Being Sloane Jacobs Read online

  “I am so sorry, mesdemoiselles, I thought you knew each other,” he says, looking from me to her. “Unfortunately, the restaurant is booked up for the night. This is the only table I have.”

  “Well, I’m starving,” she says, and plops herself onto a chair. She glares at me, as though daring me to back down. Jerk. I hesitate for only a second.

  “Me too,” I reply. I take the empty chair across from her. I’ll just call this practice for skate camp and step up to the challenge.

  A waiter hurries over and puts oversized menus in our hands, and I realize that in all the confusion, I haven’t eaten since I was on the plane. My stomach growls as I look over the dishes.

  “Um, I can’t read this menu. What is this, Spanish?” I peek over my menu to see Sloane glaring menacingly at hers, as if she could threaten English out of it.

  “Well, it’s an Italian restaurant, so the dishes are in Italian, and we’re in Montreal, so the descriptions are in French,” I say, trying to sound helpful, but from the way she glares at me, I realize I probably just sound snotty.

  “Great, two languages I don’t speak,” she mutters.

  “Two languages I do,” I reply. “Well, one and a half. My Italian is rusty. I haven’t used it since last summer, when my parents took me along on a trip to Rome.”

  “Gosh, I haven’t visited Venice in years, so my Italian seems to have escaped me,” she says, in what skips sarcasm and goes straight to nasty. She squints at the bottom of her menu. “Tomate, that’s ‘tomato.’ I know that one. I just don’t want to end up eating dog.”

  “I can help,” I say. “What do you want to eat?”

  “I don’t know, spaghetti sounds good, I guess.” This place isn’t exactly a spaghetti-and-meatballs kind of joint, but I scan the pasta section for something she might like.

  “Are you a vegetarian?”

  “Hell no!” she says.

  “Okay, okay, chill out,” I reply, skipping over the leek confit entrée for her. The waiter sidles up just as I settle on dinner for the two of us.

  “Bonjour. Qu’est-ce que vous voudrais aujourd’hui?”

  “Je voudrais les cavatelli al pomodoro et olive avec un verre d’eau, s’il vous plaît. Elle aura le pappardelle con polpettine di vitello al sugo di pomodoro et—what do you want to drink?” I can’t help but smile. My French is back after a momentary lapse. Madame LeGarde would be proud.

  “Water’s fine,” Sloane says, avoiding my eyes.

  The waiter nods, takes our menus, and hurries back to the kitchen to report our order.

  “You ordered me dog, didn’t you?”

  “Spaghetti and meatballs, basically,” I say. “But the meatballs are made of kitten. I hope that’s okay.” I fold my napkin in my lap. Across the table I see Sloane start to tuck her napkin into her shirt. The couple at the table next to ours, both dressed head to toe in sleek black, a giant diamond gleaming from the woman’s left hand, shake their heads. I make a show of smoothing mine across my lap, and Sloane quickly drops hers into her lap too, a little red creeping into her cheeks. I pretend not to notice.

  For a minute we sit in awkward silence. The waiter comes back with a pitcher of water and fills our glasses. “I was pretty freaked out when I opened my bag to find it wasn’t actually mine,” I say finally.

  “That makes two of us,” she says. She takes a gulp from her water glass, then sets it back on the table with a little too much force. Water sloshes over the side and pools on the table. A busboy appears out of nowhere and wipes it up. “I’m glad we’re switching back before I actually have to wear anything in there.”

  “My clothes are cute!” I protest.

  “Look at me,” she says. She gestures to the logo emblazoned across her chest. “Do I scream ‘cute’ to you?”

  “I guess not,” I say.

  “Discussion over. I’ll get my bags back as soon as this meal is done.”

  More silence. Sloane busies herself looking out the window. I’ve never met someone more antisocial than she is. Finally, the waiter arrives and sets warm plates down in front of us. From the way Sloane dives in, it’s clear I’ve made a good choice for her. We chew in silence for a few minutes before I can’t take it anymore.

  “So what’s your middle name?”

  She looks up midbite, only slightly confused. “Devon,” she says.

  “Well, at least that’s not the same,” I say. “I’m Emily, named after my grandmother.”

  “I don’t know where Devon came from. I know my mom got Sloane from this old movie, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” A mini storm crosses her face, but as quickly as it came, it’s gone.

  “Sloane was my grandfather’s name,” I reply.

  “You were named after your grandfather?”

  “Family names are really important in my—well, in my family.” Thinking of my family makes my stomach seize up.

  “Why?” Sloane raises her eyebrows. “Are you royalty or something?”

  “My dad’s a senator,” I say, and get the standard moment of discomfort I feel every time I say it. The last thing I want to talk about right now is my dad’s political career. There’s a moment of silence. Sloane seems to sense my discomfort. I’m relieved that she changes the subject.

  “So, I saw you have skates,” she says. “You in Disney on Ice or something?”

  “Figure skater,” I reply, ignoring her sarcasm.

  “And that’s not the same thing?”

  “Not even close,” I say. “One’s a sport and one’s not.”

  “Are you kidding me? Figure skating’s not a sport any more than synchronized swimming is.”

  “Well, I know plenty of Olympic athletes who’d disagree with you,” I snap. “On both counts.”

  She just shakes her head, smirking. Seriously, I can’t believe I share a name with this ray of sunshine.

  “And you play hockey, I’m guessing?” I say. “At least, that’s what the stench from your bag and your giant shirts says.”

  “Damn right,” she says. “Now, that’s a real sport.”

  “Right, because being one of twenty people whizzing around on the ice barreling into people is so high-pressure,” I retort.

  “Twenty? Have you ever seen a hockey game?”

  “It was hyperbole. My brother played hockey in high school, so I’ve seen a few games. Doesn’t look so hard to me.”

  “Oh yeah, definitely not as hard as skating around waving your arms and smiling for the camera.”

  “Maybe when you’re five. More like a crowded arena, a spotlight on you, flinging yourself through the air, and trying to land on a blade thinner than a kitchen knife while a bunch of judges score your every move.” Just saying it out loud makes the sweat start to form behind my ears, and I feel my pulse pick up a bit.

  “Yeah, that’s definitely easier than lining up for a game-winning shot in front of hundreds of people while four giant girls skate toward you as fast as they can with a singular goal of leveling your ass,” she says. “I’d much rather face a bunch of judges than a bunch of hit men on ice.”

  “You couldn’t last one day in my skates,” I say.

  “If I can’t last a day in yours, I give you four minutes on the ice in mine. You’ll pee your pants and cry for your mama after one check into the boards.”

  “Oh please, I’d much rather hide out on a team than spend my summer with all eyes on me,” I say, and I realize I’m not just talking about skating. I reach into my bag and pull out the brochure for the Baliskaya Skating Institute of Montreal. The cover features a picture of the main dormitory. It’s a gorgeous stone mansion with a terra-cotta tile roof and sprawling gardens in front, all surrounded by iron gates. The property is made all the more beautiful by its setting, smack in the middle of the city.

  “Are you kidding me? You’re spending your summer here?” She takes the brochure and gazes at the cover.

  “Yep, four weeks.” I sigh.

  “I don’t know why you sound so depressed. This p
lace looks amazing.” She starts flipping through the brochure. Images of smiling skaters are interspersed with pictures of the dorm rooms and the dining hall. It looks like Harvard meets Hogwarts. She points at a photo of a room with two queen beds and an overstuffed chair by a bay window looking out over a lush garden. “Are you kidding me?”

  “If you like it so much, why don’t you go?” I say. “You seem to think figure skating is such a breeze, after all.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she mutters.

  I pick at my entrée, twirling pasta around on my fork. The brochure just reminds me of what will be expected in the next four weeks: perfection. And if there is anything I am not, it’s perfect. I’ll spend my summer falling on my butt while I attempt jumps I can’t do anymore. I’ll eat tasteless food in the name of fitting into yet another leotard. I’ll pretend to be friends with the cutthroat competitors who are my fellow campers. I’ll be reminded of three years ago, when I ate ice at junior nationals, ending my season and possibly my career.

  A real dream. I’d give anything not to have to do it. I’d even—

  And then it hits me. Like an elbow straight to the stomach.

  “You could do it, you know,” I blurt out.

  “Yeah, right.” She flips back to the page showing the dorm rooms and sighs. The next page shows a girl outfitted in red sequins and rhinestones, and Sloane starts laughing. “Can you imagine me in this?”

  “Actually, I can,” I say.

  “What are you talking about?” Sloane stares at me.

  I don’t answer right away. The puzzle pieces are just slotting together in my head. Even though it sounds slightly insane, it could work. I look over at Sloane, with her long black hair, her athletic build. We are the same height. She can skate, we know that. So it’s a different kind of skating—who cares? And if she fails, at least she figures out that it’s not so easy. Everyone always thinks it’s so easy to be me.

  “We look alike. Even that desk attendant thought so,” I say, as much to myself as to her.

  Sloane blinks at me from the other side of the table, staring at me as though I’ve gone insane.

  And maybe I have.

  But the idea won’t let go: Here it is. My chance to be somebody else for a bit.

  My chance to switch.

  CHAPTER 6

  SLOANE DEVON

  I get it now: This girl, this other Sloane, is totally, completely, and inarguably crazy. Not cuckoo-homeless-man-on-the-bus crazy, but crazy in a way only rich girls can be.

  She can afford to risk her whole future on a whim, because there will always be someone to clean up her messes and pay for her mistakes (literally).

  It doesn’t sound half bad to me.

  I look from the brochure to Sloane and back, and a little beat of temptation starts drumming in my brain. Figure skating is way easier than hockey. No one is trying to break your legs or bash your brains out when you’re figure skating. There are no shots to take or miss, which means no tingles. And there are no scouts or coaches expecting me to be a hero, thus there’s no way to fail.

  I look up at Sloane Emily again. “You really think we could pull this off?”

  She breaks into a huge grin. She must take my question for an agreement, because the next thing I know she’s dragging me out of my chair—she’s surprisingly strong—and up to her room to plot.

  When we get to her door, Sloane bumps it open with her hip. Inside, she flings her purse onto the table, then turns around to face me. “You coming in?” she says.

  The sight of the room before me stops me in my tracks. So this is what you get when you’re actually paying for a room at a hotel like this. It’s a giant loft space on the top floor, corner of the hotel, with everything in one oversized room. Floor-to-ceiling windows that have to be at least twenty feet high overlook the entire city. In one corner are two fluffy queen-sized beds like the one I have crammed in my teeny tiny room. In another corner, an L-shaped bank of couches faces a massive flat-screen TV. Partially hidden behind a privacy screen is a glassed-in shower large enough to host my entire hockey team, a Jacuzzi for nearly as many, and an expansive tile countertop with not one, not two, but three sinks. What do you even need three sinks for? And there’s another massive television facing the Jacuzzi, so you can watch TV while taking a hot soak. The only thing this place is missing is a rapper, his entourage, and several bottles of expensive champagne.

  Sloane heads straight to a mahogany cabinet near the couches and flings open the door to reveal a minibar that is anything but mini. The door of the cabinet is stocked with tiny liquor bottles, wine, water, and cans and jars of various nuts and other snacks. There’s a glass-front fridge filled with sodas and sparkling water and beer. Sloane slides out a deep drawer underneath the fridge filled with enough candy to help a kindergartner achieve liftoff. It probably costs enough to send that kindergartner to Harvard. There are no prices on anything, but I can imagine. I remember the time my parents took me to New York for Christmas to see the Rockefeller Center tree when I was eight. We stayed at a Marriott in Times Square, and back then I thought it was a palace. I ate a jar of jelly beans from the minibar, and my dad nearly had a heart attack over the fourteen-dollar price tag. And that place wasn’t even half as nice as this.

  “Candy bar?” Sloane says. She riffles through the stock and pulls out a Butterfinger for herself.

  “Snickers,” I say, and she tosses a king-sized bar at me. “Aren’t those things like, twelve dollars each?”

  “It charges to the room, which charges to my parents’ credit card, which means all of this is fair game.”

  “Won’t they be pissed?” I ask, but I waste no time in peeling back the wrapper and taking a giant bite.

  “My mom will be mad that I ate my weight in sugar, but Dad couldn’t care less. Eat up—we’ll need fuel to pull an all-nighter.” For a second I detect a trace of bitterness in her voice, but it’s quickly gone, and she breaks into a smile.

  She throws a bag of Bugles at me, followed by a Coke in a glass bottle. Then she kicks off her shoes and settles into the corner of the couch.

  “Now let’s talk terms.”

  “Terms? Okay, Senator,” I reply. I plop down next to her, not bothering to remove my sneakers before propping them on the oversized ottoman.

  “Hey, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right,” Sloane says between mouthfuls of candy bar.

  “I don’t even think we’ve established that we’re definitely going to do this. And there’s pretty much no ‘right’ way to pretend to be someone else while spending a summer participating in a sport you’ve never played, in which the other person is supposedly a pro.”

  “False,” she says. She pulls the last of the Butterfinger out of the wrapper, pops it into her mouth, then reaches for a sleeve of Reese’s Cups. “We are both excellent ice skaters. Our skills just lie in different areas. And everyone at this camp knows I’ve been out of the game for three years. I—I mean you—are going to be rusty. If you’re as good as you say you are at hockey—”

  “Hey, I’m good,” I snap, but almost immediately I start to feel a tingle in my shoulder. I shake it off. “I can skate.”

  “Well, to get good at hockey, I imagine you have to be a hard worker. You have to take feedback and listen to your coaches. And you can do all that at my camp, and who knows, maybe there are some latent figure skating skills hiding underneath those baggy clothes.”

  “I doubt it,” I say.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Sloane says.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  “Uh, how am I”—I gesture to myself—“supposed to get mistaken for you? Aren’t all those skater girls going to see through me in a second?”

  “I’ve been out of the game awhile,” she says. She pulls out her laptop. “Let’s just say I’ve changed.” She opens iPhoto and scrolls through to some old pictures of herself in spandex on the ice. She double-clicks on one,
making it full-screen. I practically leap back.

  “Jeez! Plastic surgery much?” I lean back in, squinting at the tiny face, trying to find some of the dark-haired beauty in front of me.

  “No,” she snaps. “Just puberty, braces, and a decent haircut, thankyouverymuch. Now back to business.”

  For the next hour, Sloane teaches me the basics of figure skating. She pulls out her shiny MacBook and plays YouTube videos of her old programs. She makes me raise my arms, then molds them into what she calls “ballet arms,” with my fingers all raised and sculpted like it’s teatime or something. I feel ridiculous. But every time my arms droop, Sloane Emily slaps me on the back and tells me to tighten up. I listen to the music for her long and short programs on a continuous loop, and when I think I’m about to pull my hair out from hearing Madame Butterfly one too many times, we switch to a hockey tutorial.

  I clear off the desk, and using the mini liquor bottles, I show her the positions and set up plays. I tell her about practices, training, and drills. I demonstrate some of the basic hockey skills off skates, and I even pull up some clips of old Flyers games on YouTube. By three a.m., we’ve devoured nearly the entire contents of the candy drawer, sampled all the nut varieties, and polished off the sodas. All we’re left with now is the sparkling water, which tastes gross to me, and the unopened bottles of liquor, which she doesn’t offer and I definitely avoid.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she says. She drops a wadded-up Skittles bag on the floor, then lines it up with my hockey stick to practice her slap shot into the overturned trash can.

  “I told you to stop with the king-sized bag of peanut butter M&M’s, but you wouldn’t listen,” I say. I’m clicking through old videos of Olympic programs, watching Tara Lipinski and Sarah Hughes grin and spin their way to gold medals.

  “Ugh, don’t mention candy.” She shanks the bag to the left, where it bounces off the desk chair and rolls under the minibar. “Damn,” she mutters. She uses the end of the stick to rescue the Skittles bag and takes a second shot. This one lands squarely inside the trash can. “Yippee!” she shouts, jumping up and down with the hockey stick hoisted over her head, then falls backward onto the bed in victory. “Did you see that? I did it!”