time it to keep up with her.

  A few blocks later, we come to a narrow, two-story building covered in chipped red paint. A blue neon sign overhead labels it SHAY’S PUB. A chalkboard out front advertises two-for-one guacamole double cheeseburgers.

  “Score,” Bee says, fist-pumping and flinging the door open. “You guys are gonna love this.”

  Inside it’s dark and wood-paneled, stale with generations of beer, old cigarettes, and meat smoke, grimy from the pressure of decades and hands. There’s an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner, and faded photographs are plastered to the walls. It’s legit crap. I’m already in love.

  “Anyone up for beers?” Bee cocks her head toward the bar, where a young, hot bartender is pouring a pint for the one and only customer seated there, an overweight trucker type whose pants do not fully cover his rear end.

  “Holy crack,” Andy whispers to me.

  I barely hear him. Bee is still watching me intently, waiting for me to respond. I figured a place like figure skating camp would get me away from the Dylan types always trying to pour drinks down my throat and reveling in the Afterschool Special–ness of my Just Say No stance.

  My heart is pounding. I don’t want to lose my new friends. I don’t want to explain why I don’t drink. And I don’t want to accept the glass and then pour it into a plant somewhere when they’re not looking.

  Bee leans over and slings an arm around my shoulder. “Dude, I was totally kidding. As if I have a fake ID. Besides, beer tastes like cow piss. Coke?”

  “Yeah,” I manage to croak out, so overwhelmed with relief I nearly hug her.

  “Me three!” Andy says.

  Bee heads to the bar while Andy and I park at a nearby table that’s made almost level by two sugar packets wedged under one of the legs. Bee returns with three Cokes. We sip quietly for a few minutes until a guy appears from the kitchen holding four plates piled high with french fries and cheeseburgers.

  “Uh, there’s only three of us,” Andy says. He slides one plate in front of me and pushes the fourth into the middle of the table.

  “Two for one! What, you think between the three of us strapping young athletes, we can’t house that?” Bee plucks a fry off her plate and drags it through a river of ketchup. Yesterday, I would have laughed out loud if anyone dared to describe figure skaters as “strapping athletes,” but after today’s workout, I know it’s the truth.

  “Dibs,” I call, but it comes out “Dimmf.” My mouth is already stuffed with burger.

  Bee leans in a little closer. “Did you guys notice the bartender?” she says between bites. “He’s so hot.”

  Andy glances over my shoulder, and gasps. I turn around to get a look, but Andy grabs my arm.

  “Don’t be obvious!” he stage-whispers.

  “Sorry, sorry!” I reply. I turn back to my burger.

  “Today was totally lamesauce,” Bee says, wiping a bit of guacamole from her mouth with the back of her hand. I love her already. “Workouts and figures? What are we, five?”

  “BSI loves those fundamentals,” Andy replies.

  “Well, I don’t. I’m hoping to finally land my triple-double by the end of this summer, and it’s not going to happen if I have to spend my time jogging around the rink and practicing extensions.”

  “All the skill in the world won’t win the Olympics,” Andy says. “Just ask Evgeni Plushenko.”

  “Ugh, always the Lysacek apologist, aren’t you?” Bee tosses a fry that bounces off Andy’s forehead, leaving a little grease mark behind.

  “Pretty wins gold, Bee,” Andy says. He rubs at the grease spot with the corner of his napkin. “Besides, we’ll be jumping soon. Jumping until our little ankles are snapping with joy. That’s how they weed out the wimps.”

  I choke. Guacamole nearly shoots out my nose.

  “You okay, Sloane?” Andy asks while Bee slaps me hard on the back.

  “Wrong pipe,” I say with a weak smile.

  The jukebox clicks, an old-fashioned number with an arm that swaps out real vinyl records. A reed scratches, then the chiming guitar of “More Than a Feeling” fills the bar.

  “I love this song!” Bee grabs her fork and starts lip-syncing the opening lines.

  “I skated an expo routine to this last year,” Andy says.

  “I bet it was hot.” Bee giggles between lyrics.

  “Oh, it was. I’ll show you!” Andy jumps up from his chair and lifts both arms and one leg over his head. Then he skips off toward the jukebox, jumping and spinning on the way. Bee and I applaud. Andy leaps back over to our table and grabs my hand.

  “You ever skate pairs?”

  Without a moment to think (or text Sloane Emily for the right answer), I decide to go with the truth. “Nope!”

  “Then follow my lead, and for God’s sake, point your toes!”

  Andy pulls me out of my chair and to his chest. He dips me, then lifts me until my toes are just slightly off the floor. I do as I’m told and point my toes, kicking off my flip-flops in the process. Andy spins across the floor. Instinctively, I extend my arms like the girls in those YouTube videos Sloane Emily made me watch.

  Andy sets me down, then executes a spinning jump, which I do my be
st to emulate, wobbling on the landing while he sticks it perfectly. He glides across the floor to me and puts his hands tight around my waist, and then I’m flipping. It’s all I can do not to kick him in the head as he deposits me bum-first on his shoulders.

  “For God’s sake, cross your legs,” he says. “This isn’t burlesque.”

  Bee cheers. “Something tells me you’ve done this before.”

  “Illinois State junior pairs champion two years running!” Andy replies. He waves to the nonexistent crowd while I hold my breath, trying desperately not to plummet to the ground. With only a slight squeeze as a warning, Andy flips me backward over his shoulder and under his arm, and then I’m standing two-footed on the black-and-white-checkered floor of the bar. “I am an excellent partner.”

  He’s not kidding. I barely did any work at all, and from the impressed look on Bee’s face, Andy made me look pretty damn good. Maybe I should give this pairs thing a whirl. Safety in numbers.

  We take our seats, laughing. Even though Andy did almost all the work, getting twirled like a deranged music-box figurine has made me thirsty. I pick up my glass and slurp the last of the Coke through the straw.

  “Refills?” I ask. Andy and Bee push their glasses toward me.

  I’m halfway to the bar when it happens. My foot lands on something mushy—probably the french fry Bee pegged at Andy—and goes out from underneath me. I barely manage to keep hold of the glasses as I’m falling, I’m falling, I’m—

  I’m caught.

  A pair of arms grip me tightly and haul me back to my feet. “Watch yourself,” a gruff voice says into my ear. “The insurance doesn’t cover drunken sorority girls.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I say, shrugging him off once I’m sure I’m steady. I set the glasses down on the bar and spin around. “And I’m not in a sorority.”

  The words die off in a little gurgle. It’s clear that this is the bartender Bee was talking about. He’s about my height, maybe an inch or so taller. He’s wearing a Montreal Canadiens tee advertising their 1979 Stanley Cup win. The logo stretches across his chest, distorting it slightly. His skin is dark, the color of coffee with milk, with matching deep brown eyes and dark hair, thick and longish, curling up around his ears and sharp jawline.

  In a word? He’s HOT.

  He’s also oddly familiar. There’s something in his face that sets my mental Rolodex flipping at top speed. I notice a tiny cut across his left eyebrow, where the hair never grew back. His right ear bears a tiny spot from where he used to wear an earring. It all feels so familiar, but I can’t place him.

  “Sloane Jacobs?” His eyes widen and his voice softens. “Oh wow. It’s you, right? What are you doing in Canada?”

  Ding ding ding! Fernando Reyes, better known as Nando to his friends and teammates. All-state hockey all four years of high school, Philly high school player of the year, and my teammate during city peewee when I was nine and he was eleven. That’s when he got that scar over his eye. In fact, I was the one who gave it to him—or at least, the puck I shot during a practice drill did.

  Looking at him now, I’m surprised I didn’t see it sooner. He’s got the same eyes, the same sturdy build, the same dark, untamed hair. Only he’s grown up some. Or a lot, actually. He went to high school across town, so I only ever kept up with him through the hockey grapevine. Last I remember he’d gotten some amazing scholarship to McGill, but his parents moved away soon after graduation, so I never heard much about him.

  “Nando, hi,” I say, suddenly very uncomfortable about my outfit. I wish I were wearing something a little less clingy. I cross my arms over my chest and try to smile like nothing is weird.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says. He pulls me into a bear hug, one of those boy kinds complete with three heavy thumps on the back. “You’ve grown, like, a foot since peewee!”

  “Yeah, you too,” I say.

  “You still playing hockey?”

  “Yeah, um … pretty much.” It’s a weird answer, but thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “If you’re in town for a while, you should come to my pickup game. It would be good to catch up.” All of his irritation is gone. Now he beams at me. I practically melt into the floor.

  “Absolutely,” I say, completely ignoring Andy and Bee, and the fact that I’m not supposed to be hockey-playing Sloane this summer. All I can think about is spending more time with Nando.

  I hear someone clear his throat, and Nando turns to see a burly guy at the bar, tapping the top of his empty pint glass.

  “Listen, I gotta get back to work, but give me your number. I’d love to catch up, really,” he says. I nod, and he pulls out his phone and types my number in. He gives me a sort of two-fingered Boy Scout salute, then heads back to the bar.

  I walk back to the table empty-handed, completely forgetting about the refills. Andy and Bee don’t even notice.

  “Please tell me you just gave your number to the studly bartender,” Andy says.

  “Yeah, uh, I know him from home,” I say. “When we were little.” I instantly regret saying it. If for some reason Andy and Nando ever speak, it might come up that Nando’s from Philly and that I’m a big fat liar. I quickly shove four fries into my mouth so I can avoid answering any other questions.

  This living-another-life thing is harder than I thought. Everywhere I look there’s some kind of truth landmine waiting to explode and expose me.

  Although in Nando’s case … it just might be worth it.

  CHAPTER 11

  SLOANE EMILY

  I’m at junior nationals, behind the judges’ table, waiting on the blue carpet to take the ice. All the girls are thirteen and fourteen, but I’m sixteen-year-old me wearing fourteen-year-old me’s powder-pink skating dress from my long program. I tower over the other girls. I’m worried I’ll trample them.

  Then I’m on the ice. I’m spinning, skating, taking the long arc around the end of the rink, picking up speed, ready for a triple. If I land it, first place is in the bag.

  Just before I leap, I glance up into the stands like I always do, and there are my parents, just like they always are. To Dad’s right, Mom’s wearing one of her impeccably tailored dresses, the powder-blue one that makes her black Irish eyes sparkle. But to his left, it’s not James, who would always try to rearrange his schedule to make my competitions. Instead, it’s a tall redhead in a gray pencil skirt and cream silk shirt, unbuttoned scandalously low. I don’t recognize her at first, because she’s so out of place, sort of like when you see your biology teacher at the gym and can’t quite place her.

  Then I realize: It’s Amy, my father’s press secretary. My eyes are on her as I leap, and they’re on her as I crash down on the ice. My eyes are on her while the crowd gasps. And my eyes are on her when she reaches over and kisses my father hard on the lips.

  I wake with a start, blinking, trying to remember why I’m in this tiny room. I spot the hockey stick leaning into the corner. It all comes back. I find Buddy Bear wedged between my bed and the wall and clutch him tightly, focusing on my breathing.

  When I was little and would wake up from a nightmare after having accidentally watched a Stephen King movie on TV, my mom would make me some “coffee” in my pink Disney princess mug. Really it was just a glass of milk into which she’d toss a splash of decaf from her own coffee mug, but it made me feel grown up and never failed to calm me down. I eventually outgrew my nightmares, and thus my need for late-night comforting. But for the last few months, the nightmares have returned—this nightmare in particular. At home, I’ve taken to sneaking downstairs, my fuzzy socks sliding along the marble tile in the kitchen, to make my own coffee milk. These days it’s heavier on the french vanilla, with only a dash of skim milk. Doesn’t do much for my sleep patterns, but the warm, vanilla-flavored caffeine somehow soothes me.

  But in this tiny cell of a room, there’s no Keurig and no marble, and Sloane Devon has my fuzzy socks on the other side of town. So what would Sloane Devon d
o?

  I creep out of bed and throw on some baggy flannel pajama pants. It’s warm in my room, so I leave the hoodie on the back of my desk chair and venture out in just the old white tank top I was sleeping in. On my way across the common area, I hold my breath, worried the door will squeak, worried the sound of my breath will be enough to wake Melody. The only thing worse than a nightmare would be the wrath incurred by waking my sleeping giant of a roommate.

  I tiptoe down the hall and get in the elevator. The button for the basement, where I remember a tiny kitchenette from when Cameron and I went exploring earlier, is cracked and worn, and no matter how many times I punch it, it doesn’t light up. The elevator shudders to a start, though.

  After what feels like minutes in the glacially slow elevator, the doors slide open to reveal the brown linoleum of the basement. Across the room, some old hockey game is crackling across the TV screen at low volume, but I don’t see anyone. Someone must have left it on. I’m happy to have a little sound—there’s nothing worse than the tense silence of a lonely basement.

  I go toward the back corner, where an ancient kitchenette houses a fridge, a microwave, and a sink, and—thank God—a coffeemaker waits. I may actually be able to get a taste of home. But when I grab the pot to fill it with water, I notice the bottom of the glass is crusted with dried, crystallized dregs from whenever someone made coffee last (perhaps last summer, from the looks of the pot).

  “Argh!” I sling the pot back into the coffeemaker. I feel completely pathetic. After going to such great lengths to run away from home, I’m standing in a dirty basement trying to find it again.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  The deep voice comes seemingly out of nowhere, and the shock sends me into a spinning jump that ends with me nearly sitting on the counter. Coupled with my insane acrobatics is a loud, girly yelp that sounds like I’ve just witnessed someone dropping a box of kittens on the floor. So much for my übertough hockey-girl façade.

  “Wow, that was graceful.”

  Matt O’Neill’s shaggy head peeks up from the back of a ratty dorm couch. His normally crazy hair has gone full-on mad scientist. A major cowlick is backlit by the glow of the TV screen. Or maybe it’s the light coming off his mile-wide brilliant white smile. I half expect him to hold up a tube of Colgate and start giving me a peppy pitch about tartar control.