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hell?” She tosses her long black hair out of her face as she stands up, wincing.
    “I’m sorry.” I pick myself up, rotating my ankles to test for pain. “I was falling and—”
    She cuts me off. “You didn’t care who you took with you? Why don’t you watch it next time?”
    “I’m so sorry, it was an accident,” I say. What is her problem?
    “Whatever,” she snaps, then shoots me a look that contains so much venom I’m shocked I don’t fall over dead on the spot. Suddenly, with that look, all the exhaustion and anger of the day comes rushing into my chest. Even though every part of my brain is screaming at me to just turn around and let it go, the next words are out of my mouth before I can even stop them.
    “Well, I wouldn’t have tripped if you hadn’t left your luggage on the ground. Seriously, who does that?” I say in my nastiest mean-girl competition voice. She doesn’t evenblink. Something tells me I’m not even close to the baddest person she’s ever encountered.
    She takes a step closer. I may be in over my head here. “ Most people watch where they’re going, princess.”
    “Well, most people are more mindful of others … jerkface.”
    “ ‘Jerkface’? What are you, twelve?” she sneers.
    I’m halfway tempted to deck her. Not that I really know how. But maybe getting in a catfight on the street will be enough to get me deported back to the States.
    “ Mesdemoiselles , can I help you?” A tall, thin man with a very silly, totally not-ironic mustache appears before us.
    “I was just checking in when that girl knocked me on my—” the dark-haired girl says, just as I start speaking over her.
    “Well, she just abandoned her bag on the sidewalk, and I—” I start to say.
    The mustachioed man holds up a slender hand.
    “ Mesdemoiselles , let me help. My name is François, and I am your concierge. Please forgive my staff for creating this little pileup. I will send your luggage upstairs, and will be happy to treat you to dinner in the restaurant this evening. Just give Jeffrey here your names”—he nods almost imperceptibly at one of the bellhops—“and he will ensure that your bags are waiting for you and that the hostess has your name for your meal.”
    The bellman (luckily not the sleazy one) whose name is apparently Jeffrey steps up with a handful of luggage tags and looks expectantly at me.
    “My bags are already tagged,” I say.
    “Then you can go right to the desk to check in,” François says in a smooth voice. He gestures to the revolving door. I breeze past the other girl and push through the door without looking back.

CHAPTER 4
SLOANE DEVON
    Dad drops me off at the bus station first thing in the morning. We haven’t spoken since our fight last night, and standing in front of the shiny silver bus, I’m feeling more than a little bit sorry for what I said. But I’m even sorrier about where I’m heading. The fact remains that I can’t play, and I have eight hours on a bus to think about it.
    “I know this isn’t what you wanted for the summer, but it’ll be good for you,” Dad says, as if he’s reading my mind. Or maybe he’s reading it all over my face. I never was good at hiding my emotions. I know he’s thinking not just about my future, but also about Dylan. He’s never liked him, not since the first time Dylan came over to dinner and called my dad “Pops.” Dad’s referred to him as “the Fonz” ever since, and that’s when he’s being nice. It’s usually something closer to “hoodlum” or “greaseball,” and sometimes just “that boy.”
    “Whatever,” I mutter.
    The driver opens the storage compartments, and my fellow passengers start shoving their bags in. Dad takes my gear bag and places it underneath along with my duffel, leaving me my backpack for the ride. I give him a nod, then turn to climb onto the bus. He grabs my arm.
    “Sloane, please,” he says. He looks exhausted. “Don’t leave mad. We’re all we’ve