Being Sloane Jacobs (10 page)

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.

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 packed 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.