Being Sloane Jacobs Read online

  CHAPTER 9

  SLOANE EMILY

  My phone rings underneath my pillow, which has become my hiding place of choice. Sloane Devon’s number flashes across the display. I tap the Answer button after seeing the time: 7:13 a.m. Two minutes before my alarm is set to go off.

  “How’s life among the rhinestone band?”

  “No rhinestones yet,” Sloane Devon says. I barely know her, but hearing her voice is oddly comforting. “But your roommate, Ivy Loughner, is a real peach.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of her. She’s apparently the General Patton of psychological warfare.”

  “Well, I’m waging my own battle. You’ll never believe what I just did.” She launches into the details of some prank that resulted in dyeing Ivy pink. I snort into my pillow. I saw Ivy once at an invitational about four years back. She was a tiny sprite of a twelve-year-old clad in a hot-pink unitard with a tulle flounce around her butt. She was giving her coach, a man of at least forty, a full-on dressing-down over the volume of her music. I can only imagine what living with her must be like.

  I think again about how lucky I am: being a terrible hockey player is a hell of a lot better than killing myself to be an elite figure skater this summer. The Mack truck that’s usually sitting right on top of my chest is gone.

  “Your roommate is no treat either,” I say. “She barely had to look at me to decide she hated me.”

  “She’s probably just tough,” Sloane Devon says. “A lot of hockey players I know are so crazy competitive that they come off as bitches. She’s probably all about the game. If you really want respect you’re going to have to show your stuff on the ice.”

  “You mean your stuff,” I mutter.

  “Hey, this was your idea, princess. You’ve gotta sleep in your bed, or whatever that saying is.”

  “Done and done.” I yawn. I never knew pretending to be someone else could be so exhausting. Yesterday was all check-ins and training assignments, which are basically broken down by age. I’m with all the rest of the juniors and seniors, which means Melody.

  Today will be our first day on the ice, and I’m dreading it.

  This was already going to be tough without some competitive rage monster as a roommate trying to kill me on the ice. “How are you handling it? Showing my stuff, I mean?”

  “Not that it’s easy to follow in your tiny twinkle footsteps, but I can handle it,” Sloane Devon says smoothly. Of course, I’m pretty sure she hasn’t started training yet either. I make a mental note to call her tomorrow and see how confident she is then.

  “ ‘Tiny twinkle footsteps’? We have the same shoe size,” I counter.

  “You know what I mean. You’ve spent years training to carry yourself like a cotton ball while I’m hulking around trying to knock everyone over. It’s like you’re a sports car and I’m a midsized SUV.”

  “I don’t follow,” I say, trying not to drift off in the middle of her metaphor.

  “They’re on the same chassis, but one has a bigger body,” she says. There’s a moment of silence where I try to untangle what she’s saying. “You don’t know what a chassis is, do you?”

  “My head only has room for so much, and right now I’m working my ass off trying to hold on to facts about hockey and facts about you,” I say.

  “Well, it seems to be working. One day down, and no one suspects a thing.”

  “See? I knew we could do this.” I allow myself to smile.

  “Yeah, let’s see how things go on the ice.”

  “Ice schmice,” I reply.

  We giggle for another minute, then hang up. I curl up in my tiny twin bed, pull the soft industrial comforter up to my chin, and squeeze Buddy Bear, who my brother gave me when my parents brought me home from the hospital. The fluffy brown bear has one mismatched white ear from our brief experiment with a family dog. Peppermint was a gorgeous, purebred golden retriever puppy that James and I had begged and begged for. When he arrived at our house with a red ribbon tied around his neck, he looked like he should be in a dog food commercial. A perfect specimen, my mom said. But then he ate the handle of Dad’s briefcase and a pair of Mom’s leather driving moccasins. When he went after the oriental rug in the foyer and the baseboards in the formal dining room, that was it. Back to the breeder he went.

  But on his last night, I kidnapped him from his crate and kept him in my room, where he promptly ate one of the ears off Buddy Bear. The next day, I was so distraught, partly over the loss of Peppermint and partly over my poor maimed bear, that James hacked the ear off one of his old bears and stapled it to Buddy Bear. And that’s how my fluffy brown bear ended up with one raggedy white ear.

  I think about calling James. He’d love that for once in my life I went rogue, that I’m living another girl’s life while she’s on the other side of the city trying to live mine. And as a former high school hockey star, he’d love to see me attempt to play.

  I reach under my pillow, where I left my iPhone, tapping my Favorites list on the glowing screen, but I stop before I get to his name. If I tell him what I’ve done, he’ll love it, but he’ll also want to know why I’ve done it. Why, after all these years of obedience and restraint, I finally decided to flip my parents and my skating career a big middle finger and skip off to fake it as a hockey player. And “I don’t know” wouldn’t satisfy him, especially since I do know, and he’d be able to tell right away. I’d have to tell him what I saw, what I continue to see every time I close my eyes and try to concentrate on a jump. What it means—what it could mean—if it ever got out. My family isn’t perfect, but at least it’s whole, and chances are it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer if Mom knew what happened.

  I climb out of bed and pull open the dresser. So far, the only downside of this whole experience (other than Melody) is the wardrobe. Four pairs of sweats, two pairs of jeans, a pair of cutoff khakis, and one knee-length denim skirt. That’s what Sloane Devon has given me to work with for the next four weeks. At least I have pretty undies. And picking out what to wear won’t be difficult. Looks like today it’s sweats.

  “Hiya. Are you Sloane?” A smiling pixie face peeks out from beneath a carpet of blond dreads at my door.

  “That’s me,” I reply, spinning around. This is it: I’m Sloane Jacobs, hockey player, Philly resident, and ska enthusiast, who doesn’t know a minority whip from a junior senator and who wouldn’t be caught dead in my favorite red skating dress.

  “I’m Cameron,” she says. She steps farther into my room. “Cameron Rosenbaum. I’m your TP.”

  I run through my limited bank of hockey knowledge, but I can’t think of anything that computes. TP … toilet paper? That can’t be right. My confusion must be written all over my face, because Cameron explains.

  “Training partner,” she says. “Buddy. Support system. We’ll do workouts and drills and stuff together. The list was posted this morning. I saw it when I was out on my morning run.”

  “Oh right. Training partner. Yeah, I thought you said BP and I was like, ‘What?’ ” I laugh, and Cameron does too, but from the look on her face, she doesn’t quite buy it, and she may think I’m on drugs.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll pick up all the lingo pretty quick,” she says, before taking the half step required to get to my bed and flopping down next to Buddy Bear. “This is my second summer here.”

  “Seems like there are a lot of repeat customers,” I say. I’m trying not to be too grossed out by the fact that her dreads are all over my pillow. Surely she washes those things, right? “My roommate’s on her third.”

  “Who’s your roommate?”

  “Melody,” I say, and Cameron chuckles.

  “From the look on your face, I can see you’ve already met her.”

  Cameron laughs again. She’s wearing bright red capri pants matched with a simple black cotton tank and black ballet flats. A thin silver chain winds around her neck, a tiny wishbone pendant hanging from it. She’s even got tiny diamond studs in her ears, which makes it all the
stranger that she has a creature dotted with smatterings of wooden beads growing out of her head and going down her back. Despite her questionable hair choices, I think I like her.

  “I can’t tell if she’s mean or just scary,” I say.

  “She’s just übercompetitive. Dead serious about hockey. She doesn’t like rookies or wimps, and she hates new people. Just show her what you got and you’ll be fine.”

  What I’ve got? Save for a decent triple lutz and a bruise on my butt, that would be a big fat nothing.

  “That’s what Sloane said,” I mutter, and then my mouth goes immediately dry.

  “What?” Cameron scrunches up her brow.

  I realize my mistake too late and scramble to cover.

  “I mean, I was just thinking the same thing,” I say. And I’m totally just a crazy person who talks about herself in the third person. At least now I know why Melody seems to hate me so much already. Not only am I new, but I’m also a rookie and a wimp. I’ve hit the trifecta.

  “Look, when you annihilate her on the ice once, she pretty much leaves you alone. That’s what happened with me last summer.”

  “Uhhh …,” I say, but what I’m thinking is Uhhhhn-likely. I wonder what happens if she annihilates you on the ice? I’m going to need a strategy beyond faking a stomachache to skip practice. “So how did you finally get her?”

  “I put her into the boards during a scrimmage last year,” she says. “I had to do it when she wasn’t looking, and I’m pretty sure hitting her hurt me as much as it did her. I swear that girl’s filled with lead. But I think I cleaned her clock well enough to get her off my back. It’s just an alpha thing. Get her on the ice, and you’re golden off.”

  Then I’m screwed, unless it’s legal in hockey to trip someone while executing a camel spin. But maybe …

  “What’s up?” Cameron sits up, prim ballet flats on the floor, and raises a perfectly plucked blond eyebrow at me.

  “I just had an idea,” I say. I may not be ready for Melody on the ice, but I can bring the ice to her. “Is there a freezer in this place?”

  “There’s an ice machine on the guys’ floor. Two up.”

  “Even better.”

  I hop up and stride toward the door and gesture for Cameron to follow. I flip the top lock over the door, just in case, then creep into Melody’s room and open the top drawer of what should have been my dresser. I start rifling through the contents.

  “Where are her bras?” I shove aside a stack of matching gray boy shorts, looking for something even mildly lacy or racy.

  “You mean these?” Cameron loops her finger through the strap of a white industrial-strength sports bra and dangles it in front of my face.

  “No, like, the girly ones.” I swat the bra out from under my nose.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you met Melody.” Cameron wrinkles her perky little upturned nose at me, and I see an almost invisible smattering of freckles dance across her skin.

  “That’s it?”

  “Dude, she wears two of these bad boys at once. You wouldn’t know it from her sweats-by-Nike fashion sense, but homegirl’s got quite a rack.”

  In all my years of sleepovers and overnights at summer camp, I’ve never frozen a sports bra, particularly not one that looks like it was designed by the architect of the Golden Gate Bridge. But I guess this summer is going to be full of firsts: first time playing hockey (that isn’t a pickup game against my brother), first time disobeying my parents, first time impersonating someone.

  Cameron and I pull out all the bras we can find, six in total, and soak them in the bathroom sink. Then we climb the two flights of stairs to the boys’ floor and creep into the little alcove that contains a vending machine filled with Gatorade and one of those old ice machines with the sliding door that could practically fit a person inside. Cameron holds the bag of soaking wet bras while I carefully lay them out over the mountain of ice. Hopefully no one wants a cold drink for the next couple of hours. I want these bad boys good and frozen by the time someone spots them.

  “Now you’re definitely going to have to tag her on the ice,” Cameron says. “But this ought to earn you the respect of everyone else around here.”

  “We’ll get to that,” I reply. I hope. I place the last bra, a gray underwire number that has a bit of duct tape over a tear where the underwire is trying to escape. Hot stuff. I slide the door shut over my arrangement.

  I duck out of the alcove, turn the corner, and run directly into what feels like a brick wall. Only the brick wall is wearing a soft henley and reaches out to grab me before I topple onto my butt. I look up to see big-eyed, sweepy-haired Matt looking down at me from underneath his shaggy bangs.

  “Hey there, pretty lady, watch where you’re going,” he says, faking a Southern accent. His hands are still on my arms, and I feel a heat radiating down into my palms. He’s the living, breathing embodiment of that effortlessly cool/possibly Swedish, possibly Californian/definitely studly-dude archetype from every teen television show ever. I totally see why Mackenzie was fawning all over him.

  Then I remember what Mackenzie said. You’re new. You’ll get your turn.

  I pull away from him quickly.

  “Uh, yeah, sorry,” I say. Over Matt’s shoulder, I see an equally tall guy with a buzzed head, a pair of sunglasses perched on top, the collar of his polo shirt popped up to his ears.

  “Sneaking up to the guys’ floor?” the guy says, a smirk on his face.

  “It’s hardly sneaking,” I say. “I just—I just got lost. But thanks. Didn’t realize I was on the wrong floor. See you later.” I grab Cameron’s arm and practically haul her down the stairs.

  “Holy God, he is SO. EFFING. HOT,” Cameron groans, once we’ve reached our floor.

  “Not you too,” I mutter.

  “Uh, yeah, every girl with a heartbeat thinks he’s gorgeous,” she says. Then she laughs. “And just about every girl with a heartbeat has been there. Some of them at the same time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She leans in conspiratorially. “Last summer, he was supposedly dating Sarah Black, but then Coach Hannah found him making out with Holly Scott in a janitor’s closet.” Cameron shakes her head, looking amazed. I feel sort of queasy. Any kind thoughts I had of Matt fly out the window, and I vow then and there to stay away from him.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get breakfast.”

  After breakfast, I head back to my room to change into my practice clothes for the first scrimmage of the summer. Twice I turn quickly toward the garbage can, worried my nerves might make me heave, but my breakfast stays down.

  I pull one of Sloane’s jerseys out of a drawer, pull it over my head, and shove the drawer shut. It sticks about midway, and I have to give it more of a bump. It doesn’t budge. I take a quick step back, ready to go at it with my hands, but then I picture Melody. She’s on the ice, calling me a rookie and ordering me to sleep in the bathroom. I bend slightly at the knees, cock my hip back, and slam into the drawer. It closes with such force that the whole dresser tips back on two legs, banging into the wall before righting itself.

  “Checkmate, Sloane.” I giggle. I rub my hand over the site of impact on my hip. I’m going to have to practice that one a little more before I attempt it on an actual human. Luckily I’ve got this dresser all summer, and it doesn’t appear to want to fight back.

  CHAPTER 10

  SLOANE DEVON

  Holy. Crap.

  I feel like some alien being reached into my body and drained all my energy. It’s taking concentration and actual effort to blink properly. My hamstrings feel like they’ve calcified. I was under the impression that figure skating was just fancy ice ballet with a few jumps thrown in, but Oh. No.

  We started our morning at six a.m. with a ninety-minute hot yoga class. I wobbled and stretched and saluted the sun or whatever with sweat pouring into my eyes the whole time. From there, we grabbed a quick breakfast (oatmeal, a banana, and some yogurt … I had two),
then hit the pool for water aerobics. I had imagined little old ladies in floral swim caps walking slowly and carefully across the pool.

  Did you know that you can use free weights in a pool? I didn’t, but my biceps certainly do now. Our “break” involved reviewing tapes of Olympic routines and analyzing the point values, which involved math. In the summer.

  Post-lunch, we finally hit the ice, and thankfully I was in a large group with all the other advanced skaters, meaning the fourteen-to-seventeen-year-olds. In a crowd of about thirty, I was able to hide in the back and wave my arms while practicing figures and spins. I wobbled and faked and hoped no one saw. There were plenty of weird looks and side-eyes, but no one asked me to leave, so I guess that’s a plus.

  By the time I get to my room, I’m ready to collapse. I swing the unlocked door open to find Ivy, Sabrina, and two more identical unnamed minions giving each other mani-pedis. Seeing four girls roll their eyes at me and sigh in stereo is enough to send me bolting from the room.

  I wander downstairs and around the first floor until I find an empty sitting room. And even though the couch looks like it’s just for show, when I flop down onto it I find the leather is buttery soft and the stuffing is good and fluffy.

  Within minutes I’m asleep. In my dream, I’m on the ice back home in Philly, playing a team made up of only Ivy clones clad in hot-pink jerseys, all wearing the number 1. I’ve got the puck and I’m driving toward the goal.

  “Why don’t you just give up and join the Ice Capades?” twelve Ivys screech in unison. I feel the tingles starting in my shoulders, pricking around in my joints. Right when I rear back for a shot, I look down and see that instead of my perfectly broken-in hockey skates, I’m wearing stiff white leather figure skates.

  “Crip!” the twelve Ivys shriek, and my toe pick digs into the ice. I’m hurtling forward, face and knees aimed straight for the ice.

  I jerk awake, one hand on my throbbing knee, the other on my nose, which is thankfully still intact.