Being Sloane Jacobs

by Lauren Morrill

  Then I tell her that I went to see Sloane Emily, and that we’re on our way out of the country. When I finish my story, Bee’s eyes are so wide they look like they’re going to take over her face.

  “I guess I can see why you did it. I mean, how often do you meet someone with the exact same name?”

  “Exactly,” I say. Man, I hope my dad and Coach Butler see it the same way. I’m reminded of the Twilight Zone–style vertigo I felt back at the hotel when Sloane and I first figured out we shared a name, a height, and the same dark hair.

  “But you had to learn to freaking figure skate.” She shakes her head. “You had to give up most of your summer. Why would you want to go through all that?”

  “That’s why,” I say.

  “I don’t get it.” She furrows her brow.

  “I was trying to ignore some things, get away for a while, you know? I wanted to give up my whole summer. I wanted to give up me. Which is also the reason I didn’t tell anyone the truth. Because then I’d have to talk about the exact things I was trying to get away from in the first place.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize they’re true.

  “Well, you can talk about them now,” she says.

  “I have to finish packing.”

  “Fine,” she says. She stands up and flings my suitcase up onto the bed, flipping the lid open. “Pack and talk.”

  I start pulling articles of clothing off the hangers and shoving them into the suitcase. I take the tissue-paper-thin gray cami that I wore the first day I was Sloane Emily off the hanger. I remember thinking this whole thing was only going to last a day, two days tops. And now here I am, almost four weeks later, shocked and more than a little sad that it’s actually all falling apart.

  “My mom is in rehab,” I blurt out. I keep my focus on the gray cami. It’s the first time I’ve ever said it out loud, and I have to slam my mouth shut to keep a gasping sob from following it. I take a deep breath and glance over at Bee, who is still calmly and methodically folding a stack of jeans.

  “It’s been a couple years coming, and she finally got in an accident while she was, you know.” I can’t quite bring myself to say the ugly word out loud. “Drunk.” It sounds so dirty and gritty, like I’m living in an episode of The Wire, which is probably what most of these preppy kids would think if they knew the truth about me. Bee still doesn’t say anything, just places the stack of jeans in snug next to Sloane’s hoodie, the only one she packed, with big block letters spelling out “Brown.”

  “Things have been so crappy. I haven’t felt right, you know? And I kept exploding on the ice. My ice. I play hockey.” I’m surprised by how strange it feels to say that out loud, in this nice room, surrounded by an explosion of Ivy’s pink things.

  Bee just nods and keeps packing, folding all the items I toss onto the bed. Now that I’ve started speaking, I find I can’t stop.

  “I got into a big fight at my last game. I started it. My coach talked to my dad, who, by the way, has barely spoken to me since Mom’s accident, and the next thing I knew, I was getting shipped off, just like my mom. Only I was supposed to spend four weeks at hockey camp. And then I met Sloane—the other Sloane, I mean. She had this perfect life. You should have seen her hotel room. It was the size of my whole house! So when she suggested the switch, it seemed like the perfect solution. The best way not to think about the things that make me feel like I’m cracking up, was to not, you know, be me.”

  Bee takes the gray cami out of my hands, folds it, and places it on top of a stack in the suitcase. She flips the lid closed and pushes it back, making a space on the bed next to her. Then she turns her green eyes to mine. “Sloane, sit down.”

  I sit, but I’m still stiff as a board. My hands are clenched tight, as if I’m holding my tears in my palms and if I loose my grip, they’ll come tumbling out.

  “Sloane, I understand. I really do—more than you know. When my dad’s alcoholism got bad, I would have done anything to just run away and hide from the problem.”

  She says it like it’s nothing. “Alcoholism.” Clinical, but the weight of the word makes me stop and look hard at her. She’s said the word a lot, but it still hurts her a little, I can tell.

  Bee finally breaks her gaze and looks down at her hands, which are folded in her lap. “Things were bad. He got so drunk at one of my brother’s basketball games that he got in a fistfight with one of the other dads. It took three other parents plus two security guards to break it up, and the whole thing ended up on the local TV. It was so embarrassing. It wasn’t long after that when he finally admitted what his problem was and got help.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Well, it’s not a cure, but he did the whole twelve-step thing, making amends and all that. And I couldn’t forgive him right away. I still can’t. But things get better a little bit every day.”

  “That’s good,” I say, barely able to breathe. I wonder if Mom’s going to apologize, if we’re actually going to talk about things no one has mentioned in my house for years—that I used to have to carry her up to bed. That she missed birthdays. That she put me in the car with her when she was drunk.

  Bee smiles at me and squeezes my hand. “Do you want me to help you finish getting your stuff together?”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I need some time alone, I think.”

  “All right.” Bee reaches over and envelops me in a hug. A real hug, one that tests my ribs and squeezes the air out of my lungs. “I’m so bummed I won’t get to see you skate. You were getting so good. I would have loved to see your big moment out there.”

  “Thanks, Bee,” I say into a big tuft of her red curly hair.

  “Stay in touch. You can call anytime. I’m happy just to listen, okay?”

  “Thanks,” I say again, only this time it comes out as a tiny whisper. The lump in my throat is rising dangerously high.

  When Bee stands up, I swipe at my cheeks. As soon as the door closes behind her, I go to the last item in the closet, Sloane Emily’s fleece jacket. I pull the stack of letters from my mother out of the pocket and sit back down on the bed. I find the one with the oldest postmark, the one that came first, then slide my finger under the seal.

  Dear Sloane,

  Before I say anything else, I need to tell you that I’m so sorry.…

  And then the lump in my throat explodes. The tears pour out. They run down my cheeks, my neck, and pool in my collarbone. I gasp so hard from the sobs that I start hiccuping. The tears are so thick that I can barely keep reading.

  But I do.

  CHAPTER 25

  SLOANE EMILY

  The Montreal airport is a cavernous, glass-paneled building with soaring ceilings. I’m parked on a bench by the ticketing kiosks scanning the crowd for Sloane Devon. I look down at my watch: 11:20. She needs to get here in the next ten minutes if we’re going to make check-in for our flights.

  There’s a bank of TV screens hanging over the automatic doors across from the benches. The chattering of travelers and the squeak of suitcases rolling across the floor means I can’t hear, but the subtitles are nice and large.

  The first screen is showing an infomercial for some product that consists of elastic bands and multicolored balls that’s supposed to make you buff like Arnold Schwarzenegger. The next is showing a cartoon flashing so many colors I’m surprised children don’t get seizures while watching it. The next three are all showing cable news, two from the U.S. and the third from some Canadian equivalent of CNN. As I watch, all three screens flip to the same image.

  I blink a few times, but the image doesn’t go away.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Washington loves a sex scandal.

  My dad steps out of a building I don’t recognize and approaches about a million microphones all pointed directly at him. I see him smooth his tie, a nervous habit he’s had since his very first election. He never speaks without smoothing his tie.

  His mouth starts to move, but I can’t hear. It takes a moment before the clos
ed-captioning catches up with him.

  TODAY I HAVE DISGRACED MY OFFICE. I HAVE DISGRACED MY CONSTITUENCY. WORSE, I HAVE DISGRACED MY FAMILY, AND FOR THAT I AM TRULY SORRY. I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU ALL HAVE JOBS TO DO, AND THAT THIS IS A STORY YOU FEEL YOU NEED TO REPORT. I ONLY ASK THAT YOU RESPECT THE PRIVACY OF MY WIFE AND CHILDREN, WHO WILL BE HAVING A HARD ENOUGH TIME WORKING THROUGH THE HURT AND ANGUISH I’VE CAUSED THEM. THEY DO NOT DESERVE WHAT I’VE DONE TO THEM, AND THEY DO NOT DESERVE TO BE TORMENTED FOR MY MISTAKES. SUSAN, JAMES, AND SLOANE, I AM TRULY SORRY.

  All three screens switch back to a studio shot, where three overly coiffed anchors immediately start dissecting his apology. I want to throw something heavy at all five TVs, the infomercials and cartoons included. I want to break things. I want to scream.

  But most of all, I want to run away. I want to run farther and faster than I did four weeks ago when I decided to be someone else.

  The automatic doors slide open, and Sloane Devon strides in pulling my rolling suitcase, my skate bag over her shoulder. She spots me, waves, and weaves through the crowd.

  “We have to go back,” I gasp.

  She just stares at me. “Are you out of your mind?”

  My whole body is shaking. “I just saw my dad on TV. If I go home, they’re just going to stick their cameras and their microphones in my face. They’re going to shout at me on the street and take my picture. I’ll go to the grocery store and I’ll see my stupid family pictures at the checkout line. I can’t go back!”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down,” she says. She drops both bags and places her hands on my shoulders. “But where are we going to go?”

  I hadn’t gotten much farther than hiding out in the airport until security made me leave. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not ready to go home yet. I’m not ready to leave. I worked so hard.…”

  Sloane Devon looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “This is insane. There’s no way I can go back! Ivy is waiting to out me to the whole world.”

  “Then don’t let her!” I say.

  “I attacked her with fake pasta product!” she practically shrieks. “I’ll be lucky if they don’t handcuff me on sight.”

  “Do what you want,” I tell her. I pick up her gear bag and heave it over my shoulder. “You can fly back to Philly. But I worked too damn hard this summer to let it all go before it’s done—before I’m done. I’m going back, and I’m going to play.”

  Sloane stares at me. Then, to my surprise, she starts laughing. “You really are a whole new Sloane Jacobs, aren’t you?”

  “And you’re just the same old one running away,” I say. It’s mean, and I know it. Her eyes go wide like I’ve slapped her.

  I charge through the automatic doors so fast they nearly don’t open in time. I step right up to the curb and raise my hand for the next cab, which screeches to a halt in front of me. The driver scurries around the car and starts tossing my bags into the trunk. I slide into the backseat. I hear the trunk slam, and then he’s back in the driver’s seat.

  “Where to?” he says.

  I open my mouth to respond but don’t get a chance.

  “We’re making two stops, actually,” Sloane Devon says, as she slides into the seat next to me.

  CHAPTER 26

  SLOANE DEVON

  I was worried someone was going to snag me the moment I walked through the front door at BSI; worried that maybe they’d even send Sergei to use some of his Ukrainian muscle to get rid of me.

  But no one pays any attention to me at all.

  Skaters rush past me, some already dressed in stretchy, shiny, sparkly skating costumes, skate bags slung over their shoulders and makeup kits clutched in their hands. Ella St. Clair is in the corner on one of the antique chairs with Caitlin Hanson towering over her, furiously french-braiding her hair. Two other skaters linger next to them waiting for their turn. There’s a visible cloud of glitter hanging in the air like a haze.

  Good. Maybe it will help me stay incognito.

  A group of junior girls dart past me, probably on their way to catch the next shuttle to the rink. Today’s performance will take place at a huge arena at the University of Montreal, with full lights, even a kiss-and-cry: a spot off the side of the rink where, after our performance is done, we’ll sit and wait for our scores, and cry out of either happiness or total despair. I had to get Andy to explain to me what exactly that is, and I’m dreading it almost more than the actual performance itself.

  Suddenly, a hand clamps down on my elbow. My first thought is that I’m busted.

  “Are you okay?” Andy spins me around to face him, gripping both my arms like it’s some kind of intervention, and I exhale. He’s already in his solid black spandex jumpsuit, sleeveless to show off his arms. I never knew a guy could rock a unitard so hard.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.” I have no idea if everyone heard why Ivy and I were engaged in fisticuffs, or if people just assume I’m some psycho who beats up the competition. Dear God, please let it be the psycho theory.

  “Well, after your little food fight and your quick departure, Ivy stood there carrying on about how you were an imposter. It was an epic meltdown. Katinka shut her down and sent her off to get ready for the competition. I think thanks to her almighty hysterics, no one really heard the truth; or if they did, they don’t believe it. Thank God she always was a drama queen.”

  “Thank God,” I say, and I actually feel my pulse slow down by about half. I didn’t realize my heart was staging a rave inside my chest. “Are you sure no one saw the magazine?”

  “Girl, these kids have had nothing but rhinestones and lutzes on their minds for weeks. None of them are paying attention to CNN.” Andy sizes me up. “Does this mean you’re skating?”

  “If you’ll let me,” I say, and I feel my pulse quicken again.

  Andy raises his eyebrows practically through his forehead. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you could get in trouble for helping me,” I say. “Or at the very least, I could make you look bad out there.”

  “First of all, I don’t give a rat’s ass if people know I helped you, because second, you’re not going to make me look bad.” Andy crosses his arms. “When people see what I’ve done for you, they’re going to be begging me to coach them. How do you think I’m going to make a living someday? You, girl, are my golden ticket.”

  “No pressure, then, huh?” I try to laugh, but all that comes out is a squeak.

  “Quit it with the ‘woe is me’ crap and go get dressed,” he says. He spins me around and points me toward the stairs.

  I look over my shoulder and stick my tongue out at him, and he swats me lightly on the butt. We head up the stairs and I turn left to go to my room. Andy grabs my arm again.

  “No need to run into Ivy until you’re actually on the ice. Why ruin the surprise? You can get ready in my room.”

  CHAPTER 27

  SLOANE EMILY

  I sprint into the arena, dodging spectators and nearly taking out a little blond girl with Sloane Devon’s massive gear bag. I hike it up on my shoulder again and another small child has to duck out of my way.

  I make it through the crowd on the mezzanine and push toward the stairs leading down to the ice. There’s already a decent crowd in the stands, not to mention the crowd I just swam through in the mezzanine. Of all the things I’d pictured when I imagined playing this game, I never thought about the fact that there would actually be people watching me.

  Oh crap.

  I point my gaze at the concrete tunnel at the bottom of the stairs that leads to the locker room. Don’t worry about the crowd. You’ll be okay. Get dressed. Skate.

  I hustle down the stairs and push through the heavy metal door. Instantly, I’m greeted by a frazzled-looking Cameron, clad in full gear, her dreads braided in pigtails.

  “Where have you been? You are so incredibly late!” She takes my gear bag off my shoulder and gestures for me to follow her through the maze of benches and lockers. “I thought y
ou were dead in a ditch somewhere. I was afraid we’d have to bring Trina up from the B team.”

  “As long as your priorities are in order,” I reply.

  “You wanna joke, or you wanna play hockey? Because Trina would be psyched to be able to fall on her face with the varsity team.” Trina’s an okay player, except for her persistent problem of tripping over her own skates as soon as she shoots.

  “Sorry, I just had to take care of a few things,” I say.

  A look of concern passes across her face. “Is everything okay? I asked Matt where you were, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.” We stop in front of my locker, and Cameron drops my bag at my feet. My stomach drops with it.

  “What did he say?” I croak out. Matt could have told Cameron the truth. He could have told everyone the truth. For all I know, Coach Hannah is waiting by the ice to drag me away for questioning under a hot light somewhere.

  Cameron shrugged. “He said if I was looking for Sloane, I needed to be more specific. Lovers’ quarrel already?”

  “Not exactly—” I start, but she cuts me off.

  “Whatever, you can tell me later. It’s game time.”

  I don’t want to keep lying to Cameron. She’s my only real friend here—or anywhere, for that matter. It really sucked to have Matt look at me like I’m a lying liar, but it would probably be worse to have Cameron hate me. I want to tell her, but I know her well enough by now to know that now is not the time. I can’t confess to lying about who I am for four weeks and expect her to trust me on the ice.

  “Remind me to tell you something after the game, okay?” I’m going to tell her the whole truth. I just hope we win, because she’ll be too happy to care. And then maybe I can keep my friend.