He looks at the stinky duffel at my feet, then back at me. He breaks into a wide grin, and I notice a tiny gap between his front two teeth, creating a tiny archway into his mouth (ever since my own orthodontia adventure, I tend to pay a little too much attention to other people’s teeth). His crooked smile falters a little, and it’s at that moment that I realize I’ve gone from inconspicuous glancing to full-on staring.
“Hockey?” he says, gesturing to my bag.
“No, I uh—” I start, but then quickly slam my mouth shut, because I’m about to tell him that I figure skate. Jeez, very first test and I already fail. I hope Sloane Devon is doing better. I clear my throat and then continue, hoping he doesn’t notice the moment of split personality. “Yeah, I play hockey.”
“Nice,” he says. His grin returns. “So based on the luggage and the fact that you’re on the eighty-six bus, I’m guessing you’re on your way to Elite as well?”
I recognize the name of my destination, Junior Elite Hockey Camp and Training Center, from last night’s briefing with Sloane Devon. “Yeah,” I reply. Excellent, a right answer.
“Awesome! Me too.” He raises his hand, and it takes me a couple of seconds before I realize he wants a high five. He puts a little heat behind it, and I rub my stinging palm on the leg of my jeans. Hmm. Sloane Devon warned me hockey players like to get physical. But maybe that’s a good thing. It didn’t even occur to me that in escaping my heinous, glittery summer I’d meet hockey hotties. “I’m Matt. Matt O’Neill. So, where are you from?”
“Sloane Jacobs,” I reply. “Philadelphia.” Two more right answers (though to be fair, the name one isn’t going to be too difficult). I’m doing a happy dance in my head. I mentally keep a tally of my points. Maybe this won’t be so hard after all.
“Shut up, same here!” he says. I nearly choke on my own tongue. “Where do you live?”
Oh crap. I can’t screw this up now, I just got here! I feel the same metallic taste on my tongue that comes right before I attempt a triple-triple, which makes the hematoma on my leg throb a little. What did she say again? I rack my brain. Something with … food? Meat? Oh, fish!
“Fishtown,” I say, letting out the breath I’ve been holding. I hope I sound as cheerful as I did when he first sat down.
“Sweet, I’m in Chestnut Hill,” he says. He’s looking at me as if this should mean something. I give him a weak smile. I’ve been to Philly exactly once, when my sixth-grade class visited the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. Beyond that, it was usually nothing more than an Amtrak stop on the way to one of Mom’s New York shopping trips. If I’m going to survive this conversation, I should probably just shut my mouth now. But Matt’s having none of it. “Where do you go to school?”
“I’m at Jefferson,” I reply. Thank goodness last night’s sugar high doesn’t seem to have damaged my memory. “You?”
“Riverside Prep,” he says. He gives a sort of lopsided smile and shrugs. Damn, he’s cute.
I recognize the name from the small circle of elite private schools in the mid-Atlantic region. He’s cute, and clearly smart if he’s at Riverside. I look over to see him smiling that easy smile at me, and my stomach does a mini somersault. I quickly focus on the strings on my oversized hoodie, wishing I were wearing something a little cuter, or at least something that fit. But I push the thought out of my mind. I don’t need that kind of distraction this summer. Besides, a boy as cute as Matt probably has a million girlfriends, or a million girls who want to be his girlfriend. I’ve always avoided relationships, partly because between all my practices I’d never have time, and partly because high school boys are dogs who could use a healthy dose of Cesar Millan.
“We’ve probably seen each other at tournaments,” Matt says. My hands go instantly cold. My stomach feels jumpy, like I’m about to go over the first hill of a roller coaster.
“Maybe,” I say. The word comes out too sharply.
He throws an arm around the back of my seat so that he can turn and get a better look at me. “Did you play at the All-East Invitational?”
“Uh, no,” I say. “I was sick.”
“Too bad, that tournament was rad. What about the charity thing for Children’s Hospital?”
“Nope,” I say. I keep my eyes locked on my knees. I can only say no so many times before he gets suspicious. Can’t he just stop asking?
“Did you guys make all-city champs last year?”
This one I don’t even respond to, because there’s definitely a right answer to it that I don’t know. Instead, I choose to stare at my nails, which could really use a touch-up after last night’s hotel hockey practice.
The bus shudders to a stop, the doors swish open, and another line of passengers files on. A petite blonde in a low-cut tank top skips by, and I watch Matt’s eyes follow her down the aisle. At least the distraction gets him to shut up. Saved by the blonde.
For the rest of the ride, I mostly ignore Matt. He chatters here and there about Philly, asking me if I’ve been to some place called Geno’s or if I know this guy or that coach. I try to give half answers or vague shrugs, but my lack of attention only seems to make him chattier.
While he talks, I mentally study, preparing myself for my arrival at Elite. When the bus finally stops at our dorms and Matt jumps up, I hustle to gather my bags and follow him. I know from reading the brochure last night that all the players will be in the same building, single-sex by floor. The doors to the dorms are flanked by red and white balloons. Inside, Matt bypasses the check-in table, but not before high-fiving the girl sitting behind it. She smiles at him as he heads straight for the elevators. He stops short and turns.
“It was nice meeting you, um—what was your name again?”
“Sloane,” I say. I feel a little pinch in my gut.
“Right, Sloane.” He smiles. “I’ll see you around.”
I give my name to the girl at the table, a fierce-looking blonde in a red T-shirt with ELITE emblazoned across her sizable chest.
“I’m Mackenzie,” she says. She runs her finger down the list, then uncaps a yellow highlighter with her teeth and sweeps it across my name.
“Oh, you’re from Philly too!” she says, a big smile on her face, and my stomach drops. Not again! “You must know Matt.”
My stomach stops doing somersaults when I realize she’s not from Philly. Thank God. “I just met him on the bus,” I say, thankful that at least in this instance, I can tell the truth.
“So cute, right?” Mackenzie sets about gathering various sheets of paper and envelopes and folders for me. “This is his second summer. He totally dominates. On the ice and off, if you know what I mean.” She winks at me.
“Sure,” I say. Ew. Dominates? What is this—a rodeo?
Mackenzie throws a glance at the elevators, as if Matt might reappear. Then she leans forward.
“You’re new. That means it’ll be your turn soon enough,” she says. Double ew. I wonder when her turn was. I make a private vow: no more looking at or speaking to Matt this summer.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing outside a door marked with the number 214 on an ancient brass plate, holding my key, an orientation guide, a list of emergency contacts, and a camper directory in my hand. I fit the key into the lock and wiggle it a bit before it will turn. The lock clicks and the heavy door swings open into a linoleum-tiled common room. There’s a love seat made of something green and flame-retardant and a wooden coffee table that looks like three generations of students have used it for a footstool.
I knew hockey camp would be a downgrade in the accommodations department, but I didn’t quite expect this. For a moment, I imagine my room across town, with the fluffy queen beds and private bathrooms. Then I remind myself what I’m getting in exchange. Sure, this isn’t as nice, but I won’t have to spend my summer having strangers judge me, whisper about me, and laugh every time I screw up.
I’d sleep in a prison cell for that deal.
Off the main room are two doors. I go to the
one on the left, closer to me, and push it open. I’m pleasantly surprised to find a sun-drenched room with a single bed and a giant bay window along the back wall. And the sheets look brand-new (at least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself). I throw my bags on the bed and hurry over to the window, which overlooks a lush green park across the street. I slide the window open and poke my head out, taking a deep breath of fresh air.
I feel good. I know my name, this room seems cozy, the view is great, and no one here expects me to land an axel of any kind.
A door slams, jolting me out of my reverie. It startles me enough that I jump and smack my head on the window frame. I hear someone enter the room. A shadow falls over me, and the hairs on my arms stand up straight.
“Get out.”
I turn around slowly and see a girl at least a head taller than me. In her Under Armour, she looks muscled enough to bench-press me, and maybe the other Sloane too. Two long blond braids hang down over her thick shoulders, the least cute pigtails I’ve ever seen on anyone. With her muscular arms and Heidi braids, she looks like the angry German milkmaid type Sloane warned me about.
I gulp. “Uh, I’m Sloane,” I say, but she doesn’t even blink. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m Melody, and this is my room,” she says.
“Aren’t the rooms the same?”
She finally blinks and lets out a tiny snort. “Yeah, same, except this is mine, and that”—she waves her hand over her shoulder—“is yours. Out, New Girl.”
“Um, I was here first,” I say, but I hear it come out more as a question than a declaration, and my voice sounds impossibly tiny and airy. Maybe it’s that I’m wearing someone else’s life that doesn’t quite fit, but my usual composure has abandoned me. Any shred of it flees for good once Melody takes a giant step toward me, and I have to tell myself that it’s just my imagination that she grows three feet taller.
“I’ve been coming here for three summers, and this has always been my room.” If I weren’t already up against the window, I’d take a step back. As it is, I consider leaping out the window. “But hey, if you want to earn the room, you’re welcome to try.”
In an instant, everything from a fistfight to some sort of terrifying hazing ritual flashes through my mind. And here I thought Tonya Harding was scary. I take my bags off the bed and try to look like I’m leaving because I can’t be bothered and not because I’m worried I’m going to pee my pants.
I’m barely through the door before it slams hard behind me. I cross over to what is apparently my room. I nudge the door open with the rubber toe of Sloane Devon’s sneakers. One step and a quick visual sweep of the room and I know right away why the room across the hall is worth fighting for.
This one is about half the size of the other one. I hold my arms out: I can touch both walls at the same time. I squeeze by the twin bed and make my way to the window. It’s almost too narrow for me to fit my head through, and thanks to the giant tree growing just inches away, not a sliver of light comes in.
I sigh and flop down on my bed. I know my name. I know my name. I repeat it over and over like a mantra, and when that doesn’t ease the tension in my neck, I switch to No triple axels. No triple axels. Through the wall (which is way too close to my head) I hear a toilet flush so loudly it sounds like a small child could get sucked through it. Then a faucet turns on, loud as a fire hose. Apparently, my neighbor is the floor’s community shower. Excellent. At least I won’t have to walk very far to brush my teeth. And my roommate can protect me in a bar fight, assuming she didn’t start it in the first place.
To take my mind off the hulking barbarian next door, I roll over and riffle through the bag on the floor until I find my phone. I slide my finger across the screen to check my messages and see a little red circle with a one in it to indicate a voice mail. It’s from my mom. I tap the Play button and listen as her clipped, slightly breathless voice comes through the speaker.
“Just calling to make sure you’ve arrived in one piece. Let me know so I don’t worry.”
I check my missed calls to see if there’s anything else, but there’s nothing. Dad didn’t call.
I dash off a quick text to my mother letting her know I’m fine and shove my phone under one of the pillows out of sight.
“Don’t turn the AC off, or it’ll be a sauna in here!” Melody’s gruff voice comes through the door. Then the door slams. Guess she’s not interested in making a friend.
I fling my pillow over my face. Scream, nap, or suffocate—I can’t decide which path to take.
No triple axels. No triple axels.
CHAPTER 8
SLOANE DEVON
I rock the limo ride hard for twenty minutes and am mid–drum solo when the car turns and bounces off the road onto a cobblestone circular driveway. I press my nose to the window. We’ve passed through a set of wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the camp compound. As we wind up the drive, the building comes into view beyond the ancient, stately trees. My mouth drops open and the window instantly fogs.
The pictures in the brochure did not do it justice. The Baliskaya Skating Institute, or BSI for short, looks like it came straight out of one of those boring nineteenth-century novels we’re supposed to read in English class that I never actually do. Two stories of perfectly weathered limestone. A pitched roof with a long row of dormer windows. A glossy black front door with an oversized knocker in the shape of a mythical beast I don’t recognize. Giant rosebushes, weighted down by the explosion of pink and red blooms.
A shiny silver Mercedes pulls away in front of us, allowing my limo (my limo?!) to pull right up to the entrance. I catch a glimpse of a blond head and a Louis Vuitton handbag—a real one, not one of the Chinatown fakes everyone at school totes around—disappearing through the door. I climb out of the limo while the driver unloads my bags. There are butterflies beating around in my stomach, and I’m not sure whether I’m scared or psyched or both. I’ve been to a hockey camp or two in my day, but they usually involve bunk beds and dorms that smell like sweat socks. Something tells me this will be different.
I tip the driver with the cash Sloane Emily gave me before we left, then drag my bags up to the front door. Did the other girl knock? I look around for a doorbell. Nada. What if I’m not supposed to barge in? Am I supposed to be summoned? Why isn’t there a sign? I reach for the brass knocker but decide at the last second that, like most fancy things in ritzy houses, it’s probably just for show. I take a deep breath, then grasp the knob, give it a turn, and push the door open.
I brace myself for the shrill sound of an alarm but am greeted instead by the sound of classical music floating softly through the wood-floored entryway. I take a tentative step inside and look around. I hear chattering and laughter coming from somewhere in the house, but the foyer is empty.
“Check in right here, dear,” a soft voice tinkles. To my left, in what might have once been a sitting room of some sort, is a check-in desk. A high mahogany counter runs across part of the room, and a thin older woman with a severe gray bun and wire-rimmed glasses sits behind it, a shiny silver laptop open in front of her. “Name?”
“Sloane Jacobs,” I say, and for a split second, I feel like myself again.
The woman taps quickly into the laptop, then sets about arranging a stack of papers and folders. She barely looks at me as she explains that my room is down the hall and up the grand staircase (she literally uses the words “grand staircase”); gives me a schedule for the first few days, a map of the grounds, and a student handbook; and notes that I’m late and missed the morning orientation session.
“Late? How can I be late? She said I had to be here—”
“Who said, dear?”
I realize I can’t tell her that I’m late because the real Sloane Jacobs—at least, the one these white leather skates belong to—didn’t tell me there was a morning orientation session. Instead, I mumble an apology. The woman at the desk nods curtly, then points me toward the stairs—er, grand staircase—to
my room.
“Where’s my key?” I flip through the folder, looking for an envelope or one of those plastic key-cards like at a hotel.
“No keys, dear. The honor code is in the folder, so there’s no need to lock the rooms. If you have anything particularly valuable, just bring it down here and I can put it in the safe.”
No keys? We’re not in Fishtown anymore, Zaps. Thinking of my sweet puppy, and my home, makes my heart hurt for a moment. I’m the second person to leave him. I hope he knows I’ll be back.
I make my way to the grand staircase. Oh, and it is grand. Wide enough to drive a Buick up; carpeted in something red and thick enough to sleep on. The foyer and the staircase are filled with campers, which is where all the noise was coming from. I weave through the crowd of skinny, giraffe-shaped girls, feeling a bit like a bull in a china shop. I worry I’m going to brush shoulders with one of them and she’ll go pinging off me, landing on something antique and priceless. I notice a few of them staring at me suspiciously as I pass, and I wonder if they’re worrying about the same thing.
Midway up the stairs, I pause to hike up Sloane Emily’s skate bag. The bottom swings a little more than I anticipated and knocks right into a petite, dark-haired Asian girl. I immediately lunge out to catch her, but she doesn’t budge, not even a little bit.
“Watch where you flail, mm-kay?” She reaches up to smooth a stray hair that’s escaped from her tight bun. I mumble an apology. Maybe these girls aren’t as delicate as I thought.
At the top of the stairs, a discreet brass sign directs me to the left, toward the LADIES’ QUARTERS. Another arrow points to the right and is labeled GENTLEMEN’S QUARTERS. I stifle a gag. Oh God, this place is totally Jane Austen. I hated those books.
My room, number 12, is all the way at the end of the hall. The glass doorknob is heavy and slick, but I get the door open on the first try, and what greets me inside is much closer to a hotel than any dormitory I’ve ever seen or imagined. Two queen beds on the left wall, each with a fluffy white comforter, face two huge antique-looking armoires on the right. An overstuffed love seat is nestled into a giant bay window on the far wall, and just off to the right, another door is slightly open, leading to my very own bathroom.
Being Sloane Jacobs Page 7
