Free Being Sloane Jacobs by Lauren Morrill

hanging out in my mouth. Must. Find. Toothbrush .
    “Good morning, Sloane Devon, you ready to go glam?” Sloane Emily’s voice echoes through the room from her position in the middle of the floor; she’s wearing a hot-pink crop top and black stretchy pants, and is contorted into a pretzel on a hot-pink yoga mat.
    I fling the comforter over my head and mumble, “How in the world are you awake right now?”
    “Force of habit,” she says, though her voice sounds strange, and when I peek out from under the covers, I see it’s because she’s on her stomach, her arms grabbing her legs over and behind her so that her body makes a circle. Just looking at it makes my stomach churn. “Years andyears of five a.m. ice time sort of screws with your internal clock. You’ll learn.”
    “Dear God, I’ve made a huge mistake.” Coach Butler only runs Saturday morning practices as punishment if we’re goofing off, and even then those usually don’t start until nine a.m.
    “Get up, sleepyhead!” she says, leaping up and bounding over to the bed. “You need to get showered and get Sloane Emily–fied. You can’t wear that hoodie to figure skating camp. The jig will be up before you even walk through the door. I laid out some clothes for you and grouped the rest of my things in my suitcase by outfit to help you. Oh, and I took the liberty of swapping out our underwear, because while wearing your jeans is fine, wearing your skivvies is, well, skeevy.”
    “You’re talking too much,” I reply, burrowing further under the covers. I regret having given her the key to my room. “And too fast. One-word sentences until after I’ve had some coffee.”
    “Get up!” she cries, flinging the comforter off the bed. She’s just like Mom . As soon as I think it, I feel a sharp pain in my gut that’s enough to rouse me out of bed. I shoot Sloane a look, then shuffle off toward the shower. “I’ll order some breakfast from downstairs. Eggs or pancakes?”
    “Both,” I say. I’m going to need some serious grease in my stomach to get through this.
    Two hours, two fried eggs, four strips of bacon, a pile of home fries, and a short stack of pancakes later, and I’mwearing an outfit that would make my hockey team pee their pants laughing.
    “Are you sure about this? I mean, no one there knows you, right? It’s been three years since you competed. I could wear whatever I want.”
    “No one is going to believe for one hot second that I would wear anything in your suitcase, whether they know me or not.” Sloane Emily winds a gauzy lavender scarf loosely around my neck, then steps back to give me room to check it out in the full-length mirror. I’m wearing black capri leggings (an item of clothing I didn’t even know existed) underneath a gauzy gray miniskirt, topped with a cream-colored silk camisole. And when I complained about feeling naked, Sloane Emily gave me the “scarf,” which appears to have the consistency and color of cotton candy and does nearly nothing to hide my chest, which is attempting to make a break for it.
    “Okay, so you’re a little chestier than I am, but that’s not a big deal,” she says, adjusting the scarf slightly over my boobs. “Once you’re on the ice you’ll be able to wear your own sports bras.”
    “You are definitely getting the good end of this deal,” I say. Next to me, she’s wearing my favorite pair of black Bermuda shorts with a white T-shirt and my yellow Jefferson High zip hoodie on top.
    “Please, I look like a juvenile delinquent. The only thing this ensemble is missing is a can of spray paint,” she says. “And wait until you see where you’re staying. I’m prettysure it’s going to be nicer than the dorms at the University of Montreal. I mean, you’ll probably have your own room. Now hurry up.” She grins at me. “Your car is waiting downstairs.”
    François must have the morning off, which is a good thing just in case he’s as observant as he is accommodating.