Being Sloane Jacobs (22 page)

“Choose one,” Matt says. When I hesitate, he insists, “Come on. I’m making up for lost time. Now pick.”

I choose a small bouquet of pale pink peonies. Matt pays the vendor with a collection of brightly colored bills and coins of various sizes. I bury my nose in the bouquet
and take a deep breath. My mother grows peonies in our backyard. And for a second I ache for home—not the way it’s been lately, with my mom all pinched and angry and my father avoiding us, but the way it was when I was a kid.

We stroll through the tunnels a little more, stopping to look at maps and pieces of art. We toss coins into the guitar case of a folk musician and the hat of a blues guy going to town on a harmonica.

After about an hour, we’re up the stairs and back where we started, in the little park surrounded by skyscrapers.

“Where to now?” I ask. I check my phone and am shocked to see that it’s almost ten-thirty.

Matt smiles. “I think we have time to see one more thing before we head back.”

We get to the end of the street and turn right, facing an enormously steep hill. I have to lean into it to make it up without huffing and puffing. At the top, we round the corner and enter a huge cobblestone plaza that features an enormous fountain, all lit up and gushing water. Despite the hour, people are milling about, tossing coins into the fountain or sprawled on the stone ledges that surround it.

Beyond the fountain, a cathedral of carved gray stone, soaring spires, arched windows, and Gothic-looking carvings rises into the night sky. Starkly illuminated from below, it has an almost movielike quality as if it’s being projected on a big screen rather than standing right here in front of us.

“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.