Being Sloane Jacobs

by Lauren Morrill

  I glance down the block at my parents, who are pretending to have a conversation to hide the fact that they’re blatantly staring at us.

  “They want to know if I’m going to play hockey anymore,” I say. My voice is still all quavery.

  “Are you?” He brushes a strand of dark hair behind my ear. The feel of his fingertips on my cheek sends chills up my spine.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Well, I don’t think I was wrong before, Sloane,” he says. “I think you do love it. I think you’re just scared.”

  “Do you love it?” I ask him.

  He gives a soft laugh. “More than almost anything.”

  “Me too,” I blurt out. And then I realize it’s true: I love hockey. I always have. That’s why I ran away from it. When my mom went away, and then it seemed like I was losing hockey, too, I couldn’t face it. I ran. At first it was by being a rage freak on the ice, and then it was by becoming Sloane Emily.

  But even after all of it, I still love hockey. And I want it back.

  “I’ve been thinking that maybe this just isn’t the right place for me. Not that the Canadian government or an expired student visa has anything to do with that,” he says with a little laugh. “But I have been thinking about contacting some other schools, maybe meeting with some coaches. I don’t know if I’m still good enough—”

  “You are,” I tell him. He reaches his arms around me and pulls me in again, close enough that I can feel his heartbeat in his chest.

  “Well, it sounds like we’ll both be looking at schools,” he says, smiling.

  “Maybe even making some visits together,” I say.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he replies, and pulls me in for a kiss.

  When Nando and I finally say goodbye, I walk back down the sidewalk to where my parents are waiting. They’re staying in a hotel in town. Tomorrow we’ll all drive back to Philly together.

  “Is everything okay?” Mom asks.

  I turn and catch a final glimpse of Nando’s taillights as they disappear over the hill.

  “Everything is perfect,” I say. “Or close enough, anyway.” Then we climb into the car, all three of us together, and drive off into the night.

  EPILOGUE

  SLOANE DEVON

  I check my phone: 11:45. She was supposed to be here at 11:30. No text, either. I only have until 12:30. Then I have to meet my mom to head over to tour Mount Vernon. I might as well go ahead and order. Mom and I are here doing a little U.S. history–themed tourism trip around DC to celebrate the end of rehab. Dad couldn’t come because he just started a new job.

  There’s no one else in line at the Starbucks in Dupont Circle, where Sloane Emily and I arranged to meet.

  “I’ll have a tall cinnamon latte,” I tell the gangly barista behind the counter. Silver rings are stacked on his black-polished fingers.

  “What kind of milk?” His speech is slow and bored.

  “Skim,” I reply. I check my phone again.

  “Name?”

  “Sloane,” I say.

  “Hey, that’s my name!”

  I whip around to see Sloane Emily standing behind me, looking almost exactly the same as when I last left her in Montreal, only she’s cut about five inches off her hair and added some red and gold highlights to her new shaggy bob. I wonder what her mom thinks about that.

  “Small world,” I reply, and hug her. She orders a venti iced green tea, and the barista doesn’t notice our matching names. Then we make our way over to a small round table in the window. Outside it’s a warm summer day, though there’s a touch of a chill in the breeze to let us know that fall is coming.

  “Yay! I’m so glad we could get together,” Sloane Emily says, clapping her hands.

  “Yeah, my mom is so lost in the Cold War exhibit at the Smithsonian that she didn’t mind if I disappeared for an hour or so.” Mom is one of those museumgoers who isn’t just content to look at the displays. She actually reads every single placard. It makes a stroll through a gallery last hours, and I definitely don’t have the patience. I tried to be interested for as long as I could, but I was really glad to have this time to escape and catch up with Sloane Emily.

  “How is your mom?” Sloane asks.

  “Good,” I reply. “She seems … better.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Dad and I went out there to do some of these family sessions with her before she finished up. It was really weird. Lots of apologizing and crying. But I think it really helped,” I say.

  “That’s really great, Sloane,” Sloane Emily says.

  The barista calls out “Sloane,” then a brief pause, then “Sloane” again. I look up and see him double-checking the names on the cups. I start to go for the drinks, but Sloane Emily beats me to it, bounding out of her chair and over to the bar where our drinks are waiting.

  SLOANE EMILY

  “So how’re things with your family?” Sloane Devon asks. It’s a question I’ve been getting over and over, from classmates and coaches and reporters, and every time it’s sounded like nails on a chalkboard to me. But when Sloane Devon asks, I’m surprised to feel my body relax.

  “Eh,” I say, because I’ve never actually answered the question with anything other than “Fine” before. I’m not quite sure how to answer it honestly.

  “That bad?”

  I sigh. “No, it’s not really bad. I mean, it’s kind of awful sometimes. The Internet is having a field day with Dad. Conservative senator in a sex scandal? Those headlines practically write themselves. But he’s being really stoic about it, and sort of just focusing on work.”

  “He’s still, uh, working?”

  “Yeah. He refuses to resign, so we’ll see what happens in the next election.” I frown. “Amy left to do PR for some movie studio in LA. Dad says that’s over, but he’s moved into this sad little condo in Georgetown. I don’t think Mom’s ready to—” I pause. I feel my lower lip start to tremble, my eyes welling up a little. I take a deep breath and wipe at the tear that’s trying to escape my left eye. I take another deep breath and shake out my new short hair. It’s a move I’ve perfected, and I do it any time I feel like I might fall to pieces. I square my shoulders, and I’m back. “Anyway, it’s not great, but it’s not the living worst or anything. We’ll see. We’re talking, at least.”

  “That’s really good, Sloane,” she says. She takes a long sip of her latte, and I have a moment to really look at her. She’s back in her ratty old jeans, the ones with the holes formed through years of wear. She looks pretty much the same as she did when we first met, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail, only this time her T-shirt is a little more fitted, and … are those? They are cap sleeves! Maybe four weeks in my wardrobe did her good after all.

  “Oh! I almost forgot the reason I wanted to get together,” I say, reaching for my tote bag, the one I got from Brown when Mom and I took the admissions tour last week. “I mean, other than to catch up and all that.” I pull the mound of blue fabric out of the bag and place it on the table.

  SLOANE DEVON

  “That’s your camp jersey,” I say. I push it back across the table at her. “That’s not mine.”

  She looks at it and arches an eyebrow at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Dude, you need some kind of souvenir from this whole thing,” I reply. “Why not the jersey from the game that you totally rocked?”

  “I didn’t totally rock. More like Kenny G’ed it,” she says. Her cheeks flush a bright pink.

  “That’s not what Matt said.” I watch as a grin twitches in the corner of her mouth.

  SLOANE EMILY

  My stomach does a little backflip at the mention of Matt. “You saw him?”

  “I ran into him at a preseason jamboree,” she says. “A bunch of the high schools got together to play challenge games, and he was playing. Well, when he wasn’t mooning over you. He pretty much thinks the sun shines out of your ass.”

  I feel my cheeks get hot again. Matt and I have been email
ing, texting, G-chatting, and talking on the phone constantly since I returned from Canada. I haven’t seen him at all, but next weekend he’s taking the train down to DC. Just the thought of it has me buzzing out of my chair.

  “Speaking of romance, how’s Nando?” This time it’s Sloane Devon’s turn to squirm. She crosses and uncrosses her arms, shifting around in her chair like she’s in an FBI interrogation, but I see a slight smile start to form.

  “Good,” she finally croaks, then clears her throat. “He’s good.”

  SLOANE DEVON

  “Good” doesn’t even begin to cover Nando. It’s like he won the life lottery these last couple weeks. Back when he was first looking at colleges, Boston University had been recruiting him hard, so when he called their coach to let him know he was looking to play again, the guy practically chartered a plane to come pick him up in Montreal. Nando flew down for a tryout, and it went really well.

  But not as well as his UPenn tryout.

  It turns out the UPenn team suffered a few injuries in the off-season, thanks to an ill-advised drunken rafting trip. After viewing Nando’s tryout DVD from his first round of college searches, the coach promptly called him down for a meeting and an in-person tryout. And so, in three weeks, Nando will be moving down to Philly to take a couple second-session summer classes so he’ll be eligible for spring hockey.

  When I tell all this to Sloane Emily, she squeals so loud that a Yorkie passing by on the sidewalk barks at her.

  “Dude, chill,” I say, but I can barely contain the cheesy, toothy grin on my face.

  “Sloane and Nando, sittin’ in a tree,” she sings. I toss a hunk of banana walnut bread right at her face. She bats it away, breathing deeply to recover from her giggle fit.

  SLOANE EMILY

  “I still can’t believe it worked,” I say. I think back to my first scrimmage, when I was wearing so many pads at least no one could see me shaking like a leaf. Sure, I’d played plenty of street hockey in our driveway with James, but I never ever thought I’d be out on the ice for real. “Can you believe we actually did all that?”

  “Not even a little bit,” Sloane Devon replies. “It was worth it, though, right?”

  The question hangs there in the air for a moment. Sloane Devon’s gaze goes over my shoulder, out the window and into oblivion while she ponders her own question. I stare down into my iced tea, trying to find a pattern in the ice cubes floating on the top.

  “Yeah, it was,” I say, and as soon as it comes out, I know it’s the truth. Sure, it took a couple weeks for my bruises to fade, and my knees still haven’t quite forgiven me for four weeks of crash-course hockey.

  But well, then there’s Matt.

  Across the table, I see Sloane Devon smiling, and I wonder if she’s thinking about Nando. Her cheeks flush, and she shoves a giant chunk of banana walnut bread into her mouth. Yeah, definitely thinking about Nando.

  “Would you do it again?” I ask.

  “I don’t know if we could get away with it again,” she says.

  “Sloane!” The barista barks out the name, holding up an iced coffee. He looks back at the side of the cup, where a name has been scrawled in black Sharpie. “Sloane J?”

  I look down at my iced green tea, then over at Sloane Devon’s nearly full latte.

  “Did you?” I ask her.

  “No, did you?” She arches an eyebrow at me.

  The barista takes one last look at the cup and barks again: “Sloane J!”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m pretty sure I’m one of the luckiest authors in the world; I am surrounded by a team of sassy, stylish, talented professionals. First and foremost, I have to thank Lexa Hillyer and Lauren Oliver. I can’t imagine anyone else filling your (totally fabulous) shoes. Big thanks also goes to Beth Scorzato, who is an incredible editor and author wrangler. She kept me on track and sane during the craziest of deadlines. Everyone at Paper Lantern Lit, you guys rock! Thanks to Stephen Barbara, whom I will never stop referring to as “a baller agent.” Thanks to Wendy Loggia, my editor at Delacorte Press, who is wonderful and encouraging and makes my words better. There are so many people at Delacorte who make books happen, and I’m lucky to have every one of them on my side.

  Thanks to all the incredible Tweeters, bloggers, and Facebookers who have been so supportive of me, especially Tara Gonzalez (hobbitsies.net) and Sarah Blackstock (storyboundgirl.com), who have cheered me on since the beginning. Thanks to my Atlanta-area book crew, especially Vania Stoyanova, the Not So YA Book Club, and The Little Shop of Stories. Thanks to Corrie Wachob, Rachel Simon, and Mitali Dave for being readers, cheerleaders, and buddies.

  Big thanks for this book goes out to my derby teams, especially the Boston Massacre and the Wicked Pissahs. Without all your training and general badassery, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to write the action scenes in this book, and without hits from some of you, I wouldn’t have that great passage on gross injuries. Maude Forbid, Anna Wrecksya, Shark Week, Lil Paine, Ginger Kid, and Dusty, you guys are my besties and my heroes, on skates and off. Pissah Fo’ Life! BOSTON! BOSTON! PINCH PINCH PINCH!

  And of course, I couldn’t do any of this without the support of my family. Dad, thanks for buying me that long line of Mac laptops that helped keep the words flowing. Someday I’m going to write enough books to return the favor! Mom, thank you so much for reading drafts and spotting errors and in general helping me make a good impression on the world.

  And finally to Adam, who works harder than any person should so that I can stay home, watch YouTube videos of puppies, and sometimes write books. I love you lots and lots.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lauren Morrill grew up in Maryville, Tennessee, where she was a short-term Girl Scout, a (not so) proud member of the marching band, and a trouble-making editor for the school newspaper. She graduated from Indiana University with a major in history and a minor in rock and roll and lives in Macon, Georgia, with her husband and their dog, Lucy. When she’s not writing, she spends a lot of hours on the track getting knocked around playing roller derby.

  1

  Down and Dirty at Thirty Thousand Feet

  Have a gr8 trip—and feel FREE to do anything I wouldn’t do :) —P

  There are certain things in life that just suck. Pouring a big bowl of Lucky Charms before realizing the milk is expired, the word “moist,” falling face-first into the salad bar in front of the entire lacrosse team …

  “Bird strike!”

  Being on a plane with Jason Lippincott is another one of them.

  Two rows ahead of me, Jason is holding his hands up in mock prayer as our plane bounces like it’s on a bungee cord. Not that I would have any idea what bungee jumping feels like, since I would rather compete in a spelling bee in my underpants than leap off a crane with only a rope tied around me. At least I’d come away from the spelling bee with a medal.

  As the plane drops several hundred (thousand?) feet, I white-knuckle the armrest. Jason’s prayers may be a joke, but mine are very, very real. God, please deposit me safely on the ground in London … and in the process, maybe you could find a way to get Jason to shut it?

  I hate to fly. Seriously. HATE. IT. It seems wrong to be hurtling through the clouds at warp speed in a metal tube. It makes about as much sense as being flung over the ocean on a slingshot.

  I tuck my pocket Shakespeare into the seat back and carefully realign the magazines that have bounced out of formation on my tray table.

  “We’re going down!” That’s Jason again, of course.

  The plane bounces even worse than before. My knees crash into the tray table, sending my half-eaten package of peanuts and my entire stack of magazines raining into the aisle. I instinctively grab for the armrest once more, and the businessman next to me lets out a loud yelp.

  Oops. Not the armrest. His thigh. (I thought it felt a little flabby.)

  I mutter an apology and adjust my kung fu grip to the real armrest this time.

  Breathe. Breathe.
I close my eyes and try to picture Mark. Weirdly, the first image that comes into my head is his yearbook picture. He has the perfectly proportioned features of a model. A bright white smile with perfect teeth all lined up in a perfect row, except for that one tooth, three from the center, that is a teeny bit crooked, which I love, because it sort of shows off how straight the other ones are. And his thick, wavy brown hair is always in the right place, mussed just enough but not too much, without the aid of any greasy or crunchy hair product. Perfect. Just like him. I finally start to feel calm, like I’m coasting across the ocean on the back of a little songbird instead of strapped into a lumpy polyester seat.

  Then Jason lets out a loud “Woooo!”, shattering my Mark-inspired Zen.

  I sit up straight in my seat. Jason’s got his arms raised like he’s on a roller coaster. A pretty flight attendant glides up the aisle toward him. Good. If God can’t get Jason to shut it, maybe she can.

  I crane my neck for a better view of the scolding I know is coming his way. Instead, I see the flight attendant pass him a folded-up napkin, which he immediately opens to reveal a stack of chocolate chip cookies. From the way he’s handling them, all delicately, I can tell they’re still warm.

  The flight attendant flashes Jason a smile. He says something to her and she laughs. He acts like a jerk and still scores first-class snacks!

  “Oh my God. He is too much. Isn’t he hilarious?” It’s Sarah Finder, Newton North’s resident TMZ. She’s elbowing her seat-mate, Evie Ellston, in the ribs, nodding in Jason’s direction.

  “Seriously. Adorable. And the Scarlet thing is over, right?”

  “Way over. They broke up weeks ago.” Of course Sarah knows. Sarah always knows. So far, during the three hours and twenty-seven minutes we have been on this flight, Sarah and Evie have left no student undiscussed (except for me, possibly because the last time there was any gossip about me, it was in eighth grade, when Bryan Holloman taped a felt rose to my locker on Valentine’s Day. The only reason anyone cared was that, it came out the next day, the rose was actually meant for Stephenie Kelley). From my vantage point in the seat directly behind her, I’ve already heard about Amber Riley’s supposed nose job, Rob Diamos’s recent suspension for smoking cigarettes in the janitor’s closet, and the shame Laura Roberts was undergoing, having received her mother’s ’00 Honda instead of the brand-new Range Rover she’d been telling everyone she’d get.