Being Sloane Jacobs (6 page)

Lots of pastels, gauzy materials, and even a few sequins. And unlike my bag, which smells like Irish Spring and athletic tape, this bag smells like it’s been hanging out with whatever mythical creature wears the clothes inside it: fruity and floral and generally girly. I promptly break into a sneezing fit.

I throw the cover back over the suitcase to close it, then check the tag. It’s got my name on it.

“Dammit, Jeffrey!” I mutter. The idiot must have switched the bag tags. The screechy girl from the lobby must have my bags. Great, and I was hoping to never have to see her again.

I go to grab the phone to call downstairs and again forget my knee, which wastes no time in reminding me that I landed on it wrong just half an hour ago.

I flop backward onto the bed. I close my eyes and take slow, deep breaths until the pain subsides. And then it dawns on me: you can’t spend the summer playing hockey when you can’t walk across your hotel room. For the first time all day, I feel comforted. Can’t play hockey … because my
knee is injured
. Huh, maybe things finally are looking up. Maybe they’ll even send me home. It’s not too late to apply at the Freeze.

And at least Pretty Princess girl has to sleep with my stinky skate bag in her room. I twist up the plastic bag inside the ice bucket and tie it in a knot so I won’t wake up in a puddle. I wince as I place the bag on my throbbing knee. Getting it back can wait. I snag one of the seven extra pillows from the other side of the bed, wedge it under my knee for some elevation, then promptly fall into the first peaceful sleep I’ve had in forever.

CHAPTER 5

SLOANE EMILY

“Ma’am, I’m lost. What do you mean you don’t play hockey?”

Deep breaths. Don’t be rude. Kindness goes a long way
. The desk attendant, whose shiny brass name tag reads “Monique,” stares at me blankly from underneath a sweep of blond bangs. It’s the first time she’s actually looked at me. For the duration of this conversation, she’s kept her eyes glued to the computer embedded in the desk. It’s time to try a new tack.

“I know this isn’t your fault. I’m just trying to explain what’s going on, in an effort to get my own luggage back,” I say. I smile and arrange my face in a categorically-not-angry-with-you expression.

“So you’re saying you have Sloane Jacobs’s luggage in your room?” The desk attendant narrows her eyes and wrinkles her nose as if I’ve just asked her to solve some kind of crazy logarithm.

“Yes,” I reply.

“And you
actually
need Sloane Jacobs’s luggage instead?”

“Yes,” I say. I try to push my hair back from falling over my face. I wish I had a hair tie to secure it, but those are all in my
actual
luggage. “Look, maybe the bellhop swapped the tags. Or duplicated them. Or maybe there are two of us!”

“Two Sloane Jacobses?” She laughs at my bad joke. “I sincerely doubt that. Two Jane Smiths? Yes. Two Sloane Jacobses? No.”

“Well, then you need to find the girl who checked in at the same time as me this afternoon, because she has my bags, which includes a very expensive pair of custom figure skates. She’s about my height,” I say, “and she has long dark hair and dark eyes.”

“So she looks like you,” she says.

“No. I mean, barely,” I say.

“So
you
have my bags, then,” a voice says behind me. I whip around and see the girl from earlier today, still wearing the black and orange hoodie with the weird logo on the front and what I assume are the same pair of baggy, holey jeans.

“And you are?” The desk attendant leans over the counter. This is probably the most excitement she’s had all day.

“I’m Sloane Jacobs,” she says, and if I were drinking anything, I’d do a spit take.

“
You’re
Sloane Jacobs?”

“Yeah, and who are you?”

“
I’m
Sloane Jacobs,” I say. I expect the girl to look surprised, maybe even pass out from shock, but she just frowns.

“Is this some kind of joke?” she asks.

“Does it seem funny to you?” I snap. Then I take a deep breath. “Look, can we figure this out? I’d really like to get my bags back so I can change out of these airplane clothes.”

“Your name is really Sloane Jacobs?” She gives me an up-and-down assessment.

“She
does
look like you,” the desk attendant says, still listening in.

“She looks nothing like me,” the nasty girl says, and from the way she’s eyeing me, I think it’s an insult.

“Whatever, can I please have my bags?” I say. I’m already tired of this conversation. I was looking forward to tonight being a stay-in-and-veg-in-my-awesome-hotel-room before-I-get-thrown-to-the-wolves-tomorrow. This insanity is seriously cutting into my junk-food-and-movie time.

“Ladies, I see you’ve come down for your dinner.” The squeaky, clipped voice of François cuts between us.

“We didn’t—” I start to protest, just as Sloane says, “That isn’t—”

But François ignores us. He glides behind the counter and leans toward Monique, who whispers in French. François nods almost imperceptibly, then steps back out from behind the counter. With some kind of smooth French Canadian magic, he takes us both by our elbows and leads us into the dining room.

He breezes past the hostess stand and guides us to a large table covered in a crisp white tablecloth in the corner of the room. A white light fixture hangs down over our heads, and I want to grab it, point it at this girl’s face, and start interrogating her about the location of my bags.

“Please enjoy anything you’d like, compliments of the hotel,” François says, and when I open my mouth to ask about my bags, he holds up a thin hand to shush me with all the experience of a man whose job is to cater to people’s every whim. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for your luggage mix-up. While you are dining, I will have one of our bellhops switch your luggage. I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Excuse me, but we’re not together,” the other Sloane says.

“I am so sorry,
mesdemoiselles
, I thought you knew each other,” he says, looking from me to her. “Unfortunately, the restaurant is booked up for the night. This is the only table I have.”

“Well, I’m starving,” she says, and plops herself onto a chair. She glares at me, as though daring me to back down. Jerk. I hesitate for only a second.

“Me too,” I reply. I take the empty chair across from her. I’ll just call this practice for skate camp and step up to the challenge.

A waiter hurries over and puts oversized menus in our hands, and I realize that in all the confusion, I haven’t eaten
since I was on the plane. My stomach growls as I look over the dishes.

“Um, I can’t read this menu. What is this, Spanish?” I peek over my menu to see Sloane glaring menacingly at hers, as if she could threaten English out of it.

“Well, it’s an Italian restaurant, so the dishes are in Italian, and we’re in Montreal, so the descriptions are in French,” I say, trying to sound helpful, but from the way she glares at me, I realize I probably just sound snotty.

“Great, two languages I don’t speak,” she mutters.

“Two languages I do,” I reply. “Well, one and a half. My Italian is rusty. I haven’t used it since last summer, when my parents took me along on a trip to Rome.”

“Gosh, I haven’t visited Venice in years, so my Italian seems to have escaped me,” she says, in what skips sarcasm and goes straight to nasty. She squints at the bottom of her menu. “
Tomate
, that’s ‘tomato.’ I know that one. I just don’t want to end up eating dog.”

“I can help,” I say. “What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know, spaghetti sounds good, I guess.” This place isn’t exactly a spaghetti-and-meatballs kind of joint, but I scan the pasta section for something she might like.

“Are you a vegetarian?”

“Hell no!” she says.

“Okay, okay, chill out,” I reply, skipping over the leek confit entrée for her. The waiter sidles up just as I settle on dinner for the two of us.

“Bonjour. Qu’est-ce que vous voudrais aujourd’hui?”

“
Je voudrais les cavatelli al pomodoro et olive avec un verre d’eau, s’il vous plaît. Elle aura le pappardelle con polpettine di vitello al sugo di pomodoro et
—what do you want to drink?” I can’t help but smile. My French is back after a momentary lapse. Madame LeGarde would be proud.

“Water’s fine,” Sloane says, avoiding my eyes.

The waiter nods, takes our menus, and hurries back to the kitchen to report our order.

“You ordered me dog, didn’t you?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs, basically,” I say. “But the meatballs are made of kitten. I hope that’s okay.” I fold my napkin in my lap. Across the table I see Sloane start to tuck her napkin into her shirt. The couple at the table next to ours, both dressed head to toe in sleek black, a giant diamond gleaming from the woman’s left hand, shake their heads. I make a show of smoothing mine across my lap, and Sloane quickly drops hers into her lap too, a little red creeping into her cheeks. I pretend not to notice.

For a minute we sit in awkward silence. The waiter comes back with a pitcher of water and fills our glasses. “I was pretty freaked out when I opened my bag to find it wasn’t actually mine,” I say finally.

“That makes two of us,” she says. She takes a gulp from her water glass, then sets it back on the table with a little too much force. Water sloshes over the side and pools on the table. A busboy appears out of nowhere and wipes it up. “I’m glad we’re switching back before I actually have to wear anything in there.”

“My clothes are cute!” I protest.

“Look at me,” she says. She gestures to the logo emblazoned across her chest. “Do I scream ‘cute’ to you?”

“I guess not,” I say.

“Discussion over. I’ll get my bags back as soon as this meal is done.”

More silence. Sloane busies herself looking out the window. I’ve never met someone more antisocial than she is. Finally, the waiter arrives and sets warm plates down in front of us. From the way Sloane dives in, it’s clear I’ve made a good choice for her. We chew in silence for a few minutes before I can’t take it anymore.

“So what’s your middle name?”

She looks up midbite, only slightly confused. “Devon,” she says.

“Well, at least
that’s
not the same,” I say. “I’m Emily, named after my grandmother.”

“I don’t know where Devon came from. I know my mom got Sloane from this old movie,
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
.” A mini storm crosses her face, but as quickly as it came, it’s gone.

“Sloane was my grandfather’s name,” I reply.

“You were named after your grandfather?”

“Family names are really important in my—well, in my family.” Thinking of my family makes my stomach seize up.

“Why?” Sloane raises her eyebrows. “Are you royalty or something?”

“My dad’s a senator,” I say, and get the standard moment
of discomfort I feel every time I say it. The last thing I want to talk about right now is my dad’s political career. There’s a moment of silence. Sloane seems to sense my discomfort. I’m relieved that she changes the subject.

“So, I saw you have skates,” she says. “You in Disney on Ice or something?”

“Figure skater,” I reply, ignoring her sarcasm.

“And that’s not the same thing?”

“Not even close,” I say. “One’s a sport and one’s not.”

“Are you kidding me? Figure skating’s not a sport any more than synchronized swimming is.”

“Well, I know plenty of Olympic athletes who’d disagree with you,” I snap. “On both counts.”

She just shakes her head, smirking. Seriously, I can’t believe I share a name with this ray of sunshine.

“And you play hockey, I’m guessing?” I say. “At least, that’s what the stench from your bag and your giant shirts says.”

“Damn right,” she says. “Now,
that’s
a real sport.”

“Right, because being one of twenty people whizzing around on the ice barreling into people is so high-pressure,” I retort.

“Twenty? Have you ever
seen
a hockey game?”

“It was
hyperbole
. My brother played hockey in high school, so I’ve seen a few games. Doesn’t look so hard to me.”

“Oh yeah, definitely not as hard as skating around waving your arms and smiling for the camera.”

“Maybe when you’re five. More like a crowded arena, a spotlight on you, flinging yourself through the air, and trying to land on a blade thinner than a kitchen knife while a bunch of judges score your every move.” Just saying it out loud makes the sweat start to form behind my ears, and I feel my pulse pick up a bit.

“Yeah, that’s definitely easier than lining up for a game-winning shot in front of hundreds of people while four giant girls skate toward you as fast as they can with a singular goal of leveling your ass,” she says. “I’d much rather face a bunch of judges than a bunch of hit men on ice.”

“You couldn’t last one day in my skates,” I say.

“If I can’t last a day in yours, I give you four minutes on the ice in mine. You’ll pee your pants and cry for your mama after one check into the boards.”

“Oh please, I’d much rather hide out on a team than spend my summer with all eyes on me,” I say, and I realize I’m not just talking about skating. I reach into my bag and pull out the brochure for the Baliskaya Skating Institute of Montreal. The cover features a picture of the main dormitory. It’s a gorgeous stone mansion with a terra-cotta tile roof and sprawling gardens in front, all surrounded by iron gates. The property is made all the more beautiful by its setting, smack in the middle of the city.

“Are you kidding me? You’re spending your summer
here
?” She takes the brochure and gazes at the cover.

“Yep, four weeks.” I sigh.

“I don’t know why you sound so depressed. This place
looks amazing.” She starts flipping through the brochure. Images of smiling skaters are interspersed with pictures of the dorm rooms and the dining hall. It looks like Harvard meets Hogwarts. She points at a photo of a room with two queen beds and an overstuffed chair by a bay window looking out over a lush garden. “Are you kidding me?”