Being Sloane Jacobs (19 page)

It takes me fifteen minutes to lace up my sneakers. That’s how tired I am. It takes me another ten to make it down the stairs and to the east wing of the building, where all the practice studios are. By the time I get there, I feel a second wind coming on. I choose a studio all the way at the end of the hall, in hopes that it’s the last one anyone will walk into.

The room is about the size of a master bedroom. The
front and back walls are mirrored. There’s a desk in the corner with an iMac and a full stereo. I pull up YouTube and click through to some how-to videos Sloane showed me. They’re hosted by a smiling Nancy Kerrigan in crisp black leggings and a fitted fleece, gliding effortlessly across the ice demonstrating salchows and camel spins. I press Play, then step back and do the moves along with her on my sneakers. And when the video is over, I do it again.

As I work my way through a series of videos on choreography, I start to think about those brisk fall nights back home in our backyard. Okay, “backyard” might be a charitable description of the twenty square feet of broken concrete that make up our fenced-in patio. But it was my own little practice room under the moon. I’d take a ball and my stick out there and practice slap shots over and over against the brick wall until my neighbor, Mrs. Fernandez, would poke her curler-covered head out the upstairs window next door and beg me to cut it out. When I’d finally call it a night, Mom would be “asleep” on the couch, the glow of some Lifetime movie cast over her face, an empty wineglass on the floor next to her. When I was younger I’d nudge her awake and help her up the stairs to bed, but in recent years I just left her there. It was getting harder and harder to wake her.

On the glowing screen in the practice room, Kristi Yamaguchi is skipping and spinning across the ice in a black and gold dress at the 1992 Olympics. She goes up for a split jump. The crowd roars, and I drop my arms. I just stand
there, watching her while she moves into the slow section. The commentator is talking about how, if she can just land this one jump, she’ll surely win the gold medal.

She skates backward, winding up for the jump, and I hold my breath. She goes up, wobbles, and falls out of the jump. Her hand goes down on the ice.

She gets back up and finishes her program, an almost-convincing smile on her face. I let out a long sigh. The biggest name in figure skating ate it in front of millions of viewers.

Then she picked herself up and finished. And she scored a gold medal.

Maybe I should pick myself up too.

CHAPTER 15

SLOANE EMILY

My nails are a disaster.

And it’s not just my nails. My cuticles are ragged, I’ve got callouses forming on my palms, and the french tips I had done at my favorite salon in Arlington before I left are turning about six shades of gray. It’s all from having my hands crammed in Sloane Devon’s grubby gloves for five hours a day. I don’t know when the last time she cleaned those things was, but based on the smell, I’d say it was around the time Miley Cyrus was still Hannah Montana.

Luckily, today I plan to do something about it. I used my laptop to Yelp a salon for the perfect manicure and found one on Rue St. Denis only a few blocks away.

Today is our free morning workout. It’s a time for us to work out any stiffness or sore muscles or practice a new skill we learned in class. I plan to work out my cuticles, thank you very much.

I gather my phone, keys, and purse and head out the door. Halfway down the hall I realize I should probably ask Cameron if she wants to come along. I pivot-turn and walk back down the hall, past my room and the bathroom. Cameron has the room on the
other
side of the bathroom, only hers is a single, meaning she gets her very own sitting room and no Melody.

I knock on the heavy wooden door.

“Coming!”

The door swings open and Cameron is there, only instead of one of her adorable outfits, she’s got on a pair of yoga pants, a tank, and a red practice jersey.

“Are you seriously working out right now?” I eye her ensemble.

“And you’re not?” She stares back at Sloane Devon’s ratty jeans, which I’ve rolled and cuffed into a reasonable approximation of a trendy boyfriend capri, and a red Jefferson High hockey tee. I cut the collar out so it hangs off one shoulder. I’m sure she won’t mind—they probably give these things out like candy.

“Uh, no,” I say. I hold out my hands. “I was thinking it was time for a manicure. I thought you might want to join me.”

“Sloane, didn’t you see the notice?”

“What notice?”

She grabs my hand and drags me down the hall to the elevator and jabs at a neon-yellow flyer tacked onto the corkboard next to the Up and Down buttons.

BOSTON UNIVERSITY SCOUT ON CAMPUS TODAY
OPEN ICE 10 A.M.–2 P.M.
SIGN UP AT THE OFFICE FOR AN INTERVIEW

“Their women’s team scout is here today. How did you not know?”

Uh, probably because I spent my morning hiding in my room letting a deep conditioner do its magic on my hair.

The reality hits me hard, though. A scout? Here? Oh crap.

“Manicures tomorrow,” she says. She leads me back down the hall and stops in front of my door. “There’s a hole in the schedule just after lunch; we can be out and back before anyone notices we’re gone. There’s a place close by that has the
best
organic products, and your nails
have
been looking seriously torn up. But now? We skate. Go get changed. I’ll finish getting geared up and meet you back here in ten.”

As soon as her door is closed, I turn on my heel and bolt to my room. Inside, I whip out my phone and dash off a text to Sloane. I hope she’s not in class or something, because I need serious advice. Like, now.

Scouts are here! What do I do?

It takes about point two seconds for my phone to buzz a response. There’s just one word in the little blue bubble on the screen.

Hide.

I grab a tote, stuff my phone and wallet inside, and then run to the elevator. I have to get out of here before I see a
coach, or worse, the scout. It’s one thing to lie to the staff; it’s another to possibly jeopardize Sloane Devon’s entire future. At one point she mentioned needing a hockey scholarship for college, and I do
not
want to be responsible for screwing that up. If anyone asks me later where I was, I’ll just claim I never saw the notice. I reach up and snatch it off the bulletin board for good measure.

There. Plausible deniability.

The elevator doors slide open and I jab the Lobby button. The elevator glides down the shaft and the doors slide open. I take one step out into the lobby and see Coach Amber walk through the door with a tall, thin guy in a red polo, the words
BOSTON UNIVERSITY
stitched across the heart in white.

Oh God. The scout. Amber spots me and starts to wave me over, but I quickly avert my eyes and pretend I don’t notice. I leap back into the elevator and jab the button for the basement. I can sneak out the back.

The elevator doors open again, and I take a giant leap out onto the linoleum tile. Ten more steps to the other side of the room and I’m out the back door and home free.

“Sloane!”

Crap. Matt.

Not just Matt—the entire guys’ advanced team. They’re piled on couches and chairs, and when they ran out of seating they spilled out onto the floor. There are giant, sweaty boys as far as the eye can see. They’re watching some grainy old game that looks like it’s from the Olympics.

“Oh, hi, Matt!” I say, trying not to break stride. “I was just on my way out.”

“Come watch tape with us!” he says.

Eleven heads pivot back to the screen. Matt jumps up from his spot on the couch and jogs over to me. He sticks his hands in his pockets and tosses his bangs out of his eyes. I notice he looks nervous.

“Listen, about last night … I just want to be friends, okay?”

It strikes me as an odd change of tactic, but I’m anxious to get out of here. “Fine,” I say. “That’s fine. Friends.”

“Awesome,” he says, smiling broadly. “So I was thinking we could go out for a bite. As friends.”

If I say no, he’ll just try to convince me. And I need to get out of here.

“Yeah, sure,” I say quickly.

“Great,” he says. He reaches over and adjusts my purse strap, which is about to fall off my shoulder. “Meet you in the lobby, two o’clock? Come hungry.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say. “I’ll be back.”

I bolt for the door, trying to process the fact that I just agreed to spend time with the playboy of Elite. At least meeting Matt at two means I can disappear during all the open-ice time and then peace out again right when the scout is leaving. It’s perfect.

I push through the back door, emerging just in front of the bike racks. I stride up the little stone path that leads around to the street and start to breathe easy. I made it.

“Sloane!” Coach Hannah. She’s coming at me from the front of the building. “I’m glad I ran into you. I didn’t see your name on the interview list, and I figured since you’re going into your senior year, you definitely wouldn’t want to miss out on a chance to talk to the scout.”

“Right.”
Damn damn damn!
“I was planning to sign up. I just wanted to run an errand really quick. I can sign up when I get back.”

“Well, his schedule is filling up fast. Most of the later slots are taken. But I saw the list—he’s got an opening right now. Do you want to jump on that?”

“Oh, uh, great, well—” I try to grasp for an excuse, but from Coach Hannah’s stern expression, I know if I ditch, she’ll realize something is up. I take a deep breath. “Let’s go, then!”

“Great!” she says. “He’s down at the rink. I was just heading over there. I can walk with you.”

I follow her down the sidewalk to the arena next door, feeling like I’m heading to my execution. She chatters on about meeting the McGill scout for the first time and all the visits she made and how hard it was to decide which school to pick. I hear her say something about “the Harvard of Canada,” but I’m barely listening.

Sure, from across a room you could mistake Sloane Devon and me for each other, but if this scout wants to conduct some kind of interview, he’ll remember my face. And then he’ll remember that it’s
not
the same face as the girl who could potentially show up on campus in a year.

And if he meets me and hates me, Sloane Devon isn’t going to make a visit at all—because she won’t be going to college there. Either way, I lose, and she loses.

Hannah leads me into the front doors and down the steps. “He’s over there.” She points across the stands to the other side of the ice, where the scout is sitting next to Coach Amber. They’re talking, and Amber is pointing to a skater on the ice who’s making shot after shot. It’s Melody.

“I can go myself!” I practically screech. I have to formulate a plan between here and there, and if that plan involves running for my life, I don’t want Hannah at my side to hold me back. She gives me a strange look, but just nods and turns to head toward the locker room.

Think, think
. I have probably three minutes before I’m in front of the scout. Three minutes to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I get to the bottom of the steps and turn to wind around the far end of the rink (sure, it’s three times as long, but this gives me more time to think). I’m just barely at ice level when I trip over something large that clatters beneath my feet. It’s a hockey helmet with a thick wire face mask. It won’t completely hide my face, but it’s better than nothing.

I grab it and jam it onto my head. It’s tight, but it fits, and it only smells like a dead fish a little bit.

I climb the steps, and within seconds I’m mask to face with Coach Amber and the scout.

She gives me a look that says, “Who let you out of the
asylum?” but instead just introduces me to Joe Rutherford, representative from the Boston University ice hockey team.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Nice helmet,” he says.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, and giggle like I’m always wandering around in jeans and a face mask. “I was thinking about getting one like this, but I wanted to really test the fit, you know? Gotta protect the old noggin. So I’m just wearing it around. Safety first!”

I say this like it makes absolute total sense, and Mr. Rutherford just laughs. He
laughs
. Like this is all quirky, but normal.

“Sloane, I read your file. You come highly recommended by Coach Butler. He and I are old friends, you know.”

“Oh?” The name rings a bell. Sloane Devon’s coach back home, I think, but I can’t be sure. Best to stay vague.

“Heard you’re a serious offensive threat. Got a slap shot like he’s never seen.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” I say.

“Also heard you’ve got a bit of an anger problem?”

“I, uh—”

Amber jumps in. “We haven’t seen that at all here,” she says. “Sloane has been a great team player. Never hogging the puck, always congratulating her teammates.”

It’s true. I don’t hog the puck, mostly because I’m doing my best to keep from ever touching it. And the constant praise of my teammates helps takes the focus off my own playing. But I can see Mr. Rutherford is still looking at me
for an explanation, and I have to give him one that’ll make him think Sloane Devon isn’t any kind of loose cannon or psycho on the ice. I have to reassure him. For her.

“I’ve always played hard, and there have been times in the past where my passion has gotten the best of me,” I say. “But those have all been learning moments for me. I’d say I’ve learned to become an aggressive yet controlled player.”

He smiles and nods and I relax a little. Maybe I did learn something from my father. I can spin with the best of ’em.

“That’s really good to hear, Sloane,” Mr. Rutherford says. He shakes my hand again. “I’m looking forward to seeing you on the ice.”

“Definitely!” I say. My heart sinks. Great—I’m going to
have
to skate for him. Sloane Devon’s entire future rests on my performance. I hope she knows how lucky she is to have someone as dedicated as me living her life. She had better be hustling just as hard across town. “Let me go get changed.”