Being Sloane Jacobs (28 page)

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 you 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.

“Will do. Now you need to get your game face on,” she says. She pulls my jersey from the hanger that’s sticking out of the locker and tosses it on top of my head. “And your jersey, too.”

I pull the heavy blue jersey off my face, happy to have a task and a distraction from the nerves and the guilt and the anxiety dancing a conga line in my stomach. I look down at the fabric in my hands and see the stitched-on white block letters spelling out
JACOBS
. I have to keep myself from tearing up. I may be pretending, but I
am
Sloane Jacobs. That’s
my
name.

I get dressed, then give myself one final once-over in the mirror. My phone rings. I dig it out of my bag and see a text from James on the screen.

Surprise! Came to see your big comeback. What time are you on?

I don’t even have time to get nervous or freaked out or formulate a lie. That’s all over now. Now it’s just me. I tap a reply, then toss my phone back into my bag.

Come to McConnell Arena. 3883 University St. I’m in blue. I’ll explain after.

CHAPTER 28

SLOANE DEVON

I’ve been pretending to be someone else for four weeks. For four weeks I’ve put on someone else’s clothes, I’ve trained in someone else’s sport, and I’ve told someone else’s life story. I really should be used to it, but looking in the mirror in Andy’s room right now, I absolutely don’t recognize myself.

And it’s totally freaky.

Andy has used some kind of industrial sealant to slick my hair back in a high, tight bun. The effect has my eyebrows arched in a look of mild yet constant surprise. It’s only accentuated by the heavy black cat’s-eye liner he’s painted on. My lips are coated with a color that should be called “Harlot” or “Streetwalker.” I’ve got a sweep of bright blush on my cheeks extending almost to my hairline. And that’s just above the neck.

My torso is covered in a ruched black spandex bodice
with little rhinestones buried in the fabric. The top is sheer so as to make the dress appear strapless, but there are a few tiny rhinestones scattered across my shoulders. The skirt—if you can call it that, since it barely covers my behind—is A-line. No flounces, which I appreciate. Cover me in rhinestones, but don’t give me a stinking ruffly skirt. That’s where I draw the line.

“Now for the finishing touch,” Andy says. He comes at me with a fuzzy black caterpillar-looking thing pinched between his fingers.

“Oh no you don’t,” I say, swatting his hand away.

“Shut up, close your eyes, and think of England,” he says. Then he jams his finger into my eyes, first the left, then the right. I blink a few times, feeling like my eyelashes have been dipped in molasses. Fake eyelashes. I never,
ever
thought I’d see the day.

“You look good.” Andy takes a few steps back to admire his work.

“I look like a drag queen,” I say, trying to restore my normal blinking function.

“Grab your skates, RuPaul. It’s time to go.”

Andy and I take the last shuttle to the arena. As soon as we arrive, he shoves me into a broom closet underneath the stands. When he pops his head in to motion me out, I nearly pull the door shut again and tell him to go away. The only reason I follow is that I’m pretty sure he’ll drag me out by my bun if I refuse. We make our way down the narrow hallway and around the corner that leads to the ice,
both waddling like cowboys with saddle sores, thanks to our skates.

Roman and his partner, Elizabeth, are just finishing up their routine. They’re in matching yellow spandex outfits, his a jumpsuit, hers a feathery minidress. They look like figure skating Big Bird impersonators. Thank God Andy has style. He took one of Sloane Emily’s old white dresses and dip-dyed it black and glued on all those rhinestones himself. I can’t believe I’m saying this about a spandex minidress covered in glitter, but I look pretty badass.

“You know I said all that crap about how I made you?” Andy whispers to me.

“Yeah?”

“Well, a sculptor is only as good as the clay, or whatever,” Andy says. Then he reaches down and squeezes my hand. I feel a tiny lump rise in my throat, but a couple deep breaths push it away. I’ve become a lot of things these last few weeks, but a crier will
not
be one of them.

Roman lifts Elizabeth high over his head. As Elizabeth whizzes by, I’m nearly blinded by her toothy white grin, which serves as a reminder to me:
Must. Smile
. It’s not something I’ve ever had to think about when playing sports before. “Game face” means something entirely different out here.

The music swells as Roman and Elizabeth enter their final footwork pattern, which will end in impressively fast camel spins. Then there will be thunderous applause. Then
it will be our turn out there. I have to swallow hard to keep from throwing up in my mouth. I distract myself by removing the plastic guards from my skates and placing them on the ledge.

“You have some nerve.”

The syrupy whisper jolts my jitters away.

“Get away from me,” I say back to Ivy. She’s standing next to me in something hot pink and glittery that manages to incorporate rhinestones, feathers,
and
tassels. She looks like a cabaret act on acid.