SLOANE EMILY
The Montreal airport is a cavernous, glass-paneled building with soaring ceilings. I’m parked on a bench by the ticketing kiosks scanning the crowd for Sloane Devon. I look down at my watch: 11:20. She needs to get here in the next ten minutes if we’re going to make check-in for our flights.
There’s a bank of TV screens hanging over the automatic doors across from the benches. The chattering of travelers and the squeak of suitcases rolling across the floor means I can’t hear, but the subtitles are nice and large.
The first screen is showing an infomercial for some product that consists of elastic bands and multicolored balls that’s supposed to make you buff like Arnold Schwarzenegger. The next is showing a cartoon flashing so many colors I’m surprised children don’t get seizures while watching it. The next three are all showing cable news, two from the U.S. and the third from some Canadian equivalent of CNN. As I watch, all three screens flip to the same image.
I blink a few times, but the image doesn’t go away.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Washington loves a sex scandal.
My dad steps out of a building I don’t recognize and approaches about a million microphones all pointed directly at him. I see him smooth his tie, a nervous habit he’s had since his very first election. He never speaks without smoothing his tie.
His mouth starts to move, but I can’t hear. It takes a moment before the closed-captioning catches up with him.
TODAY I HAVE DISGRACED MY OFFICE. I HAVE DISGRACED MY CONSTITUENCY. WORSE, I HAVE DISGRACED MY FAMILY, AND FOR THAT I AM TRULY SORRY. I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU ALL HAVE JOBS TO DO, AND THAT THIS IS A STORY YOU FEEL YOU NEED TO REPORT. I ONLY ASK THAT YOU RESPECT THE PRIVACY OF MY WIFE AND CHILDREN, WHO WILL BE HAVING A HARD ENOUGH TIME WORKING THROUGH THE HURT AND ANGUISH I’VE CAUSED THEM. THEY DO NOT DESERVE WHAT I’VE DONE TO THEM, AND THEY DO NOT DESERVE TO BE TORMENTED FOR MY MISTAKES. SUSAN, JAMES, AND SLOANE, I AM TRULY SORRY.
All three screens switch back to a studio shot, where three overly coiffed anchors immediately start dissecting his apology. I want to throw something heavy at all five TVs, the infomercials and cartoons included. I want to break things. I want to scream.
But most of all, I want to run away. I want to run farther and faster than I did four weeks ago when I decided to be someone else.
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.”
“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.