Page 12 of Nowhere to Hide
“You’re not pre-law.”
“I’m open to it.”
“Sloane.”
“What.”
“How many times did you raise your hand in Intro Comm this week?”
I almost laugh, but I catch the laugh halfway and wrestle it down because the boy in the beanie has looked over and I don’t need an audience. I sit in the student section, perfectly pleasant, not standing out, or trying not to, anyway.
But Ivy saw it. “Oh,” she says. “There she is.”
“There’s who?” I sigh.
“That girl. The one who just laughed.”
“I didn’t laugh,” I say. “And I didn’t hear anyone laugh.”
“You laughed like a human, then you put her back in the box.” Ivy pokes my arm. “But I bet if you let her out, she’d admit she doesn’t like gardening or the literary magazine.”
“She’ssuperkeen on locking herself into a pre-law path in the first week of freshman year, though,” I say, trying to deflect.
“Sloane.” Ivy raises an eyebrow. “Just be yourself.”
“I am being myself.” I smooth a crease in my jeans that doesn’t exist. “This version has better posture and fewer incidents.”
“You know what I think?” Ivy says, and her voice has dropped the teasing. “I think you’re so busy making sure nobody notices the real you that you won’t let yourself enjoy any of this.”
I don’t have a good answer, so I don’t give one, and Ivy lets it drop. Around us The Den keeps building: a pep-band drumline thudding, the lights sinking to deep navy, and the jumbotron flaring silver as the whole rink leans toward the tunnel, waiting.
But for some reason, I can’t keep from telling her. “The last time I let myself get excited about something in public, Ivy, it became a story people told at parties. So yes, I keep it all measured, I show up prepared, I do the work, and I don’t make a mess. And it’s worked well enough so far.”
She’s quiet for a moment — quieter than I’ve ever heard her — and then she sighs. “I know I barely know you, but that sounds like a leash, Sloane.”
“Let’s drop it.”
She holds my look, then lifts both hands. “Dropped.”
But as the house lights cut, I know she hasn’t dropped it. Not really. But dropped for now is good enough, and as The Den goes dark in one swallow, the crowd starts pounding the boards. Then a silver light rakes down the tunnel, music kicks, and the Ravens skate out.
I get actual goosebumps.
“Told you,” Ivy says, without looking.
“Shut up.”
And just like that, we’re fine.
During warmups, she leans forward on the railing, chin on her wrist, turning into a tour guide. She points out the assistant coach everyone swears is a sadist, then tells me the backup goalie — who Beanie Boy is still mocking — is a ladies’ man.
But when the game starts, she does something Ivy doesn’t do.
She goes quiet, watching the game with an expression that isn’t for me — the look of someone who grew up in rinks watching her brother. But when she catches me watching, she shakes it off and gestures at the ice.
“My brother’s there,” she says. “Hovering near the net and being responsible as always.”
I make a sympathetic noise and look, but don’t linger on him. I’ve been sorting Ivy’s mentions of her brother underresponsible, older, boring— because Ivy communicates exclusively in adjectives and complaints — but he looks fast and powerful from up here.
