Being Sloane Jacobs

by Lauren Morrill

  “What?” I ask. I’m so confused, my head feels like it’s one of those shaken-up snow globes. “Knew what?”

  “That I liked you.” He shakes his head, and my heart melts a little. “And I thought maybe you liked me too.”

  “I … I do,” I reply. My heart is a puddle of pudding, and yet it’s managing to pound so loudly I think it might burst from my chest.

  Nando isn’t smiling. “You have a boyfriend,” he says. His mouth is set in a straight line; his brown eyes are dull.

  “No, I don’t,” I say, and for a second I have the completely ludicrous fear that somehow Dylan is spreading rumors we’re still together, and that somehow Nando found out.

  “That’s not what Matt O’Neill said,” he says flatly.

  “Who?”

  “Matt O’Neill,” he says, crossing his arms. “You don’t remember him? He came into the bar tonight. Going on and on about this amazing girl he’s dating. Her name’s Sloane, he says. Sloane Jacobs. She’s gorgeous, with dark hair. She skates. Scar on her chin. Plays a hell of a game of hockey. Sound familiar?”

  I feel like I’m standing in quicksand, and I’m in danger of getting sucked down into the ground. “But I don’t—” I’m starting to feel too hot, and my stomach turns over too fast. It’s not possible. It’s a huge city. There’s no way. “I mean, it must be someone else.…”

  “Are you kidding me, Sloane?” he bursts out. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You knew I liked you. You let me act like an idiot, letting me whine, and the whole time you were with this Matt guy.” He shakes his head. “I should never have trusted you.”

  I feel like I’m going to throw up right on his boots. “Nando, it’s not like that. I do like you.” He doesn’t look at me, and I hear myself pleading with him. “It’s complicated.…”

  He finally looks at me. His eyes are cold and steely and angry in a way I never imagined they could be. “Unless there’s another dark-haired skater with a scar on her chin and the name Sloane Jacobs, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Actually—”

  “Jesus, Sloane, seriously, how stupid do you think I am?” He kicks at a small pile of gravel with the inside of his boot, and the little rocks go skittering across the pavement in all directions.

  “Not stupid at all,” I reply, but my voice is so low I don’t think he hears. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s already turned around, yanked open the car door, and practically thrown himself inside.

  I want to run in front of the car, stop him from leaving, make him listen to the whole story. But I just stand where I am, feet glued to the ground, while he goes tearing out of the driveway in a spray of exhaust and gravel.

  Either way, I lied to him. And how would he react if he knew I was running away from hockey? The hockey—the fact that I play, the fact that I love it—is what made him like me in the first place. He might be so mad that he tells someone about our switch. Better Nando think I’m a cheater than an imposter.

  I know I have to text Sloane Emily to tell her what’s up. She’ll need to make sure Nando didn’t say anything to Matt. But when I go to start typing, my heart is pounding and my fingers are shaking so much that my attempt at a text looks more like alphabet soup than a coherent thought. I erase the message and try again.

  Matt met someone I know. Someone I like. We’re screwed.

  CHAPTER 21

  SLOANE EMILY

  Sloane Devon’s text freaked me out so much I thought I was going to hurl. I called her back ASAP for more details, and even though she wouldn’t tell me much about Mystery Man, she sounded shaky enough that I knew it was a big deal.

  I had to stop myself from pounding on his door first thing this morning. I didn’t want to arouse any kind of suspicion if he doesn’t actually know anything about the switch. Instead, I’d calmly showered and made my way to breakfast like it was any other day.

  I manage to choke down one bite of toast, which seems to lodge itself in my throat as soon as I spot Matt. He takes the seat across from me and begins assembling a breakfast sandwich, piling eggs, bacon, and home fries between two toaster waffles. He uses a layer of syrup as some sort of epoxy to hold the whole mess together, and then takes a bite so large it cracks into the fourth row of waffle squares. Three weeks ago, watching the boy I’m kissing sit across a table and eat something like that would have made my stomach turn. But a lot has changed since I became Sloane Devon three weeks ago.

  I swallow a gulp of orange juice. It’s now or never.

  “So, how was your night?” I hope I sound casual and not like a duck being throttled by a manatee.

  “Awesome,” Matt says. “We found a great pub where we got crazy-cheap cheeseburgers, and Jake and I wrote up some plays that will totally destroy the opposing team. We’re going to dominate for sure.”

  Either he’s got an incredible poker face, or he doesn’t know anything. But I have to try one more time, or I’ll be sick with worry all day.

  “Anything … exciting happen?”

  “Not really,” he says. He chugs the rest of his orange juice and slams the glass down on the table like he’s just won a contest. “Actually, there was one thing.”

  My stomach drops into my butt.

  “Malloy had a fake ID, which he’s apparently never used, because it only took him a beer and a half to get completely wasted. He tried to do the ‘Single Ladies’ dance on the bar, and the bartender threw him out. It was insane.”

  The mention of the bartender—the one Sloane Devon knows—has my stomach turning somersaults. “Anything else exciting happen?” I ask, giving it one last shot.

  Matt sighs. “Sloane, you can trust me, remember? Nothing happened.”

  Oh my God. He thinks I’m worried he hooked up with another girl. Which honestly would be better than if he learned the truth. But apparently neither happened.

  And with that, all the fears and nerves fizzle out like a sparkler. I feel like someone is filling me with helium. I’m so happy I could float away.

  Cameron practically skips up to our table, half a bagel in one perfectly manicured hand, her dreads held back with a vintage-looking terry-cloth headband. Matching Adidas track pants complete the look. I once again marvel at her ability to take workout clothes and turn them into a Vogue spread.

  “What are you so pumped about?” I ask. “And if you say the three-mile run before lunch, I’m going to reach across the table and slap you.”

  “I saw Hannah leaving the dining room with a folder!” she squeaks. I just shrug and stare at her. She’s bouncing so hard in her chair I worry she’s going to fall out of it. “The lists! They’re posting the final lists!”

  Matt drops the last bite of his breakfast sandwich onto his plate, where it lands with a heavy, syrupy thud. “Dude, I gotta go see,” he says. He licks his fingers and jumps out of his chair. “You coming?”

  “Oh please, golden boy, as if you even have to look,” Cameron says. “You’re going to make a varsity team.”

  “Yeah, but I want to be captain this year,” Matt says. He picks up his plate and scoots in his chair (such good manners). He leans down and plants a quick-yet-perfect kiss on my lips. “See you out there?”

  “Absolutely,” I reply. I don’t know what’s waiting out there, but if it’s more kisses from Matt, I’d gladly sign on to sing the lead in an end-of-summer performance of Grease 2. Matt trots away. Most of my fellow campers are leaving their breakfasts half eaten to file out to the lobby.

  “Are you coming?” Cameron shoves the last bite of bagel into her mouth and cocks her head toward the door. I sigh and push back from the table.

  “Okay, what is the big deal? What’s the list?”

  “The teams for the last week of camp, which are also the teams for the final game of the summer. Two varsity teams will compete, and two JV teams will compete. And each team gets a captain, someone who the coaches think is the best in their group. It’s a huge honor to captain one of the teams.”

  All my exciteme
nt drains away. I already know which team I made. JV, of course. There’s no freaking way I made varsity. But I don’t care; it’s a miracle I survived until now, much less learned how to play the game.

  The lists are posted on the corkboard between the two elevators, and there’s a crowd of campers gathered around them. They take their turns stepping up to the neon-green sheets of paper and running their fingers down the lists until they land on their names. Some yip excitedly or yell; others shake their heads and shuffle away.

  Cameron skips the line entirely and shimmies her way through the crowd right up to the front, hauling me with her. The first list says “Junior Varsity” across the top in big block letters, and I run my finger down it. Cameron skips that list and goes straight to varsity. As I scan, I don’t see my name. My stomach drops. Is it possible not to make either team? Am I that terrible? I scan the list again, but despite my wishing and hoping and squinting at the letters, my name still doesn’t appear. This is very bad.

  “Yes!” Cameron hops back from the list, causing a junior guy to leap out of her path. He gives her a dirty look, but Cameron doesn’t notice. She’s too busy fist pumping and dancing around.

  “Good news?” I don’t want to kill her buzz with my righteous defeat just yet.

  “Hell, yes! I’m captaining the blue team, and you’re on it!” She gives me a high five so hard my palm burns.

  “No way,” I say.

  “Yes way! Look for yourself.” She shoves me through the crowd toward the lists. “And meet me upstairs for a celebration when you’re done!”

  The second list says “Girls’ Varsity Blue” in big block letters. And sure enough, there’s my name. Sloane Jacobs.

  “I can’t believe it,” I mutter.

  “Believe it.” Melody is standing next to me, pointing at her name at the top of another page that reads “Girls’ Varsity Red.” She’s their captain. “You ready to go again?”

  She must take my shocked silence as answer enough, because she snorts slightly, then walks away. I’m left staring at my name on the varsity list. “No freaking way!” I repeat under my breath.

  “Freaking way. You earned it.”

  I turn around and see Coach Hannah beaming at me. For a second, I think she must be talking to someone else. But no, it’s me. I earned it. Not Sloane Devon, but me.

  “Thanks,” I manage to say.

  “Don’t thank me. I’m serious, you earned it.” She scribbles something on the clipboard she’s holding, then turns her attention back to me. “I read your file. You came here as a showboat with an anger problem, but you’ve turned into an excellent team player. Positive, smart, always putting your teammates and the game above your own individual glory. Your teammates this summer have a lot to thank you for. You stay cool and focus on the basics. That wins games. And gets you on the varsity roster. So good job.”

  Coach Hannah nods at me, then ambles over to the side of the lobby, where Anita Hall, a sophomore who spent all of camp bragging about her skills, is sobbing into her hands. Something tells me she didn’t end up on the same list as me. I feel sorry for her. I know just how it feels to expect to be the best and to fall short.

  What I don’t understand is this feeling. I didn’t ride Sloane Devon’s reputation. I skated my way to varsity all by myself.

  Even though Anita is still crying in the corner, I can’t suppress my grin. I must look like a mental patient—but a happy one.

  I reach into my bag and pull out my phone to text Sloane Devon the good news. Maybe the fact that I haven’t ruined her future will cheer her up. In fact, if what Coach Hannah said is right, I may have helped her rep.

  I press the Home button and the screen glows to life, showing a list of missed calls and texts. My stomach lurches. I’ve missed six calls: three from my mother, two from my father, and one from a number I don’t recognize. My first thought is that someone died. Oh God, did James bungee jump or drown in a whitewater rafting accident? Did Dad finally kill him for joining the Georgetown Young Democrats?

  I dial into my voice mail with shaking hands. The voice in the first message is halting and quiet, but I recognize it immediately. It’s Amy, my dad’s press secretary.

  “Sloane, I need you to call in. We’ve got a situation and, well, it’s sensitive. And … um.” There’s a long pause where I can hear her breathe in and out slowly. “On a personal note, well, I just wanted to say, um, I’m so sorry. I wish this hadn’t happened like this. But, um, please call the office when you get this. I’m sorry. Um, sorry.”

  The memory comes flooding back like a tidal wave, and I have to blink several times to make sure I’m still standing in the lobby of my dorm and not being pulled under and out to sea. I bolt for the bathroom just off the lobby—a one-sie, thankfully. I twist the lock hard behind me and press my forehead onto the cold metal of the door.

  I’d gone to his office to try to talk him out of sending me to figure skating camp. I had a whole plan. I’d take on some volunteer hours this summer, something public like cleaning up a park or working for Habitat that would get me photographed (gag). Maybe I could even teach skating lessons to some inner-city kids. He could plaster the photos all over his newsletter, maybe even trot them out at an interview. I’d been thinking so hard about the plan that I didn’t even stop to—

  There’s a loud knock on the bathroom door, and I jump. “Occupied!” I shout. The person on the other side of the door mumbles something and shuffles away. I triple-check the door. Still locked.

  Locked. Why didn’t Dad just lock the damn door? Why didn’t I knock? Why did I just barge in? I’ve thought about it a million times, and how much easier it would be if I had knocked. Then I would never have known—I would never have seen.

  I picture how Amy leapt back from him and started manically smoothing out her skirt, as if she could brush away what had happened if she could just get her skirt wrinkle-free. And Dad. How his face went from a look of sheer and total panic to relief. Relief! As if he was happy I wasn’t another staffer or rival politico, or worse, a reporter.

  I didn’t wait to hear what she’d say or what he’d say or what they’d do. I just ran.

  I stare down at my phone. I still have voice mails from my mom and my dad, along with a handful of text messages. A lump builds in my throat. Unfair. This is why I switched with Sloane Devon in the first place, to get away from Amy, from my dad, from the stupid pressures of my stupid family.

  I’m not ready to go back. Not yet.

  I shove my phone back into my purse and push out of the bathroom, taking the stairs two at a time toward Cameron’s room. Like Coach Hannah said, I earned this.

  CHAPTER 22

  SLOANE DEVON

  I can hear the music.

  Okay, I can’t hear the music, since it’s not playing. But Andy’s made me listen to the damn song so much that it pretty much lives in my brain at this point. He keeps telling me I have to live it, that artistry is what will save me since it’s unlikely I’ll actually be able to learn any serious jumps or tricks. And so I’ve been falling asleep every night listening to it. When I wake up, I wedge my earbuds back in and start it over. I listen to it for hours on end during our practices. I hum it in the shower. I think about it over dinner.

  Carrying the Harry Potter song on a loop in my brain should drive me crazy, except for the fact that it crowds out thoughts of Nando and memories of his face, hurt and angry. I’ve tried getting in touch with him, but he screens every call. I even went to the community rink the other day to try to find him, but he wasn’t there. He doesn’t want to be found. He doesn’t want to talk to me. And what would I say, anyway?

  So I’m focusing all my energy on my routine, and now, running through our routine in front of the rest of our pairs class, I can hear the music drumming through my head.

  We’ve managed to get two good lifts down pat. My single axel is strong, and I can execute a waltz jump easily (which is why there are six of them in the program). Andy’s choreograph
y is perfect. There’s a lot of fast skating and footwork, which is no problem, since I practically grew up on ice skates. And with the way he’s turned our music into my own personal ear worm, I think I’m actually getting this artistry thing he keeps yammering on about.

  We go into the final lift of our piece: Andy brings me high over his head, and I float through the air, arms and legs extended, completely unafraid that Andy will drop me and I’ll plummet to the ice, smashing my face to smithereens. I’ve got my arms out, soft like he showed me, working it all the way down to the tips of my fingers. When Andy finally places me gently back on the ice, we do our final spin, then stop hard on our toe picks, arms raised gracefully yet triumphantly over our heads. The rest of the class breaks into applause. Katinka gives a polite golf clap, and even Sergei replaces his usual grunt with a slight nod.

  “Eet ees good. A leetle stiff, but very good,” Katinka says. “Zat ees all for today, class. You have free time, which of course means you go to practice rooms and work harder than you work in class, no?”

  She’s right. As the weeks have worn on, the schedule has become more open, but the work has just gotten harder. It seems like “free time” is some kind of challenge to these people. Figure skating training is no joke, that’s for sure.

  Andy and I follow the rest of our class toward the door on the side of the rink, where the women’s singles class is waiting to take the ice for their time with Katinka and Sergei. Ivy is first in line, looking like a stick of bubble gum in her hot-pink unitard and dainty black gloves. When I catch her eye, the look she gives me nearly lights my messy bun on fire. She looks pissed.

  She skates past me, bumping my shoulder with her skinny, bony one. I stumble back a little, and Andy places a firm hand on the small of my back to steady me.

  “Ignore it,” he whispers.

  “Ivy, I hope you watch Sloane. Her interpretation of music ees perfect. You learn thing or two, no? Eet take more than jumps to win.” I glance over at Katinka. Is she trying to get me killed? I take a peek at Ivy, who looks like her brain is melting and will, at any minute, shoot out of her ears. I decide not to wave a red flag at the bull by sticking around any longer than I need to, and hustle off the ice.