Being Sloane Jacobs Read online

  He tugs on my messy bun, then plops down in the chair next to mine, opposite Mom. After Dad’s seat, it’s the chair that’s most likely to land you in a newspaper photo above a caption about “meeting and greeting” or “lobbying” or some other Washington euphemism for raising money.

  “Good to see ya, kid,” he says. He scoots his chair in and smooths a white linen napkin over his lap. “Though I hear I won’t be seeing much more of you. Skate camp, huh? I thought those days were over.”

  Mom nearly chokes on her sip of wine but manages a more dignified hiccup. “Your sister was taking a little hiatus from skating to focus on school, but she’s been desperately missing the ice. She’s ready for her big comeback.”

  I barely manage to suppress an eye roll. Across the table, James winks at me. I’m pretty sure those exact words are on a press release somewhere, right below “Senator Jacobs Kicks Off Reelection Campaign.”

  “Well, go for the gold, Seej,” James says. He waves the waiter over and orders a beer. My mom quickly adds, “In a glass, please.” Before the waitress leaves, we place our orders: wedge salad and baked chicken for Mom; a fish entrée that James confirms is sustainable; the usual—steak, medium-rare—for Dad; and a hamburger, fries, and salad for me (with a side of eye roll from Mom).

  Dad finally takes his seat next to Mom. I can tell his mind is still with the man at the next table, thinking about money or policy or … oh, isn’t it all just about money? “So what is everyone having?”

  “We already ordered, Dad,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “You missed it.”

  “I ordered you the steak,” Mom adds, and puts a heavy-bottomed glass of whiskey in his hand.

  “Good to see you, James,” Dad says between sips of his drink. “How were finals?”

  “Great,” he says. “I did really well. I think I’ll make the dean’s list again.”

  “Excellent. I’ll pass that along to the staff to add to the newsletter,” Dad says. I stifle a groan. “Started looking at med schools yet?”

  “No, Dad,” James says. His smile hasn’t faltered. James has an uncanny ability to ignore Dad’s bait and instead hear only what he wants to hear, as if the father he sees sitting at the table came straight out of some evening sitcom (and not one of the dysfunctional ones). I don’t know how he does it. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Dad does the exact same thing. “But I have started looking into public policy programs where I can focus on environmental policy. You know, the Kennedy School has a great program.”

  Dad instantly perks up at the mention of Harvard and politics, and the strained conversation picks up a little. It’s shocking how he seems to be talking with a totally different son, imagining a political dynasty while James chatters on about clean-water policy in the third world as it relates to the United Nations.

  The food comes, and I tear into my burger. The only redeeming quality of these dinners is that the burgers here are possibly the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth. A couple of years ago I discovered that I could get the chef to put avocado on them, and it’s made the whole experience of family dinner much more bearable. With the first bite, a thick stream of meat juice and grease runs down my chin and onto my napkin. Heaven.

  “Sloane, isn’t it about time you got back to your training diet?” Mom says. Her face is screwed up in disgust. “Lots of fruits and vegetables, some lean protein, right? Your body needs good fuel to perform at its peak.”

  “Sure,” I say between bites. “I bet there will be plenty of that at camp.”

  “Well, you might want to get started early,” Mom replies. She pushes the cherry tomatoes around on her plate a bit, then finally spears one and brings it to her lips. I swear, she will spend at least five minutes chewing that one tomato, and by the time she’s done, I’ll have wolfed down almost my entire burger.

  “Oh, leave her alone,” James says. “She looks great. And besides, she’s an athlete. She can eat whatever she wants.”

  “Thank you, James,” I reply, and take another monster bite of burger.

  “You are beautiful, darling,” Dad says, and Mom sighs and takes a sip of wine, clearly annoyed that Dad hasn’t taken her side and encouraged my “healthy” (no-fat, no-taste, no-fun) diet. “Which is why she’s got Preston on the hook. When are you two finally going out?”

  “Um, never?” I reply. My parents exchange a look. It’s the first time they’ve made eye contact tonight. Neither of them appreciates my sarcasm, which is why I usually keep it corked up. At least they can bond over that.

  “Preston’s a nice young man, Sloane,” Mom says.

  Actually, Preston Brockton-Moore is a reptile. A slimy, disgusting, slithering snake of a guy who wants nothing more than to hiss his way into a Congressional seat, and also the pants of every female offspring of every politician this side of the Potomac.

  Dad, of course, loves him, mostly because his father is Archibald Brockton, who possesses the delightful dual attributes of having more money than God and being the owner of a media company. Free press and free money? Throw in a tax cut and it’s my father’s version of heaven on earth.

  “I think you two make a great pair,” Dad says. “And Archibald said Preston is off to Princeton in the fall.”

  “Okay,” I say, dropping my eyes to my plate. I can’t look at Dad directly. I haven’t been able to look at him for months.

  “Well, you’re interested in Princeton, aren’t you?”

  “I want to go to Brown,” I reply. “Or Columbia.”

  “But you’ll apply to Princeton, too, of course. And if Preston is already there, I’m sure that will help you with your decision.”

  “Yeah, in that you’ll decide to stay far, far away from Princeton,” James stage-whispers to me. I’m thankful he said it so I don’t have to.

  “Oh, honestly, Sloane, you act like the boy is an ax murderer,” Mom says. She raises her glass to take another sip of wine but finds it empty, so she raises it toward the waiter and gives a little wave. “He’s smart and handsome and comes from a wonderful family.”

  “Mom, he backed me into a corner at that benefit and tried to molest me. He was stealing drinks from the bar all night.”

  “That benefit was lovely. Preston’s mother wore the most beautiful Monique Lhuillier,” Mom says, once again steamrolling over what I have just said. “What was it for, again?”

  “The sexual assault crisis center!” I practically shriek.

  “Keep your voice down, dear. So inappropriate.” Wait, that’s inappropriate? The irony escapes her entirely, or maybe she just doesn’t care. Next to her, Dad is buried in his phone, texting God knows who, and James is focused on his fish.

  I can feel the blood rise past my neck and start thudding in my ears. I want to shout something at her about how taking her relationship advice would be like learning to put out fires on the Hindenburg. The only thing keeping me from a full-on scream is the threat of another diner whipping out an iPhone and recording the whole thing. Living through this dinner once is bad enough; I definitely don’t need to relive it for all eternity on YouTube.

  “Guess your standards are lower than mine” is what I finally mutter. James elbows me in the ribs at the exact moment that Dad chokes on a bite of steak, and when I look up, Dad’s staring at me hard. For the first time all night, he’s actually heard what I was saying.

  James gives me a nearly imperceptible shake of his head that I know means No, not worth it, abort. I can’t believe I said it, in public, no less. Jacobses don’t—I don’t—lose control like that. I turn my eyes back to my burger. I take another bite, but suddenly it tastes like sawdust and sand. I have to take a gulp of water to get it down without choking. This meal, for me, is over.

  After dinner, James takes a cab back to his dorm, and Dad heads to his office to proof some press releases. That leaves me and Mom in the car on our way home to Alexandria. The monuments whiz by as we make our way out of DC proper. At this point, I can’t wait to get to Montreal. I want
to be anywhere but here.

  Mom rambles on about a packing list, wondering if I’ll need two formal dresses or three. I turn away from her, press my cheek against the glass, and stare up at the night sky.

  “I had Rosie pull out your navy strapless and that lovely champagne-colored one. Do you think you should take that pink one with the ruffle down the front too?” Mom asks. I don’t answer, which is good, because she apparently doesn’t need me to. She’s already moved on to shoe options.

  A streak of light bursts across the darkness. A shooting star. It’s rare to see a star so bright in DC because of all the light pollution. For some reason, it makes me want to cry. I haven’t seen a shooting star since I was a little kid—since Mom and Dad were my heroes. Since I believed in them. Since they believed in me.

  I close my eyes tight and make a wish.

  I wish to be somebody—anybody—else.

  CHAPTER 2

  SLOANE DEVON

  I can feel all eyes in the arena on me. The fans, my teammates, everyone. But there’s only one set of eyes I care about.

  Coach Butler is pacing the sidelines. His eyes keep flickering back and forth between me, the puck, the goal, and the scoreboard. My skates, beat-up but perfectly broken in, are positioned for a shot. The puck floats on top of the ice just off the toe of my right skate. The Liberty High Belles’ goalie is twitching back and forth in her red and blue jersey, ready to block my shot. The period clock ticks down and the score shows a tie game.

  This is it. I can do it this time; I can shake whatever this funk has been these last few weeks. All I needed was a do-or-die situation like this one. I got this. I got this.

  But when I try to take a deep breath, the air comes too fast and I gasp like I’m drowning. And then I feel them. They start in my shoulders and wash down through my arms into my fingertips. The nerves are starting. Suddenly I can’t focus. Tingles. Pins and needles. Whatever you want to call it, it’s all I can feel, all I can think about. I have to do this. I can’t do it. I have to. Shake it off. It’s all mental. It’s in your head. I lower my eyes back down to the puck, raise my stick back, pivoting at the waist, and—BAM!

  I’m on my face, kissing ice. I roll over onto my back. My vision starts to swirl into a tunnel of bright white light, and for a second all I can see is a red and blue jersey bearing the number 22 skating away. She throws a quick glance over her shoulder at me. I turn to see Coach Butler shaking his head.

  I lie there for a second, wondering whether I should be pissed that she blindsided me or thankful that I didn’t have to take—and inevitably miss—that shot. When I try to breathe, something catches in my lungs. There’s no air. I blink a few times until everything comes back, and I see my teammate Gabby Ramirez, number 63, appearing over me. She lifts her helmet until her bleached-blond ponytail comes tumbling out.

  “Hey, girl, you dead?”

  “Air,” I gasp. “I need—”

  Gabby stands up and calls to the sidelines, “She just got the wind knocked outta her! She’s okay!”

  When I finally catch my breath, Gabby takes my big sweaty glove in hers and drags me to my skates. “Slow breaths,” she says.

  Then I see number 22 on the Belles, helmet off like she’s just out for a leisurely skate, waving her stick toward me, doubled over laughing.

  “Screw her,” Gabby grumbles, following my gaze. “Dirty player. You totally had it, dude.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, but I’m still staring at 22. When she catches me looking, she sneers at me. I feel whatever was wound up in me unraveling fast. I feel loose, like nothing is holding me back.

  I fling off my gloves. Gabby tries to grab the back of my jersey, but I’m too quick. My shooting may be off, but I can still sprint like a speed skater. In two blinks I’m in front of her, and in three I drag her to the ground.

  “What the hell!” she screams.

  “Dish it out but can’t take it?” I shout. I draw my arm back to deck her. This time? No tingles.

  My fist connects with her face, and her head jerks back onto the ice. I see blood, but I can’t tell if it’s coming from her or me. I try to look at my fist to see if I cracked a knuckle or something, but hands grab my shoulders and suddenly I’m being dragged across the ice. Coach Butler is yelling, something about discipline, maybe having it, maybe needing it? I can’t tell; he’s yelling too fast and too loud. The rest of my team is staring, mouths open. When we get to the bench, Coach nearly shoves me over the wall.

  “Locker room,” he growls.

  “Game’s not over, Coach,” I pant. Shouldn’t I just be parked in the penalty box?

  “Go,” he says, then turns away from me.

  I burst through the metal door and lean back hard against the Hornet, a chipped yellow and black mural that’s been on the wall of our locker room since medieval times. Within seconds I hear a buzzer and cheering from the side of the arena. The wrong side. We lost.

  “Dammit!” I shout, then yank my helmet off and hurl it across the room. It slams into a yellow locker, leaving a small dent. I shuffle across the rubber floor on my skates and pick it up, then go hide in one of the shower stalls. The team will be in any minute, and I can’t face them.

  It takes more than half an hour of crouching in the handicapped stall in the dark corner of the locker room before I hear the last player drag her bag out the door. I wait a few more beats to make sure it’s quiet, then make my way back out to my locker to change and get out of here. I sink down onto one of the ancient wooden benches and start unlacing my skates.

  I hear the door squeak open halfway. “Jacobs, you in there?”

  I suck in a breath, wondering if I can make it back into the handicapped stall before Coach Butler sees me. But with my skates half unlaced and him halfway in the door, it’s pretty unlikely.

  “Jacobs, I didn’t see you come out, and your team didn’t either. You’re in there, and I’m coming in. If you’re not decent, speak now.”

  I could shout something about being in my underwear, but it’s no use. I’m going to have to take the lecture from him at some point; might as well be now. “Come in,” I finally call back.

  Coach Butler strides in, marches across the floor, and sits down on the bench across from me. He takes off his yellow Hornets ball cap and leans down until his elbows are resting on his knees. Then he looks me dead in the eyes.

  “I don’t know what you could have possibly been thinking out there. That kind of crap does not fly on my team,” Coach says. His voice is even and completely cold. It’s worse than yelling. “I’m ashamed of the way you behaved.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t train you to play like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I feel a lump rising in my throat, but I gulp it down. There’s no crying in hockey, not for me, at least. But I feel like I’ve been punched square in the sternum. We sit in silence for a few moments. Coach stares hard at me, and I keep my eyes firmly on the ground.

  “Jacobs, you’re benched.”

  My gaze snaps to his. “But the season’s over,” I say, my voice going shrill.

  “Well, I’m coaching next year, and unless you plan on moving to another school, you better plan to park your butt on the bench for the first three games next season.”

  “You can’t do that!” Three games? That’s a lifetime! That’s when the scouts come, when college visits start. Benched?

  “I can, and I will,” he says. “I won’t tolerate fighting. You could have really hurt that girl.”

  “She came at me,” I reply, but immediately I know it’s the wrong thing to have said.

  “It was a legal hit. I watched it. You were too busy reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy or some crap while you were lining that shot up. What were you expecting, an engraved invitation to the goal?”

  I drop my eyes again. I can’t even begin to come up with an explanation. Not without exposing my secret. He’s right, of course. Had I been paying even a sliver of attention to what was going on around me instead of freaking ou
t, I would have seen that girl coming a mile away. I was too busy thinking about not making the shot—again.

  I try to take a deep breath, but I choke on a sob. It comes out as a strangled noise that I turn into an angry string of curses. Coach has heard me swear before; it’s either swear or break down in tears, which is not an option. Coach just watches me. His gaze is intense, his eyes narrowed in a mixture of confusion and something I can’t read.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you need to get it together. Figure out a way to control yourself, or I won’t have you on my ice,” Coach says. He runs his hand through his hair, then fits his ball cap back on his head. “Now go get showered and get out of here. Go home.”

  I leave the corner bodega and shuffle home with my hands in my pockets, my hockey bag over one shoulder and a plastic bag holding a frozen pizza bouncing awkwardly against my thigh. I try not to think about the game, the fight, the suspension … and definitely not the tingles. Because if I start thinking about any of it, especially the tingles, my brain will simply follow the path to its natural conclusion, which is that hockey is over.

  And if hockey is over, then my life is over.

  No hockey means no scouts. No scouts means no college scholarship, which means no life outside of this stupid neighborhood that’s half row houses bursting with kids and grandparents and aunts and uncles and half UPenn hipsters turning the Laundromats into brunch spots with all-you-can-drink mimosas. It’s only a matter of time before our landlord hikes our rent so high we can’t afford to live here anymore. And no college and no house is not a pretty equation.

  As I round the next corner, I lower my head and prepare to walk the gauntlet of homeboys and hoodlums hanging out on a stoop two doors away. If they’re deep into whatever club or girl or hot new track or illegal activity du jour, I can usually get by with barely a whistle. As I get closer, I see a couple empties in brown paper bags littering the stoop, and I know right away that tonight I won’t be so lucky.

  “Hey, girl, you wanna bring that pizza and that fine ass over here?”