Being Sloane Jacobs (14 page)

“Yeah, uh, I know him from home,” I say. “When we were little.” I instantly regret saying it. If for some reason Andy and Nando ever speak, it might come up that Nando’s from Philly and that I’m a big fat liar. I quickly shove four fries into my mouth so I can avoid answering any other questions.

This living-another-life thing is harder than I thought. Everywhere I look there’s some kind of truth landmine waiting to explode and expose me.

Although in Nando’s case … it just might be worth it.

CHAPTER 11

SLOANE EMILY

I’m at junior nationals, behind the judges’ table, waiting on the blue carpet to take the ice. All the girls are thirteen and fourteen, but I’m sixteen-year-old me wearing fourteen-year-old me’s powder-pink skating dress from my long program. I tower over the other girls. I’m worried I’ll trample them
.

Then I’m on the ice. I’m spinning, skating, taking the long arc around the end of the rink, picking up speed, ready for a triple. If I land it, first place is in the bag
.

Just before I leap, I glance up into the stands like I always do, and there are my parents, just like they always are. To Dad’s right, Mom’s wearing one of her impeccably tailored dresses, the powder-blue one that makes her black Irish eyes sparkle. But to his left, it’s not James, who would always try to rearrange his schedule to make my competitions. Instead, it’s a tall redhead in a gray pencil skirt and cream silk shirt, unbuttoned scandalously low. I don’t recognize her at first, because she’s so out of place, sort of like when you see your biology teacher at the gym and can’t quite place her
.

Then I realize: It’s Amy, my father’s press secretary. My eyes are on her as I leap, and they’re on her as I crash down on the ice. My eyes are on her while the crowd gasps. And my eyes are on her when she reaches over and kisses my father hard on the lips
.

I wake with a start, blinking, trying to remember why I’m in this tiny room. I spot the hockey stick leaning into the corner. It all comes back. I find Buddy Bear wedged between my bed and the wall and clutch him tightly, focusing on my breathing.

When I was little and would wake up from a nightmare after having accidentally watched a Stephen King movie on TV, my mom would make me some “coffee” in my pink Disney princess mug. Really it was just a glass of milk into which she’d toss a splash of decaf from her own coffee mug, but it made me feel grown up and never failed to calm me down. I eventually outgrew my nightmares, and thus my need for late-night comforting. But for the last few months, the nightmares have returned—this nightmare in particular. At home, I’ve taken to sneaking downstairs, my fuzzy socks sliding along the marble tile in the kitchen, to make my own coffee milk. These days it’s heavier on the french vanilla, with only a dash of skim milk. Doesn’t do much for my sleep patterns, but the warm, vanilla-flavored caffeine somehow soothes me.

But in this tiny cell of a room, there’s no Keurig and no marble, and Sloane Devon has my fuzzy socks on the other side of town.
So what would Sloane Devon do?

I creep out of bed and throw on some baggy flannel pajama pants. It’s warm in my room, so I leave the hoodie on the back of my desk chair and venture out in just the old white tank top I was sleeping in. On my way across the common area, I hold my breath, worried the door will squeak, worried the sound of my breath will be enough to wake Melody. The only thing worse than a nightmare would be the wrath incurred by waking my sleeping giant of a roommate.

I tiptoe down the hall and get in the elevator. The button for the basement, where I remember a tiny kitchenette from when Cameron and I went exploring earlier, is cracked and worn, and no matter how many times I punch it, it doesn’t light up. The elevator shudders to a start, though.

After what feels like minutes in the glacially slow elevator, the doors slide open to reveal the brown linoleum of the basement. Across the room, some old hockey game is crackling across the TV screen at low volume, but I don’t see anyone. Someone must have left it on. I’m happy to have a little sound—there’s nothing worse than the tense silence of a lonely basement.

I go toward the back corner, where an ancient kitchenette houses a fridge, a microwave, and a sink, and—thank God—a coffeemaker waits. I may actually be able to get a taste of home. But when I grab the pot to fill it with water, I notice the bottom of the glass is crusted with dried, crystallized dregs from whenever someone made coffee last (perhaps last summer, from the looks of the pot).

“Argh!” I sling the pot back into the coffeemaker. I feel completely pathetic. After going to such great lengths to run away from home, I’m standing in a dirty basement trying to find it again.

“Anything I can help with?”

The deep voice comes seemingly out of nowhere, and the shock sends me into a spinning jump that ends with me nearly sitting on the counter. Coupled with my insane acrobatics is a loud, girly yelp that sounds like I’ve just witnessed someone dropping a box of kittens on the floor. So much for my übertough hockey-girl façade.

“Wow, that was graceful.”

Matt O’Neill’s shaggy head peeks up from the back of a ratty dorm couch. His normally crazy hair has gone full-on mad scientist. A major cowlick is backlit by the glow of the TV screen. Or maybe it’s the light coming off his mile-wide brilliant white smile. I half expect him to hold up a tube of Colgate and start giving me a peppy pitch about tartar control.

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 blocks 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.