There’s already a pink garment bag and a matching pink carry-on laid out on the bed closest to the window, and I notice a matching pink suitcase large enough to contain its owner on the floor next to the bed. My roommate must already be here, so I heave my bags onto the bed closer to the door and start to unpack.
I’ve barely started when I hear the door creak open. I turn to see a teeny, tiny girl twirling a pink rabbit’s-foot keychain waltz in. And I do mean waltz. She sashays in like she owns the place and gives me a look like I do not.
“Ivy,” she says, and since that’s not my name, I’m guessing it must be hers. “You must be Sloane.” I hear a very slight Southern twang in her voice. She doesn’t offer her hand or even a second glance, just brushes past me and around to her side of the room. She climbs onto her bed, fluffs up a pillow, and snags a magazine off the bedside table. I guess that’s all the greeting I get.
“Yup,” I say. Since she won’t look at me, I take the opportunity to size her up. She can’t be more than five feet tall. Her hair, which may have once been brown but has now been highlighted within an inch of its life in about six different shades of blond that definitely do not occur in nature, is gathered back in a very high and tight ponytail. And there’s a bow tied around it. A bow. A pink bow. This does not bode well.
She has narrow, almond-shaped eyes and a slightly downturned mouth. It’s the kind of face that makes me wonder if being born with it made her a Mean Girl, or if years of scowling and frowning made her face develop that way. Whichever it is, she’s itty-bitty and clad in fuchsia, so she’s probably harmless. I decide it’s best just to ignore her, which is perfect, since she seems to have no intention of interacting with me.
I continue to unpack, but all the lifting and hefting and stair-climbing have made my knee swell a bit, and by the time I’m done putting the rest of Sloane Emily’s jeans (seriously, how many pairs of jeans can one girl need?) in the bottom drawer of my armoire, the zaps of pain are really starting to heat up. I find my ACE wrap and an instant ice pack, one I stole from my own gear bag before handing it over to Sloane Emily, and slam the pack on the desk to activate it. Then I flop down on my own bed and set about RICE-ing my knee (RICE, the athlete’s best friend: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation).
I hear the magazine drop to the table and look over to see Ivy’s narrowed eyes trained on me. “Oh my God, they gave me a cripple?” she mutters.
I glare at her. “You know I can hear you, right?” I continue wrapping my knee, then fasten the wrap with two metal teeth. “A little sympathy wouldn’t be out of line.”
“If you think I’m helping you hobble around here, you’re mistaken,” she snaps. “I’m not here to make friends.”
“You can’t be serious.” At the utterance of reality TV’s most famous line, I instinctively look around for the cameras. I’m already having fantasies of meeting Ivy on the ice—my ice. I’d wipe that sour little smirk off her face so fast she wouldn’t have time to roll her eyes. I take some deep breaths to try to release the tension. I can’t get into a fistfight on my first day. I could wipe the ice with you any day with two bum legs.
“Oh please. That may fly in whatever podunk Disney Channel movie of a rink you skate in, but around here you’re nothing,” Ivy says, and I realize that I must have threatened her out loud. “What, you thought you could flee to Canada and hide from your epic fail? Oh yes, I read all about you, and between choking at junior nationals and that bum knee, you’re almost completely useless as a competitor. Why don’t you just retire to the Ice Capades already?”
Her Southern accent is in its full glory now. She must forget to enunciate when she gets pissy. I’m ready to tell her she can take her attitude and shove it where the sun don’t shine, but something she said gives me the pinprick of an idea.
If Sloane really is underrated—if people are expecting her to fail—then no one is going to expect much from me by way of ice ballet or fancy jumps. Low expectations are my friend. So I just shrug.
“My parents sent me, so here I am,” I reply. Her eyes narrow, and I realize my “whatever” attitude enrages her even more than a good old-fashioned smack-down. I hold her gaze, like I’m challenging a bull. I may not be able to keep up on her ice, but I will not play some weak-willed little pushover off the ice.
“Pathetic,” she says, and finally looks away. She grabs a pink and black scarf from the couch, winds it around her neck, and heads toward the door. She hesitates before pulling it open. “And I thought the saying was that the camera adds ten pounds. You ought to write those cameramen a nice little thank-you note.”
My brain practically boils. While I struggle to find the perfect retort that doesn’t include a primal scream, she smirks and saunters off. The door slams so hard behind her that an oil painting hanging over my head almost falls off the wall.
I bury my face in a large pillow and scream as loud as I can. My transformation into the other Sloane Jacobs must have already begun, because back in Philly Ivy would be picking her teeth out of the oriental rug. I think back to Coach Butler’s warning about my temper and my future. Maybe four weeks here will actually have a better effect on me than four weeks playing hockey.
“You dead?”
I peek up from my pillow to see a shaved head and wide smile. A good-looking African American guy has just poked his head through my door.
“Not yet,” I mutter. I roll over, wincing from the pain shooting through my knee. I adjust the ice pack so it’s back on my kneecap.
“Pardon the intrusion,” he says blithely. He’s got a set of well-defined biceps and muscular shoulders, which he clearly wants to show off in his tight, slightly see-through powder-blue V-neck. “I know boys are persona non grata in the ladies’ quarters, but when I saw Ivy Loughner stomping out of here, I just had to come meet the poor soul who’s stuck sharing a room with her. I’m Andy.”
“Sloane Jacobs,” I say. “How do you know Ivy?”
“Oh, I don’t. Thankfully. I just saw her terrorizing some poor, quivering junior skater this morning. I believe she used the words ‘talentless chief of the Lollipop Guild,’ ” he says. “I can’t imagine what it’s like sharing a living space with her.”
I smile. “At least I know it’s not personal. She’s just an all-around terror, then?”
“Girl, it’s so not personal. She should hook up with a Hoover, because that girl needs the BS sucked out of her.”
The comment makes me laugh so hard I unleash my truly sexy pig-snort guffaw. “I could have used you five minutes ago.”
“You can use me any time you like,” he says with a wink.
Well, what do you know? I’ve made my very first friend at skate camp.
The schedule in my glossy folder says “Opening Night Formal Dinner,” so I dig around in Sloane Emily’s wardrobe and find a pair of khaki pants and a mint-green button-down. Instead of my normal messy ponytail, I pull my hair back in a loose braid, and I even throw on some mascara and a sweep of some lip gloss that tastes like watermelon.
I’ve barely opened my door when I hear Andy. “Oh, honey, no.”
“What?” I say, looking down to see if my pants are wrinkled or if I got toothpaste on my shirt.
“You’re telling me you didn’t pack a dress?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just breezes past me and flings open the armoire. He flips through the hangers until he comes across a hot-pink, one-shoulder dress with a ruffle cascading from shoulder to waist.
“I’m not wearing that,” I say. It’s so bright I feel like I need to avert my eyes before it burns my retinas.
“Then why did you bring it?” he replies. Fair question. I forgot that all this is supposed to be mine. I fumble for a response that will get him off my back and that dress back in the closet. He shakes the dress at me. “This is formal. That”—he gestures to my outfit—“is Sunday school.”
I look from the dress to Andy’s stern face, then back to the dress. I could fight. I could tell him my mom packe
d it, that she’s crazy controlling (and from the impression I got from Sloane Emily, I’d probably be right). But looking at Andy making yuck-faces at my outfit, I realize it’s not worth it. I am Sloane Emily, and this is Sloane Emily’s dress. I take the hanger from him while he turns around to face the corner. I swap out my bra for something strapless, then wriggle into the dress. I hope Sloane Emily appreciates my much less blinding and binding wardrobe.
“Ta-da,” I say, holding out jazz hands.
“Perfect.” He drags me over to the full-length mirror inside the door and yanks out my braid. He rearranges my hair into a loose side ponytail cascading down my exposed shoulder. Then he trots back to the armoire, riffles around for a second, and returns with a black sparkly headband and a pair of black open-toed kitten heels. When he’s done with me, I’ve got to admit, I look damn good. I bet Dylan would eat his nasty Phillies hat if he could see me. I think for a moment about snapping a photo and texting it to him, just for the “Look at me now!” satisfaction, but I don’t want to have to explain where I am. If he even cared to ask.
Andy slips his arm in mine. “Come on, Sloane Jacobs,” he says. “Let’s get down there before we miss all the fun.”
The dining room looks like Hogwarts mated with one of those Masterpiece Theatre shows, with floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming wood paneling, and glistening chandeliers. There are even white-coated servers scurrying around filling water glasses. The little card on top of my plate lists four courses, and my stomach starts growling.
When the first course lands in front of me, I’m ready to dig in. Unfortunately, one glance at my plate and I realize there will be no “digging in.” The salad, if you can call it that, is made up of about six leaves of romaine lettuce, two fat cucumber slices, and an almost imperceptible drizzle of something that may or may not be a vinaigrette.
I lean over to Andy. “There’s no salad on my salad.”
“And you were expecting …?” he asks. A quick glance at his face tells me that this is standard fare in the skating world—this skating world, anyway. Andy may be my friend, but he doesn’t know the truth. And it needs to stay that way. I have got to stop shooting my mouth off, or it’s going to get me in just as much trouble here as it does back home.
“Just surprised there isn’t more celery. You know, it’s like the only food that burns more calories to eat than it contains.” I throw in a quick giggle to make my fashion-magazine-diet-tip thing land.
“That’s a myth,” Andy replies. I exhale; at least I haven’t outed myself at the first meal. “After dinner we can hit the convenience store down the street. Only about a third of these skaters will actually survive on this food alone. The rest of us mere mortals scarf Snickers bars between meals.”
I try to make my salad last as long as possible, but within three bites it’s gone and a server whisks away the empty plate. Next up is a soup, which comes in a cup so small I wonder if they stole it from a child’s tea set. I resist the urge to toss it back like a shot. When the main course finally arrives, I’m glad to see it’s on a grown-up-sized plate, but my spirits drop when I see it’s a boneless, skinless chicken breast, grilled and topped with a miniature pile of greens. Alongside it is a tiny scoop of what seems like no more than a dozen grains of brown rice and a heaping helping of steamed broccoli. All around me there are girls cutting their chicken into teeny, tiny pieces, every once in a while bringing one to their mouths and chewing about a thousand times before swallowing.
I want to scream. Or ask them for their leftovers.
Within minutes I’m swallowing my last bite of chicken, while some of the other skaters at my table are still on their first forkful of broccoli.
“This isn’t a refugee camp, you know.” The acid voice oozes into my ear, the accent thick and syrupy. I turn around and see Ivy, in head-to-toe pink, her dress a carbon copy of my own. When she recognizes it, she crosses her arms across the ruffle and glares at me. She turns to her friend, who looks like she’d like nothing more than to sew her lips to the ass of Ivy’s dress. “Look, Sabrina. How cute. She thinks if she dresses like the best, she can be the best.”
Sabrina giggles like she’s watching an episode of Saturday Night Live, which is appropriate, since Ivy’s act is just about as tired.
Ivy leans in close and whispers in my ear, “If you want to eat like a lumberjack, squeeze yourself into that dress, and walk around looking like a gummy bear, that’s your prerogative, but I thought I’d just give you some friendly roomie advice: pink is my signature color.”
I’m all for keeping a low profile, and I know I need to keep my anger in check, but I’m not about to let this Manic Pixie Nightmare Girl push me around. I drop my fork on my plate, where it lands with a clatter.
“Listen, Steel Magnolia, you can take your Pepto-Bismol butt over there, or you’ll be icing your knee right alongside me.”
Sabrina’s eyes get wide, and she steps back slightly, as if she’s worried a fistfight might break out and she’ll be caught smack in the middle.
“Don’t mind the crip,” Ivy says to Sabrina without turning away from me. Her gaze is steely. Finally, she pivots and takes Sabrina’s arm, and the two of them stalk back to their table.
“She meant ‘cripple,’ ” Andy says.
“I know what she meant,” I reply through clenched teeth.
“Oh, so that puzzled look was—”
“Nothing,” I mutter, because I’m pretty sure admitting that I was figuring out how to remove her arm from her body and beat her with it would get me labeled as Not Classy. The server sets dessert down in front of me, a clear glass dish with a scoop of sorbet topped with a mint leaf. I push it away. I’m too pissed to eat. I need to think. I need a plan.
“She’s just trying to psych you out,” Andy says, helping himself to my discarded dessert. “I think her motto is ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t make the competition too scared to try.’ ”
“I think it’s time for a little psychological warfare of my own,” I say. Prissy places like this are all about the pranks, and I am the queen of the prank at Jefferson. Just ask Libby Keegan, last season’s rookie of the year, who skated champs with Icy Hot in her sports bra.
“Color me interested,” he says. He leans in conspiratorially.
I turn and stare at him, then slowly break into a smile. “Thank you, Andy. You’ve just given me an idea.”
I lie in bed for what feels like hours, waiting until Ivy is snoring and I can be sure she won’t wake up. I creep out of my room and down the hall, past the staircase and the sign directing me to the gentlemen’s quarters. I get to room 22, Andy’s room, turn the knob, and ease the door open in silence. Andy’s in the bed closer to the door. Apparently his enthusiasm didn’t keep him awake: he’s sound asleep, and I have to shake him lightly to wake him. He rolls over and glares at me.
“You are so disturbing my beauty sleep,” he whispers.
“It’s game time,” I tell him. His roommate is snoring like a buzz saw in the other bed, so I don’t worry too much about waking him.
“You were serious?”
I nod. “I need your help. Scissors—you got ’em?”
We creep back down the hall and into my room, where Ivy is still dead to the world. I wave Andy into the bathroom and take the lid off the back of the toilet, where I stashed my supplies in a Ziploc bag. A pair of Sloane Emily’s nude tights, a rubber band, and an envelope of raspberry Kool-Aid I picked up post-dinner at the convenience store down the street, while Andy loaded up on pints of ice cream and Snickers bars.
“Make sure she’s still asleep,” I whisper, and he nods.
I set to work cutting one of the feet out of the tights, then filling it with the Kool-Aid. Then I fit the tights over the showerhead and secure it with the rubber band. I wave Andy back in.
“I need you to spot me while I do this part.” Andy stands behind me while I climb up on the ledge of the bathtub and unscrew the lightbulb from the fixture overhead. I wrap t
he bulb in paper towels and discard it in the trash can.
“You are so crazy,” Andy whispers. I feel a sudden sense of unease. I’m not supposed to be the old Sloane here. I’m supposed to be pretty, poised, perfect Sloane Jacobs, not scrappy, scary Sloane Jacobs. I hesitate. I could disassemble the whole thing in seconds and just ignore Ivy for the next four weeks. That’s what Sloane Emily would probably do.
Then I spot Ivy’s mountain of makeup, lined up in perfect rows on the counter. She’s kindly taken my toiletry bag (the pink floral fabric one on loan from Sloane Emily, full of tubes and pots I don’t even know how to use) and dropped it on the floor. Next to the toilet.
“Remind me not to mess with you,” Andy says, shaking his head.
“You won’t forget,” I reply with an evil grin.
I’m woken by the loudest, longest, most shrill scream I’ve heard this side of a B-movie murder victim.
“Who? What? OH MY GOD!” Ivy’s voice slices through the closed bathroom door, through the feather pillow over my head, and drives into my eardrum like a spike. Despite the pain from the decibel-shattering yelling, all I can do is smile.
I hear the bathroom door swing open, and I take a quick moment to compose myself and wipe the smile off my face. I peek out from underneath my pillow and see Ivy tearing out of the bathroom. Her rainbow of blond highlights is now varying shades of fuchsia—a color also running down her face, neck, and shoulders. She’s clutching one of the fluffy white bath towels around her. I should say, one of the fluffy, previously white towels. Now it is streaked and stained in various hues of rose and blush.
“YOU! You did this!” she screeches, shaking a salmon-colored finger in my direction.
“Gosh, you were right, Ivy,” I reply, all mock innocence. “Pink really is your signature color.”
Being Sloane Jacobs Page 8
