Being Sloane Jacobs

by Lauren Morrill

  “Holy crap,” I say, letting out a long breath.

  “ ‘Holy’ is right, at least,” Matt says. “It’s the Notre-Dame Basilica. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “It’s perfect,” I say, my head tilted straight back so I can look up at the lighted spires.

  Matt finds my hand and squeezes. “You’re perfect,” he says quietly.

  Just like that, my neck and cheeks start burning. “Hardly perfect,” I joke. “Have you seen this scar?”

  I point to the whitish-pink slash that starts on my chin and runs underneath for about two inches. Matt leans in and runs his finger along the length of it.

  “Well, then you’re perfectly imperfect,” he says, and flashes that million-dollar smile at me. My stomach does a triple lutz, and I’m almost relieved when he pulls away. Almost.

  He digs around in his pocket and produces a heavy brass-colored coin. There’s a picture of a duck on one side. “It’s a loonie. Make a wish.”

  “This is a whole dollar,” I say. “Shouldn’t I be wishing with a penny or something?”

  “Your wishes are worth it,” he says. He leads me to the edge of the fountain. I close my eyes, and wishes start whizzing around in my head.

  I wish I could land a triple-triple. I wish I could score a game-winning goal. I wish I had Melody’s room. I wish that everything would turn out okay. I wish my dad would … well, I don’t know what I wish my dad would do, but not this. I wish I hadn’t eaten those chili cheese fries. I wish I weren’t wearing Sloane’s jeans with the back pocket falling off them. I wish—

  I wish he would kiss me.

  With that last wish, all the other voices in my head stop. I squeeze the coin hard in my hand, leaving an imprint of the edges in my palm. Then I take a deep breath, hold it for a second, and toss the coin. It disappears into the water.

  “What did you wish for?” Matt asks. He’s watching me closely.

  I shake my head. “Seriously? You know better than that.”

  “Damn. Now I’ll just have to guess.” Matt raises my chin with one finger, and I almost pull away. I can hardly breathe; I’m sure my whole face is on fire.

  But I don’t pull away, and he doesn’t either. He looks at me hard for confirmation, and I finally give a tiny nod. Then, stooping low, he kisses me. It starts out soft, but within seconds it’s deeper. His hand slides to my cheek; his other hand slips behind my neck. He kisses me so hard he practically lifts me off my feet.

  When he finally pulls away, I’m so dizzy I’m worried my legs will give way.

  “Did your wish come true?” He smiles down at me.

  “I’ll never tell,” I whisper, but my smile gives it all away.

  CHAPTER 18

  SLOANE DEVON

  As I soak my aching feet in the bathtub, I mentally run through the short program Andy and I have worked out. Despite all my begging and pleading for some Journey, instead we’re skating to “Hedwig’s Theme” from the Harry Potter movies. All things considered, it could be much worse. At least it’s not the theme from Titanic. But if I don’t get my single axel down by tomorrow, we might as well be on the Titanic.

  Luckily, I’ve got the rest of the routine down pat. With Andy’s help, I’ve managed to master the spins and the lifts. I don’t know if it was the pep talk or Andy’s biceps, but either way, I’m now totally comfortable in the air. Turns out I already had all the skills for the footwork; I just needed to adjust my posture and center of gravity—another tip from Andy. Maybe I won’t ruin Sloane Emily’s rep after all.

  The door slams hard, jolting me out of my reverie and sending me tumbling off the bathtub ledge into the water. I jump up quickly, but it’s too late. My bum is completely soaked.

  “Ivy, could you please not slam the door?” I pull a fluffy white towel off the bar and try to soak up some of the water, but it’s no use. These pants are a lost cause. I step out of the bathroom and see Ivy fling a box onto my bed with such force that it immediately bounces off and onto the floor.

  “Special delivery,” she drawls. She plucks her pink-flowered robe from the back of her chair and brushes past me into the bathroom.

  “Oh, you go ahead, I was done in there,” I say. Her response is yet another slammed door.

  Suppressing a sigh, I pick up the box from the floor. The mailing label says “Sloane Jacobs.”

  “Care package! Score!” I mutter. Ivy already has the shower going full blast, so there’s no chance she can hear me. Then I spot the return address—Washington, DC—and remember that this care package isn’t for me.

  I know I should stuff it under the bed and save it for Sloane Emily. But what if there’s something perishable in there, like cookies or brownies? Even the idea makes my mouth water. I’ve been spending my cash on snacks to supplement the fat-free, calorie-free, taste-free meals here, but if I keep making trips to the convenience store down the street, I’m going to be out of money by the end of the week. And unlike Sloane Emily, I don’t have a steady stream of cash flowing from the Bank of Daddy.

  If there are brownies in there, it would be rude to let them get stale. And they might bring bugs, or mice. And as much as the thought of Ivy finding a mouse in her bed thrills me, I really should just open the box and eat the brownies.

  It’s the right thing to do.

  I scan the room and spot Ivy’s nail file on the bedside table. I snatch it and use it to slice through the thick brown packing tape that’s sealing the box. I open the flaps and slide the packing peanuts aside. The first item is a sleek white bakery box. I crack it open and am greeted with—yes!—the sweet, chocolaty smell of brownies. I break off the corner of one and let it melt on my tongue. This was totally the right thing to do.

  Underneath the brownies I find a bag of mini Reese’s Cups, a gold box of some very expensive-looking chocolates, and another box of brownies. Below that is a giant purple patent-leather toiletry bag stuffed with a treasure trove of pots and jars and bottles. It’s like someone vomited a Sephora inside. Wedged underneath the purple bag is a crisp white envelope with “Sloane” scrawled in thick black ink, and underneath, in smaller print, “Don’t tell Mom.” Where the return address should be, there’s a fancy-looking gold seal of an eagle, and underneath it says “Senator Robert Jacobs.”

  Opening the brownies was one thing, but opening her mail is quite another, especially after I accidentally picked up that weird phone call. So I take out my phone and text Sloane that she got a letter from her dad (she doesn’t need to know about the brownies just yet). It only takes a few seconds for the reply to come in.

  Throw it away.

  Uh, okay. I walk toward the trash, then think about her dad’s voice saying he was sorry. Sorry for what? There was an urgency in his tone that I used to hear in my mother’s voice, back when she’d sober up for a few days and apologize for all the times she’d passed out and missed this game or that event.

  I put the letter in the pocket of a coat in the closet. She may not want it now, but she might want it later. If she wants to throw it away, she can do it herself.

  I close the wardrobe door just as the bathroom door flings open. Ivy saunters out in her robe, a pink towel wrapped around her head like a turban. Even though the dorm provides amazing fluffy towels and sends someone to pick them up every day and swap them for clean ones, Ivy refuses to use anything but the ones she brought from home. After a few days of finding patches of pink skin behind her ears and on her neck, she’s finally back to her normal color. Only her cuticles, still dyed a salmon color, betray evidence of my awesome prank. Sadly, the rest of her has returned to its normal color.

  Ivy sniffs at the brownies and the mountain of candy on my bed. “Calories, calories.”

  “Shut up, shut up,” I parrot under my breath in an evil-stepsister voice. The only thing that’s keeping me from smothering Ivy in her sleep is that I’m convinced she would haunt me if I did. I quickly swap my wet pants for a dry pair of jeans, slip on a pair of ridiculous bejeweled black flip-flops
(Seriously, flip-flops with rhinestones on them? Who does that?), grab my bag, and head straight out the door.

  Outside, I plop down on the front steps and flip open my crappy old phone. I scroll through my call log just to be sure I haven’t missed anything from my dad (fat chance) or even my mom (morbidly obese chance). Instead, all I see is the call from Nando.

  Without thinking, I press Send and raise the phone to my ear. I hear the electronic ringing, and before I can formulate any kind of explanation, true or otherwise, he answers.

  Oh, I’m supposed to talk now. Crap.

  “Uh, h-hi, it’s um, Sloane,” I stammer.

  “Hey! What’s up, Sloane?” I can practically hear the smile in his voice, and the sound of it makes chills dance up my spine.

  “Oh, not much,” I say, then pause. Why did I call him? I’m supposed to be avoiding distractions, not seeking them out. How else am I going to get good at this figure skating thing? I think back to my butt-crack-of-dawn practice with Andy this morning, when we finally got our side-by-side spins in perfect sync. “Actually—nothing. Which is why I called. I was thinking we could hang out if you’re free.”

  “Yeah, absolutely,” he says. “I actually just finished my shift, so I can swing by and pick you up right now if you’re ready.”

  “I’ll be waiting out front,” I reply. I snap the phone shut and allow the world’s biggest smile to spread across my face. I cheese out all by myself like I’m in the evening-wear round at Miss Teen USA. I even give a little beauty-queen wave to the rosebushes to my left and right.

  Nando rolls up within minutes. He’s got on a perfectly worn navy-blue V-neck tee, which accentuates his dark complexion. His brown eyes sparkle, and I have to grip the sides of the seat so I don’t feel like I’m melting into the floorboards. I remember the lift I did with Andy this morning, where he spins me under his arm and up until I’m flying on his shoulder. I so deserve this distraction.

  “Where to, lady?”

  “You tell me. This is your turf,” I reply.

  “You like junk food?”

  “Love it.” A few minutes later, the car shudders to a stop in front of a two-story building painted bright yellow with a purple roof and orange awnings.

  “Did you bring me to clown college?”

  “Better.” He laughs. I climb out and immediately smell that perfect mixture of salt and grease.

  “What’s better than clown college?”

  “French fries, gravy, and cheese curds,” he says. He locks the door and steps up onto the sidewalk. I walk around the car until I’m right next to him, looking up at the monstrosity in front of me. LA BANQUISE is painted on the front window in a jaunty white font.

  “You lost me at the word ‘curds.’ ”

  “It’s the national drunk food of Montreal,” he says. “You’ll love it.”

  The inside is just as crazy and clown-collegiate as the outside. The chairs are all mismatched shapes in a Crayola box of colors. The tables have all been attacked with the same palette, probably by many different artists, from the looks of the scribbles and doodles painted on their tops. In the corner is a bustling steel kitchen full of waiters and cooks slinging plates piled high with fries into the pass-through. Only they’re not just french fries. Each plate is covered in a variety of sauces and condiments and vegetables and other things I can smell but can’t quite place. The menu is scrawled on the wall, but it’s all in French, so I have no idea what any of it is. All I know is one plate is covered in peas, and peas have no place near french fries.

  Nando high-fives a skinny waiter with a scraggly beard, then leads us to a table in the back against the brick wall. Someone has painted our table to look like a slightly insane version of Monet’s Water Lilies.

  The same scrawny waiter, his jeans falling off his bony hips, a ratty T-shirt with the words RADIO RADIO printed on the front, meanders over. “Alors, qu’est-ce que vous voudrais?”

  Before I can even ask what in the what he’s talking about, Nando takes charge.

  “Nous aurons une classique, s’il vous plaît,” Nando says, then nods to me. “C’est sa première fois.”

  I can’t help it. My mouth falls open, and I stare at him with abandon. I’ve never heard a teenage guy speak French before, much less a hot teenage guy who is also an awesome hockey player and who wants to take me out for (possibly disgusting) food.

  The waiter sees me staring, chuckles to himself, and wanders away to put in our order. At least, I think Nando ordered. Maybe he just made a crass joke or told the waiter about how he plans to ax-murder me later after he stuffs me full of french fries and peas.

  “You speak French,” I say.

  “It’s the official language of Montreal,” he says. He unwraps his silverware and spreads his napkin in his lap. “Didn’t you notice all the signage?”

  “Yeah, but I just didn’t expect it,” I say. “You haven’t lived here that long.”

  “You pick it up quick,” he tells me.

  “That is so cool.” I wish I could speak another language. After three years of high school Spanish and an entire life of living in Philly, pretty much all I know is how to order dinner at my favorite Mexican restaurant. I can also ask where the bathroom is, though I probably wouldn’t be able to understand the directions.

  Before I can embarrass myself further with my pathetic monolingualism, a plate appears before us. It sort of looks like something that’s already been eaten. There are definitely french fries, but the brown sauce and white goo covering the rest looks a bit digested. If it weren’t for the unbelievably good smell coming off the plate, there’s no way I’d eat it.

  “This is poutine, the classic,” he says, pushing the plate a little closer to me. He picks my fork up off the table and hands it to me. “And yes, we eat it with a fork.”

  “Such a native,” I say. “Quick! Say ‘what aboot it?’ ”

  “You knock it off,” he says, taking his own fork and stabbing a fry.

  “Oh, oh, what are you gonna do abooooooot it? You’re all Canadian now. I bet you’re too nice to do anything.” I’m laughing so hard I worry that gravy is going to come out my nose. Nando starts laughing too.

  When the plate is empty save for a river of gravy, I’m ready to admit that poutine isn’t gross. It’s pretty stinking good, in fact. If I hadn’t eaten those brownies before I got here, I might order another plate. But not the one with peas. That’s still wrong.

  Nando throws down some Monopoly money and slides back from the table. Normally I’d try to split the bill, but I’m already running low on cash. I feel weird about not offering, but it would be worse if he agreed and then I had nothing to contribute.

  “I have a little more time, if you want to hang out some more,” I say quickly, then catch myself before I start to sound desperate. I must be high on carbs and cheese, two items that are hard to come by back at the dorm.

  “Perfect,” he says, offering me a hand up from my chair. “Then we have time for a walk.”

  The next block over from La Banquise is the entrance to a gorgeous green park lined with lush, towering trees. Nando, still holding my hand, leads me down the path toward a small pond. At the edge, there’s a large weeping willow. He parts the branches and ushers me inside. We settle down at the base of the trunk, shoulder to shoulder.

  “This is my favorite spot in the whole city,” he says. “It was one of the first places I discovered when I moved here. I always come here when I need to get away.”

  I look over at him. The setting sun is peeking through the branches, throwing a scattering of light across his dark skin. I lean closer to him. There’s a heat radiating from him, an energy that I never felt when I was near Dylan. For the first time I realize I was never actually near Dylan. He was always around but never close.

  We’re so quiet that the crickets start singing around us. Through the branches I can see a family of ducks paddling slowly through the water. A woman jogs by along the path, a happy black Lab trott
ing next to her. I feel miles away from figure skating, miles away from hockey, miles away from everything. I feel so relaxed I could cry.

  But I don’t, partly because I never cry, and partly because I know Nando is watching me. I feel his shoulder press into mine. He scootches over a little until we’re hip to hip. I lean my head back against the tree trunk and sigh.

  “What’s up?” His voice is just barely above a whisper tickling my ear.

  “I’m just … happy,” I say. It sounds stupid and insufficient, but it’s all that comes out. I haven’t been able to say I was happy in a long time.

  “I like that about you,” he says. “I think I need it.”

  I look at him. “You’re not happy?”

  “Not lately,” he says. I wait for him to go on. He sighs. “Look, Sloane, there’s something I should probably tell you.”

  My stomach tightens. The thought flashes through my head: He’s got a girlfriend. “What is it?” I ask.

  “I’m not in school anymore,” he blurts out, all in a rush. Immediately, he seems to relax, as if he’s been holding it in for who knows how long. “I haven’t been in school for a while, actually. I quit hockey, and since hockey paid my tuition, I had to sort of … drop out.”

  This is not the confession I expected. “What happened?” I ask. “Did you get injured?”

  “Not exactly,” he says. He pulls a blade of grass out of the ground and starts tearing it into tiny pieces. When there’s nothing left, he flicks the tiniest piece into the wind and stares at the horizon.

  “Nando, what’s going on?” I nudge him with my shoulder. “How could you have quit hockey? You’re amazing at it.”

  “Yeah, until I wasn’t anymore,” he says abruptly. He runs a hand through his hair. “When I got here my freshman year, everything was so intense. The coach kept telling me how much I meant to the team. Practices leading up to the first game were insane. Everyone was so focused, and I felt just … out of it. Like, suddenly I couldn’t remember why I started playing or why I loved hockey or any of it.” He shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain.”