Being Sloane Jacobs (26 page)

Andy and I spend the rest of the afternoon holed up in a practice room working on our side-by-side jumps in sneakers. Constant work is the only thing that can distract me from thoughts of Nando. I’m landing the single axel perfectly, mostly because it’s a cleaner version of a sloppy trick jump my team and I used to practice when we were
clowning around. A double salchow, however, is a whole other story. But after hours of jumps and spins, Andy breaking it down, and me falling on my butt on the gym mats, I feel ready to try it on the ice. Tomorrow morning we have another one of our extra sessions with Katinka, and we decide we’ll give it a shot. What’s the worst that could happen? I break my leg, and then I can’t embarrass myself in front of a crowd at the end-of-summer show.

By dinner I’m sore, exhausted, and starving. I skip a shower and head straight down to the dining hall. I’m midway through my second plate of gluten-free rice noodles and tofu meatballs in marinara when a magazine slams down on the table next to my plate. The shock of it causes me to drop my fork, and a meatless ball rolls across the parquet floor next to me.

“Jeez, Ivy. Wear a bell.”

“You do not want to mess with me right now,” she says, her Southern accent out in all its venomous glory.

“I beg to differ,” I mutter. I stab at another tofu ball, but it skitters off my plate and rolls across the table. Ivy takes a swipe at it, sending it careening clear onto the floor.

“I
knew
there was something off about you.” Ivy shoves the magazine closer to me. It’s an issue of
People
. In one of the sidebars on the cover is a picture of a man with an army-close haircut and an expensive-looking suit. Underneath his picture is a screaming white headline:
SENATOR
’
S STEAMY SECRET
. I try to read the blurb below it, but Ivy snatches the magazine away.

“I figured you were just hiding from that pathetic performance at nationals. Or maybe you actually
had
lost it. But that’s not it at all, is it? You never lost it, because you never had it. Because you’re not
her
at all, are you?”

Ivy flips the magazine open with such force that the cover page tears a little. She whips through to a page she’s marked by folding down the corner. Then she slams a pink-polished finger down onto a page so hard her finger nearly tears through. The ink below it smudges, but it doesn’t matter. All I can focus on is the headline, in big black letters, all capitalized, so that it’s practically screaming: JACOBS’S AFFAIR WITH STAFFER HAS WASHINGTON TONGUES WAGGING. Accompanying it is a family photo, one of those formal posed ones in front of a soft gray background. The father and mother are seated in ornate mahogany chairs, and the children stand behind them, their smiles as wooden as the furniture, their hands placed stiffly on their parents’ shoulders.

I only recognize one face: Sloane Emily. The picture must be from a couple of years ago, because Sloane Emily’s hair is shorter, just skimming her shoulders, and she’s wearing a plaid dress with a stiff white collar that only a mother could have picked out. Her openmouthed grin shows off an imperfect smile, with her two front teeth slightly apart, the left one a bit crooked.

I look up at Ivy, then back down at the picture, then back up at Ivy again. Her eyes are narrowed, but she’s smiling. I can see a spot where her lipstick is escaping her lips and creeping down the corner of her mouth. I focus on
it, because it makes the overall impression of her seem a lot less terrifying.

“What are you going to do?” I say finally.

“That depends.” Her voice drops to a whispered growl. “I don’t know who you are, but you don’t belong here. I knew it from the first moment I saw you, and now I know why. You have two options: fake a broken ankle and drop out of the show, or pack your bags and take your trailer-trash ass out of here before I take this magazine to the director.”

My heart is pounding so hard I feel it in my fingertips. In that moment, I feel this weird tug inside me. My blood is boiling. I may have become an ice princess, but my hockey instincts are still there. Maybe Ivy thought that just because there are people around, I wouldn’t make a scene. That I’d bow my head and slink away quietly so she can take all the glory. And I’m ready to do it. I can swallow my anger. I can put away my fight face. I can walk away. I look up at her.

She’s still smiling smugly. “So what’s it gonna be? Are you gonna go home like a good girl, or do I have to
make
you go home?”

And then she winks at me.

Without even thinking I reach for the plate of pasta floating in a river of bright red sauce. In one swift, rather graceful movement that I can only attribute to my weeks of training, I lift the plate over Ivy’s head and turn, sending pasta and sauce cascading down her blond locks.

Her voice comes out low and growling, and if her
cheeks weren’t already stained the color of marinara, I bet I’d see heat rising in them. “You trailer trash bitch,” she says through clenched teeth.

I snap. I lunge first at the magazine, and when I can’t get it out of her hands, I tackle her. She pitches over backward, landing flat on her butt with a thud and a loud “Oof!” I catch a glimpse of her face, which conveys total shock.

She’s about to meet the
real
Sloane Jacobs.

Ivy clutches the magazine with one hand, but she frees up the other to grab my ponytail. She gives it a hard yank, which throws me off balance. I roll to one side of her, and she scrambles to her feet. Before she can run, I grab one of the straps on her stupid sandals. A sparkly flower comes off in my hand. It’s enough to send her stumbling forward again. Instead of running, though, she turns and starts swatting me with the magazine. I reach for it, but she yanks it away.

A crowd is gathering, and I hear people shouting my name. But all I can think about is getting that magazine.

I lunge for her, but she slides backward on her butt until she’s practically under one of the tables. I grab a chair and fling it aside, ready to go in after her, but I feel a firm grip on the waistband of my jeans. In seconds, I’m being dragged back. I make one final reach for Ivy and the magazine, but it’s too late.

I feel a hand wrap around my arm and jerk me to my feet.

“What ees going on here?” It’s Sergei. He reaches under
the table, grabs Ivy’s arm, and in one move has her out and on her feet. She glares at me.

“Yeah,
Sloane
, what’s going on here?”

I look around and see my fellow campers. Bee is staring at me with a wide-eyed, horrified look. Andy is standing slightly back from the crowd, one hand over his face while he shakes his head. The others just stare openmouthed.

I swallow hard and blink, but nothing comes. I have no explanation, not even a lie. I don’t know what to say.

“Well?” Sergei asks, and when I look up at him, I see his normally stoic face has softened a little. He doesn’t look angry, he just looks confused.

I still don’t know what to say.

So I do the only thing I can think of: I turn on my heel, shove through the crowd, and bolt for the door.

CHAPTER 23

SLOANE EMILY

Matt and I are watching
Mystery, Alaska
, from the camp’s collection of hockey movies during our post-lunch rest period. I’ve never heard of it, but Matt claims it’s a classic. Honestly, we could be watching
Saw IV
, so long as I’m able to cuddle up next to him, his arm wrapped around me, his hand resting softly on my hip, my head nestled in that nook where his shoulder meets his chest. I can hear his heart thudding louder than I can hear the movie.

I’m surprised by how comfortable I feel with him. With Matt at my side, I don’t worry about my dad, or all those missed calls, or playing against Melody, or what will happen when the summer’s over.

I cuddle up even deeper into his side, breathing in the smell of his soap and deodorant, some kind of alpine-fresh smell that I can’t get enough of. He pulls me in tighter, planting a kiss on top of my head.

“Sloane.”

At the sound of my name, a bolt of terror runs down my spine. I immediately look up at Matt, even though I know he wasn’t the one to speak.

The person who did speak is a girl—a girl who shouldn’t be here, a girl who I’m supposed to be.

Please, God, let me have imagined it
.

Matt turns around, a look of confusion on his face.

Oh crap
.

I turn too. Sloane Devon is standing behind the couch. Her long dark hair is a rat’s nest. It seems to be knotted and held together by something thick and red. The collar of my favorite lavender fitted tee is ripped and hangs off one shoulder, exposing her bra strap, which also shows streaks of red. There’s a big red handprint across her midsection and what look like flecks of dirt on her face that, thanks to the fact that she smells like an Olive Garden, I suspect might be oregano.

All the blood in my body drains to my toes. Beads of sweat form behind my ears and underneath my eyes. It feels like someone’s taking slap shots in my digestive tract.

“We need to talk,” she says.

It appears the marinara has hit the fan.

“Now.”
Sloane Devon’s eyes flit back and forth from me to Matt, who’s staring at her and attempting to stifle laughter. I don’t blame him; I’d be laughing too, if I didn’t know what I know.

“I’ll be right back,” I manage to say, but it comes out in
a croaking voice that I don’t recognize as my own. I leap off the couch, nearly tumbling over the coffee table to avoid looking at Matt’s face, and jerk my head toward the back door. Sloane Devon shoves it open, apparently expecting the door to be made of lead. It clangs open and smacks into the outside wall.

“What are you doing here?” I say as soon as we’re outside.

“Someone knows,” she says. “
Ivy
knows.”

“What?”

“Ivy knows.”

“I heard you,” I snap. “I mean
what
exactly does she know?”

“She knows I’m not you, so I’m guessing it won’t be long before she fills in the blanks,” Sloane Devon says. “Does it matter what
exactly
she knows? She’s going to turn me in. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds out you’re posing as me.”

“Oh my God.” I take a long, deep breath. A thousand questions are whizzing through my brain, but I settle on one. “When?”

“I mean, she may want to wash the spaghetti out of her hair first, which could buy us an hour or so.” Sloane Devon shakes her head. “Regardless, this thing is over.”

“How?”

Sloane Devon looks down at her shoes: my favorite black flip-flops with the black rhinestones on the straps. I had the cushy black foam perfectly molded to my skater feet, the
arches dipped in slightly from where I roll my feet when I walk. Not only are they now fitted to Sloane Devon’s feet, but they’re also caked with red sauce, which squishes between her toes. My mom always said they looked cheap and wanted me to throw them out. Looks like she’ll finally get her way.

“Sloane, how did she find out?” I ask again. There’s a weird throbbing starting in my head.

Her eyes finally meet mine. “There was an article in
People
about your dad,” she says slowly. “It has a family photo.”

The beads of sweat behind my ears are now turning into tiny rivers. My hair is starting to stick to it, and it’s making me feel hot.

“What … what’s the article about?” I can barely say it.

Sloane Devon looks back down at her toes, but this time she keeps talking. “There was some kind of scandal. With your dad. I didn’t read it, but …” She trails off, and I fill in the blanks. I nod so she knows she can stop, and she looks relieved. “So what are we going to do?”

I make a decision immediately. “We’re leaving. Both of us are getting out of here.” But Sloane Devon’s no longer looking at me. She’s staring over my shoulder.

“Sloane, what the hell is going on?”

I turn around and see Matt, his tall frame filling the open doorway. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there, but from the mixture of anger, confusion, and hurt in his eyes, it was long enough. “You’re not …” He shakes his
head, as if it will help him shake some sense into this situation. “You’re not Sloane?”

“I am—”

“But she said she was pretending to be you,” he says. He points to Sloane Devon, and recognition flickers across his face. “I know you,” he says to her. “I recognize you from that tournament in West Chester. You’re the girl who high-sticked a ref.”

“Allegedly,” Sloane Devon snaps.

“It’s really hard to explain,” I say desperately.

“Just tell him. It’ll be easier,” Sloane Devon says. “Trust me.”

I groan, then turn back to Matt. “Look, my name is Sloane Jacobs. And so is hers. We met the night before camp and we decided to switch places, so she went to figure skating camp, and I went to hockey camp, and we pretended to be each other for the summer.”

Matt is staring at me with disbelief, obviously doing some mental acrobatics, trying to separate fact from fiction. It looks like the results are not coming out in my favor. His eyes narrow, and he crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

“So all this time, you’ve been lying to me?”

“Not really,” I say. “I mean, about little things, like I’m from Philadelphia or know how to play hockey, but almost everything else is true.”

“
Almost
everything else?” he echoes. “The little
things
?”

When I hear my words repeated back to me, I realize how ridiculous I sound. “Matt, it’s not as bad as it seems.…”

“It’s worse,” he says. His eyes are narrowed and any trace of that easy grin is gone. “Sloane, you lied about
who you are
. You made me jump through all these hoops to show you that you could trust me, when it turns out all along you’ve been lying about
everything
.”

“I’m really sorry,” I say. Because what else can I tell him? But I realize all at once how insufficient it sounds, like I dinged his car or dropped his phone in the toilet or something else that doesn’t involve lying to him about who I am.