pair of Sloane Emily’s nude tights, a rubber band, and an envelope of raspberry Kool-Aid I picked up post-dinner at the convenience store down the street, while Andy loaded up on pints of ice cream and Snickers bars.
“Make sure she’s still asleep,” I whisper, and he nods.
I set to work cutting one of the feet out of the tights, then filling it with the Kool-Aid. Then I fit the tights over the showerhead and secure it with the rubber band. I wave Andy back in.
“I need you to spot me while I do this part.” Andy stands behind me while I climb up on the ledge of the bathtub and unscrew the lightbulb from the fixture overhead. I wrap the bulb in paper towels and discard it in the trash can.
“You are so crazy,” Andy whispers. I feel a sudden sense of unease. I’m not supposed to be the old Sloane here. I’m supposed to be pretty, poised, perfect Sloane Jacobs, not scrappy, scary Sloane Jacobs. I hesitate. I could disassemble the whole thing in seconds and just ignore Ivy for the next four weeks. That’s what Sloane Emily would probably do.
Then I spot Ivy’s mountain of makeup, lined up in perfect rows on the counter. She’s kindly taken my toiletry bag (the pink floral fabric one on loan from Sloane Emily, full of tubes and pots I don’t even know how to use) and dropped it on the floor. Next to the toilet.
“Remind me not to mess with you,” Andy says, shaking his head.
“You won’t forget,” I reply with an evil grin.
I’m woken by the loudest, longest, most shrill scream I’ve heard this side of a B-movie murder victim.
“Who? What? OH MY GOD!” Ivy’s voice slices through the closed bathroom door, through the feather pillow over my head, and drives into my eardrum like a spike. Despite the pain from the decibel-shattering yelling, all I can do is smile.
I hear the bathroom door swing open, and I take a quick moment to compose myself and wipe the smile off my face. I peek out from underneath my pillow and see Ivy tearing out of the bathroom. Her rainbow of blond highlights is now varying shades of fuchsia—a color also running down her face, neck, and shoulders. She’s clutching one of the fluffy white bath towels around her. I should say, one of the fluffy, previously white towels. Now it is streaked and stained in various hues of rose and blush.
“YOU! You did this!” she screeches, shaking a salmon-colored finger in my direction.
“Gosh, you were right, Ivy,” I reply, all mock innocence. “Pink really is your signature color.”
CHAPTER 9
SLOANE EMILY
My phone rings underneath my pillow, which has become my hiding place of choice. Sloane Devon’s number flashes across the display. I tap the Answer button after seeing the time: 7:13 a.m. Two minutes before my alarm is set to go off.
“How’s life among the rhinestone band?”
“No rhinestones yet,” Sloane Devon says. I barely know her, but hearing her voice is oddly comforting. “But your roommate, Ivy Loughner, is a real peach.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of her. She’s apparently the General Patton of psychological warfare.”
“Well, I’m waging my own battle. You’ll never believe what I just did.” She launches into the details of some prank that resulted in dyeing Ivy pink. I snort into my pillow. I saw Ivy once at an invitational about four years back. She was a tiny sprite of a twelve-year-old clad in a hot-pink unitardwith a tulle flounce around her butt. She was giving her coach, a man of at least forty, a full-on dressing-down over the volume of her music. I can only imagine what living with her must be like.
I think again about how lucky I am: being a terrible hockey player is a hell of a lot better than killing myself to be an elite figure skater this summer. The Mack truck that’s usually sitting right on top of my chest is gone.
“Your roommate is no treat either,” I say. “She barely had to look at me to decide she hated me.”
“She’s probably just tough,” Sloane Devon says. “A
“Make sure she’s still asleep,” I whisper, and he nods.
I set to work cutting one of the feet out of the tights, then filling it with the Kool-Aid. Then I fit the tights over the showerhead and secure it with the rubber band. I wave Andy back in.
“I need you to spot me while I do this part.” Andy stands behind me while I climb up on the ledge of the bathtub and unscrew the lightbulb from the fixture overhead. I wrap the bulb in paper towels and discard it in the trash can.
“You are so crazy,” Andy whispers. I feel a sudden sense of unease. I’m not supposed to be the old Sloane here. I’m supposed to be pretty, poised, perfect Sloane Jacobs, not scrappy, scary Sloane Jacobs. I hesitate. I could disassemble the whole thing in seconds and just ignore Ivy for the next four weeks. That’s what Sloane Emily would probably do.
Then I spot Ivy’s mountain of makeup, lined up in perfect rows on the counter. She’s kindly taken my toiletry bag (the pink floral fabric one on loan from Sloane Emily, full of tubes and pots I don’t even know how to use) and dropped it on the floor. Next to the toilet.
“Remind me not to mess with you,” Andy says, shaking his head.
“You won’t forget,” I reply with an evil grin.
I’m woken by the loudest, longest, most shrill scream I’ve heard this side of a B-movie murder victim.
“Who? What? OH MY GOD!” Ivy’s voice slices through the closed bathroom door, through the feather pillow over my head, and drives into my eardrum like a spike. Despite the pain from the decibel-shattering yelling, all I can do is smile.
I hear the bathroom door swing open, and I take a quick moment to compose myself and wipe the smile off my face. I peek out from underneath my pillow and see Ivy tearing out of the bathroom. Her rainbow of blond highlights is now varying shades of fuchsia—a color also running down her face, neck, and shoulders. She’s clutching one of the fluffy white bath towels around her. I should say, one of the fluffy, previously white towels. Now it is streaked and stained in various hues of rose and blush.
“YOU! You did this!” she screeches, shaking a salmon-colored finger in my direction.
“Gosh, you were right, Ivy,” I reply, all mock innocence. “Pink really is your signature color.”
CHAPTER 9
SLOANE EMILY
My phone rings underneath my pillow, which has become my hiding place of choice. Sloane Devon’s number flashes across the display. I tap the Answer button after seeing the time: 7:13 a.m. Two minutes before my alarm is set to go off.
“How’s life among the rhinestone band?”
“No rhinestones yet,” Sloane Devon says. I barely know her, but hearing her voice is oddly comforting. “But your roommate, Ivy Loughner, is a real peach.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of her. She’s apparently the General Patton of psychological warfare.”
“Well, I’m waging my own battle. You’ll never believe what I just did.” She launches into the details of some prank that resulted in dyeing Ivy pink. I snort into my pillow. I saw Ivy once at an invitational about four years back. She was a tiny sprite of a twelve-year-old clad in a hot-pink unitardwith a tulle flounce around her butt. She was giving her coach, a man of at least forty, a full-on dressing-down over the volume of her music. I can only imagine what living with her must be like.
I think again about how lucky I am: being a terrible hockey player is a hell of a lot better than killing myself to be an elite figure skater this summer. The Mack truck that’s usually sitting right on top of my chest is gone.
“Your roommate is no treat either,” I say. “She barely had to look at me to decide she hated me.”
“She’s probably just tough,” Sloane Devon says. “A
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