Being Sloane Jacobs by Lauren Morrill

response that will get him off my back and that dress back in the closet. He shakes the dress at me. “ This is formal. That”—he gestures to my outfit—“is Sunday school.”
    I look from the dress to Andy’s stern face, then back to the dress. I could fight. I could tell him my mom packed it, that she’s crazy controlling (and from the impression I got from Sloane Emily, I’d probably be right). But lookingat Andy making yuck-faces at my outfit, I realize it’s not worth it. I am Sloane Emily, and this is Sloane Emily’s dress. I take the hanger from him while he turns around to face the corner. I swap out my bra for something strapless, then wriggle into the dress. I hope Sloane Emily appreciates my much less blinding and binding wardrobe.
    “Ta-da,” I say, holding out jazz hands.
    “Perfect.” He drags me over to the full-length mirror inside the door and yanks out my braid. He rearranges my hair into a loose side ponytail cascading down my exposed shoulder. Then he trots back to the armoire, riffles around for a second, and returns with a black sparkly headband and a pair of black open-toed kitten heels. When he’s done with me, I’ve got to admit, I look damn good. I bet Dylan would eat his nasty Phillies hat if he could see me. I think for a moment about snapping a photo and texting it to him, just for the “Look at me now!” satisfaction, but I don’t want to have to explain where I am. If he even cared to ask.
    Andy slips his arm in mine. “Come on, Sloane Jacobs,” he says. “Let’s get down there before we miss all the fun.”
    The dining room looks like Hogwarts mated with one of those Masterpiece Theatre shows, with floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming wood paneling, and glistening chandeliers. There are even white-coated servers scurrying around filling water glasses. The little card on top of my plate lists four courses, and my stomach starts growling.
    When the first course lands in front of me, I’m ready to dig in. Unfortunately, one glance at my plate and I realizethere will be no “digging in.” The salad, if you can call it that, is made up of about six leaves of romaine lettuce, two fat cucumber slices, and an almost imperceptible drizzle of something that may or may not be a vinaigrette.
    I lean over to Andy. “There’s no salad on my salad.”
    “And you were expecting …?” he asks. A quick glance at his face tells me that this is standard fare in the skating world— this skating world, anyway. Andy may be my friend, but he doesn’t know the truth. And it needs to stay that way. I have got to stop shooting my mouth off, or it’s going to get me in just as much trouble here as it does back home.
    “Just surprised there isn’t more celery. You know, it’s like the only food that burns more calories to eat than it contains.” I throw in a quick giggle to make my fashion-magazine-diet-tip thing land.
    “That’s a myth,” Andy replies. I exhale; at least I haven’t outed myself at the first meal. “After dinner we can hit the convenience store down the street. Only about a third of these skaters will actually survive on this food alone. The rest of us mere mortals scarf Snickers bars between meals.”
    I try to make my salad last as long as possible, but within three bites it’s gone and a server whisks away the empty plate. Next up is a soup, which comes in a cup so small I wonder if they stole it from a child’s tea set. I resist the urge to toss it back like a shot. When the main course finally arrives, I’m glad to see it’s on a grown-up-sized plate, but my spirits drop when I see it’s a boneless, skinless chickenbreast, grilled and topped with a miniature pile of greens. Alongside it is a tiny scoop of what seems like no more than a dozen grains of brown rice and a heaping helping of steamed broccoli. All around me there are girls cutting their chicken into teeny, tiny pieces, every once in a while bringing one to their mouths and chewing about a