I immediately cross my arms over my chest to cover the fact that I stupidly skipped the bra in my ninja-like stealth to get down here, and it is cold. But with my hands under my armpits, I can’t adjust my ponytail, or check to make sure the drool crust isn’t still on my cheek.
“What are you doing down here?” I ask, trying to sound as if I don’t really care to know.
Matt points a remote at the TV, pausing the action. “Watching some old hockey film I brought. Getting myself psyched up for tomorrow,” he says. I notice the stack of blank DVD cases on the coffee table.
Tomorrow we’ll be divided up into teams for the first time, where we’ll play a full regulation game. I’ve been dreading it, and also crossing my fingers that Melody ends up on my team. She hasn’t really been able to come after me during drills, but I know once we hit open ice during game play, it’s only a matter of time.
“Oh, cool,” I say, still backed up against the counter.
“Wanna join me?” Matt pats the cushion next to him—too close.
“No thanks,” I say quickly.
“C’mon, I don’t bite,” he replies. I bet there are at least five girls upstairs who would gladly take him up on his offer, whether he bites or not. I stay planted. Matt doesn’t look deterred.
“Where were you earlier? We had open ice, and a bunch of us got sucked into a wicked game of keep away. You should have come by.”
“I was in my room, getting everything organized. You know, laundry,” I reply. It’s true. Thanks to a whole week of brutal workouts in full gear, my room smelled like an old meat locker.
“You know, when you said you were from Philly, I kind of thought you’d be a little more … adventurous,” Matt says, raising an eyebrow.
“Hey, I’m adventurous,” I say, but from the way my shoulders are hunched and my arms are gripping my body like a straitjacket, I can’t imagine I’m giving off much of that vibe.
“Then you and I have very different definitions of adventure,” he says.
I’m tempted to say: Does switching places with a girl you just met count as adventure? But Matt points the remote back at the screen, and the tiny men on the ice start zipping around again, the announcer screaming something about a power play, whatever that is.
I loosen my kung fu grip. Is Matt right? Since I got here, I’ve been desperate not to screw up. I’m trying to follow the rules and do what I’m told.
I’m me.
And I didn’t come here—become Sloane Devon—to be me. I came here to get away from all that. A laundry list of un-Sloane-Emily-like things go running through my head, each more insane than the next. Flip him off. Fling the dirty coffeepot at him. Flash him. I nearly dissolve into giggles when I think of walking over and punching Matt in the face—something I would never do, and something Sloane Devon would probably never do either, if she saw how cute he is.
Then I spot the fire alarm.
I drop my arms and stride toward the couch. I circle around the side and walk right into his view, past the hockey game, and over to the opposite wall, where a clear plastic box covers the red handle. I cup my fingers under the cover and flip it off, then I turn and make sure he’s watching.
And he is. He’s paused the game again and is staring right at me with a mix of amusement and bewilderment. I keep my eyes locked on his.
“You want adventure?” I say.
“You wouldn’t,” Matt says.
“Is that a dare?”
He laughs. “Double dare. With a cherry on top.”
What would Sloane Devon do?
I turn around and flip the switch.
The cacophony is instantaneous. The siren blares at a rate of a honk per second, loud and scratchy, like it’s being pushed through a muddy funnel before coming out of the speakers. Emergency strobe lights flash from the corners of the room. Instantly, I regret what I did. What if I’m caught? What if I’m arrested?
“What the hell?” Matt covers his ears, but the grin on his face is unmistakable. He says something else, but I can’t hear it between the screech of the sirens and the press of my palms over my ears. I shake my head, and he nods toward the door with the glowing red SORTIE printed on it. We run.
Outside on the sidewalk, our fellow campers are starting to stream bleary-eyed out of the exits, some of them barefoot, some of the guys still shirtless. The coaches are waving everyone across the street and out of the path of the fire truck. Already, we hear it screaming off in the distance. Crap, I forgot the actual fire brigade would be coming. I give Matt a scared look, but he holds a finger over his lips and shushes. He won’t tell.
I shiver, wishing I’d grabbed my hoodie. Of course, I didn’t realize I’d be resorting to petty crime. I just thought I was getting a cup of coffee. Matt puts one of his arms around my shoulders and pulls me close. But I don’t want him to get the wrong idea, so I inch away.
“Oh my God, look!” Cameron comes swimming through the crowd on the sidewalk and pops out next to Matt. She points. Melody is stumbling out of the building, her braids fuzzy and falling down. Her eyes are narrowed, her eyebrows nearly meeting in an angry V on her forehead. And like me, she too is clearly braless, caught off guard by the alarm. Her arms are crossed so hard over her chest I worry she’s going to lose blood flow to her lower half. Yet despite all her clutching and juggling as she scurries across the street, she’s not able to contain her ample—well, you know. I almost feel sorry for her, but then I see her hip-check a junior camper nearly into the curb.
“Guess her assets are still frozen, as they say,” I whisper, and Cameron and I dissolve into giggles.
Matt looks from Melody to Cameron and me, and back to Melody. “That was you? You froze the Tundra’s bras? A couple of guys found them. I hear they kept one and are planning on running it up the flagpole!”
“The Tundra?” Cameron and I repeat back in near unison. And then we’re past giggles into a full-on laughter fit.
The coaches are now making their way through the crowds, counting and randomly interrogating people about the cause of the alarm. I can’t stop laughing. Coach Hannah has a clipboard and is checking off names as she moves through the crowd.
“We need to get out of here before you give yourself up,” Matt says. He raises his hand, catching Coach Hannah’s eye. She nods and marks us both off on her list, then moves on to a crowd of seniors under a tree playing hacky sack in their pajamas.
“Now’s our chance,” Matt says. He grabs my hand and pulls me away from the edge of the group and around the side of the building before any of the coaches can spot us. We run until we’re at the bike racks in the back of the building, and he fishes a key out of the pocket of his sweats.
“Seriously, a getaway bike?” I stare at the shiny mountain bike, all glossy red paint and chrome, that he’s unlocking from the rack. “You have a spare for me?”
“Nope. Just the one. My parents shipped it up for me so I’d be able to explore the city.” He shrugs, and I note a slightly sheepish expression on his face. He wheels the bike back, climbs on, then pats the handlebars.
“Um, no way. I’m not riding on the handlebars! That’s dangerous!”
“Ah, so brave when you’re doing a pull-and-run, but too careful to ride on my handlebars?” Matt shakes his head. “Come on, most girls just hop right on.” He gives me a mischievous look, and I don’t know what offends me more: the idea that I’m one in a long line of girls to hop onto his handlebars, or the idea that I’m not as brave as the rest of them.
“I’m not like most girls,” I say, crossing my arms again.
Something flickers in Matt’s eyes. “I know,” he says. “You’re better.”
Then he puts his hands around my waist and lifts me, so I’m able to deposit my rear end directly onto the bars. I’m glad my back is to him so he can’t see my terrified expression as he pedals away, though he can probably see the way I’m white-knuckling the handlebars.
He pedals through the streets of Montreal, past blo
cks of row houses with crazy staircases coming off them like scaffolding. Matt makes a hard right, causing me to nearly pee my pants in fright, and soon we’re on a bustling street full of pubs, shops, bistros, and what look like bodegas but have neon signs in the windows spelling out DEPANNEUR. Convenience store. I hear Madame LeGarde’s voice in my ears drilling me in my after-school French lessons.
Ahead of us, the green light starts flashing. “What does that mean?” I call over my shoulder.
“It’s like the green arrow back in the States. Means we have the right of way to turn,” he says, and when we hit a pothole, his lips brush against my neck ever so slightly. A zap of electricity runs from the spot down to my belly button.
I, Sloane Emily Jacobs, am sitting in my pajamas on the handlebars of a boy’s bike, being whisked around a foreign city at midnight.
I can’t even imagine what my mom would say. The thought makes me grin.
We bike for blocks, until we’re out of the more neighborhood-y areas and into downtown Montreal. It’s late, so all the office buildings are dark, but the hotels are bustling with tourists wandering, photographing old churches wedged between new glass high-rises. It’s a typical urban downtown, except there’s art and sculpture everywhere. As we ride, Matt periodically taps my shoulder and points here or there, at sights for me to see, and I’m reminded that he’s been here before.
I turn to catch a glimpse of a statue of an angel with a gaping hole in its midsection, but Matt is pedaling us so fast I have to turn my head over my shoulder to get a good look. And as I do, this time it’s my lips that nearly brush his cheek. I spin my head forward so fast I almost give myself whiplash. My heart pounds. Did he notice? And then I feel his warm breath close to my ear again. My heart slows down to a near stop while I wait for him to speak.
“We can probably head back now.” It’s loud on the bike, the sounds of traffic and the rushing of wind, but all I can hear is his voice, and all I can feel is his breathing. I just nod, and Matt circles around the next block to start us on the journey back.
When we climb off the bike at the dorm, I’m struck by how quiet it is. The sirens must have been turned off a while ago, and now that we’re standing still, the silence is nearly deafening. He locks up his bike, and I follow him back into the dorm. His hand brushes mine as we walk, but I jerk it away, crossing my arms again. I forgot about my undergarment issue.
We step into the elevator, and he turns to me. I can feel his breath on my neck again, and I suppress a shiver.
“So that was fun,” he says. He pauses. He seems like he’s about to say something else.
One of many, I remind myself. Focus on skating.
“Yeah,” I say stiffly. “Sure.”
The elevator door dings open on my floor, and I bolt off as if the doors might slam on me at any second. Matt gets off the elevator right behind me.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Taking the stairs,” he says. He points to the end of the hall. “Seems dumb to ride up another two floors.”
“Oh. Okay,” I reply. I feel a tightness in my stomach. I walk the ten steps down the hall to my door and take out my key. The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I listen to Matt’s footsteps. He doesn’t even pause.
“Night, Sloane,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Night,” I reply. But the door to the stairwell has already swung shut behind him.
CHAPTER 12
SLOANE DEVON
I’m growing my very own creature.
I sit on the edge of my bed and peel off my sweaty sock to examine my new friend, who’s joined me after a week of grueling figure skating sessions. He’s about the size of a pea, bubbly and blistery, with a hard red callous starting to form over the top. If he gets any bigger, I’ll have to name him and invite him to the family.
I’m nurturing my creature through hours of hot, sweaty sessions on the ice with my feet crammed into tight leather skates. Though these skates have “Size 7.5” stamped into the tongue in gold, the same size as my own hockey skates, it must be some crazy European size or a conspiracy by the figure skating industry to ruin the feet of America’s sweethearts.
I pull my foot into my lap to examine the creature’s progress. Our room phone rings, and I nearly tumble to the floor in a pretzel knot of arms and legs.
I pull myself to my knees and snag the phone from its resting place on the table between my bed and Ivy’s.
“ ’Ello?” I’m slightly breathless.
“Sloane, honey, I was hoping I’d catch you. I’ve tried your cell several times this last week but haven’t heard back.” The voice on the other end of the phone is deep and brisk. Something in my brain goes ping—I’ve heard the voice before. I’m so busy trying to place it that I just mumble a hello, and the man charges on. “Sloane, I know things have been strained lately, and that’s my fault. I should have spoken to you about what you saw. You know I love you and your brother more than anything, and I do love your mother, but—”
A gasp catches in my throat, and I nearly choke on my tongue. It’s Sloane Emily’s dad, and he doesn’t know I’m not her. And worse, he’s rambling on in that clipped tone about something to do with an “indiscretion.” Oh God, I have to make him stop. I have to make him stop talking and get Sloane Emily to call him and finish whatever this is he’s starting.
I cough hard and sputter, and the effect is good. He stops midsentence, a long silence on the other end of the phone.
“Sloane? Are you okay?”
What to do, what to do? If I pretend I’m Ivy, then he’ll be all freaked out and embarrassed about spilling secrets to a stranger. But if I try to be Sloane Emily, he’s going to know from the sound of my voice that I’m not her. I have to say something.
I cough again, then clear my throat and drop my voice a bit until I’m confident it sounds convincingly gravelly. “Uh, Dad, I’m uh, not feeling so great. I think I picked up a cold from the rink. I’ll have to call you back.”
There’s another long silence, and I worry the jig is up. I hear him sigh loud and long. “Please do, Sloane. I’d really like to discuss this.”
“Yeah, will do.” I cough again, then hang up the phone before he can say anything else. Holy crap, that was a close one. I go to the wardrobe and flip through the hangers until I get to the cardigan in the back with the deep pockets, where I’ve been storing my phone to keep it away from Ivy’s clutching little hands.
Your dad called. I answered. Covered by saying I’m getting sick. Call him back. NOW.
I press Send. I have no idea what that was all about, but from the sound of it, maybe perfect Sloane Emily doesn’t have the perfect family I thought she had. I push the thought out of my head. I have enough of my own problems here at the Ice Hotel. Last night over a stash of gummy bears and some videos of Andy’s old pairs routines, I’d hatched a devious plan. I’m risking too much skating alone. It’s too easy to spot my weaknesses. So today, I have a meeting with Juliet Rowe, BSI’s camp director, to talk to her about switching to pairs. I have no idea if it’s even going to be allowed, but I have to try. This last week of trying to hide while skating all by myself has been waaaaaay too hard.
I’d rather be knocking Andy over than letting him carry me across the ice.
I shut the phone and put it back in the cardigan pocket. I glance in the mirror and catch sight of myself as Sloane Emily in a pair of black capris, a white cami, and a pale pink cardigan with little yellow flowers embroidered on it. I may look a little bit like a kindergarten teacher, but at least I don’t look like myself—the girl whose mom is in rehab, who dated a loser like Dylan for close to a year, who can’t keep her fists to herself.
I smile at myself in the mirror.
I slip on a pair of flip-flops and hurry downstairs. Juliet’s office is in the front foyer area, just behind the desk where I checked in the first day. I arrive at the front desk and am directed through a set of mahogany french doors. Juliet is sitting behind an enorm
ous desk that looks large enough to ford a river on, and it only looks larger in front of her delicate butterfly frame. According to Sloane Emily’s brochure, Juliet used to train Olympians. Looking at her sitting there twirling a powder-blue kerchief between her fingers, I gulp. She’s the tiniest woman who’s ever scared me.
“Miss Jacobs, please sit down.” She gestures to one of the overstuffed leather chairs across from her desk. I plant myself in it, and unlike the couch upstairs, this one is exactly as hard and uncomfortable as it looks. I fidget as the brass buttons dig into my butt. I see Juliet watching me and wrinkling her nose. “What can I do for you today?”
“I wanted to talk to you about switching to pairs for the summer,” I say. Best just to dive right in, and also I want to end this conversation as quickly as possible and get out of here. I’m not positive, but I worry that Juliet has the power to smell hockey on me.
“Well, that is very unorthodox,” she says. Her accent is odd, a mix of American English and a twinge of Canadian, with some French and possibly Russian undertones.
“I know, but I was just hoping to try something new, after, well …” I’m not quite sure what I was going to say, but it seemed like a good idea to come up with an excuse. Under Juliet’s steely gaze, my mind goes blank.
“Yes, I know about your history,” she says. There’s a long pause, and I wonder if she wants me to talk about it. From what I gathered from Ivy and Sloane Emily, something happened a few years ago that took Sloane out of competition, and it’s been a while since she’s skated. Apparently this summer is supposed to be some kind of comeback, but it looks like that won’t be happening. “Normally it would be impossible, as we invite a certain number of singles skaters and a certain number of pairs skaters to the program. You are very lucky that Miranda Bates broke her ankle before arrival.”
Being Sloane Jacobs Page 11
