Second Skin Read online

  Second Skin

  Jessica Wollman

  for Paulina

  Many many thanks to...

  Wendy Loggia, Krista Vitola, Marci Senders and the whole team at Delacorte Press for all their hard work. Richard Abate for making this book happen. Caroline Wallace for the lovely photo.

  My family for all their support. And especially to Dan-for everything.

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  SECOND SKIN

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  1

  Popularity is the one insult I have never suffered

  -Oscar Wilde

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  How it begins...

  It arrives mysteriously, under your pillow. A small package and a set of rules, ere is confusion, of course, but it doesn't last. The promise of what's to come is much too powerful, too enticing.

  This is a gift that's never returned.

  Because, in the end, everyone wants it: the young, the old and the in-between. The want is universal. And the supply is extremely limited.

  So if you've been chosen, consider yourself lucky. But be careful, too. This is one high-maintenance item.

  And sometimes what we want is the absolute worst thing for us.

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  ONE

  D o I remember how it happened? Of course I do. Going from total and complete loser to all-out social goddess in a matter of days just isn't the sort of thing anyone forgets. I don't care how busy you are. But it wasn't like I planned this, either. Well, not really.

  What you need to remember is this: I wanted to be popular.

  I know that's not a very original desire. It's about as cutting-edge as asking your parents for a car on your sixteenth birthday. Still, it's important for you to know, right from the start: I

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  never wanted to mess up anybody's life. And I definitely never wanted anyone to get hurt.

  I just wanted to be popular.

  Unfortunately for me and almost everyone I know, my desire caused a lot of problems.

  Major problems.

  Homeroom was the real trigger. Until last spring, it was also my favorite class.

  I realize that sounds a little weird. I mean, what's there to love about homeroom, right? It's twenty minutes of lame announcements and roll call. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure homeroom is a class, since school doesn't officially start until after it ends.

  Whatever. I said it used to be my favorite. Past tense. As in: it's not anymore.

  Besides, my reasons for loving homeroom had nothing to do with attendance sheets or cafeteria menus. I don't even buy my lunch. (Two years ago my mother read a Newsweek article about the "evil" business behind America's school lunch programs. I've been brown-bagging it ever since. I'm not really sure how my not eating frozen pizza is going to bankrupt Kraft Foods, but I do know that arguing with my mom is a complete waste of time. My sloppy joe days are definitely over.) And I pretty much tuned out my teacher, Mr. Martino, once he checked my name off the roll.

  For me, it was really a matter of real estate.

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  Homeroom seats were assigned alphabetically the first day of freshman year. Unless you changed your last name, you weren't allowed to move, no matter what. You pretty much kept the same desk until you graduated.

  That's how I, Samantha Klein, wound up sitting between Ella Murphy and Jules Johnston for twenty minutes each day Monday through Friday.

  I know those names don't mean anything to you, but believe me, if you attended Woodlawn High School, they would.

  I was smack in the middle of an A-list district.

  That's why I wished homeroom were three times longer. It was the only time of day I felt mildly cool.

  Okay, maybe that's pushing it. Just so you know, I wasn't exactly designed with "cool" in mind. No matter where I sat, I'd still have the same fat, curly hair that makes me look like I'm holding one of those static-electricity balls we used to play with at the Please Touch Museum. And my skin's guaranteed to keep Neutrogena in business for the next century.

  Alphabetical order can only do so much.

  But as of last spring, those twenty minutes were the closest I'd ever gotten to high school. Not my lame version of high school-the one with the honor-roll grades and the Kate Hudson

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  movie marathon nights-but the high school I knew other people attended. People like Ella and Jules. The high school with tons of friends, hot boyfriends (personally, I'd have settled for just one...but the hot part was definitely not negotiable) and invites to all those cool parties...parties with no parents and drunken skinny-dipping and who knows what else because I spent my weekends babysitting.

  Since I never spoke to anyone sitting around me, I used homeroom to perfect my eavesdropping skills. So when Jules and Ella started up that morning right after Christmas break, I had no trouble following along.

  "She broke up with him?" Ella asked as she slid into her chair. She had the sort of pale skin that responded to everything with a deep flush. Staring at her, I could almost feel the red as it spread across her cheeks. "Are you sure?"

  "I can't believe you're surprised." Jules pulled a lip gloss from her bag and twisted off the top. "I totally saw this coming. I didn't even think they'd make it to Saturday."

  "But Matt's so great."

  I knew right away they were talking about Kylie Frank.

  Everyone was always talking about Kylie Frank. "He's fine, I guess. But Tanner's better," Jules

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  was saying. Even though my desk was wedged in right next to hers, she always talked right through me, as if I weren't there.

  And I wasn't. Not to the Jules Johnstons of the world.

  I didn't mind, though. Not really. The whole invisible thing worked both ways. For instance, at that very moment, I was staring directly at her, waiting for her to continue. I didn't even bother to open a notebook and pretend to read.

  Sometimes being nobody really comes in. handy.

  Overnight Jules's hair had changed color. The day before it had been wheat blond, but this morning it was more of a butterscotch.

  This was pretty typical. In a hopeless attempt to match Kylie Frank's glossy yellow locks, Jules hopped from shade to shade on an almost weekly basis. Every time I passed the Clairol aisle in the drugstore, I thought of her. Honeysuckle, Silent Snow, Bold Gold...Jules had tried them all. The girl just couldn't leave her hair alone.

  "I mean, I can totally see why she did it," she whispered.

  A smirk crowded Ella's tiny features. "Of course you can."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Annoyed,

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  Jules flipped her hair. I watched, fascinated, as the painted strands fell obediently back into place.

  Ella's face puckered as she swallowed a giggle.

  Not that my opinion really mattered, but I had to side with Jules on this one. Matt Kane was cute, but Tanner Mullins? Forget it. He was easily the best-looking guy at Woodlawn. He didn't belong in high school; he belonged on a billboard. I couldn't have designed a hotter guy.

  And now he was dating Kylie Frank. Of course. It was a perfect match between two perfect people. They'd probably get married and live someplace...perfect.

  I was pretty sure I'd end up marrying my cat. Not that I had a cat, but I figured it was only a matter of time.

  "Whoa. I can't believe how close we cut it this morning."

  As Kylie Frank slid into the desk directly in front of mine, I watched the entire room respond to her entrance. There were sly glances, eager waves and studied nonchalance. Everyone contributed their own special something.

  Not that Kylie noticed. That was one of the things that set her apart from other A-listers, like Jules. So many of them walked ar
ound as if they were being filmed for a new MTV pilot.

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  Watching them, you could almost hear the voice-over: This is my locker...see all the pictures of my friends? We have so much fun together.

  Kylie wasn't like that. She just wasn't at all self-conscious. She really seemed to have absolutely no clue that she had the power to change everything. All she had to do was show up.

  Whatever "it" was, Kylie Frank had been dealt an unfair amount. I was pretty sure she'd been given my portion, too. How else could you explain it? Even though we were the same age, Kylie seemed older than I could ever be. Or feel. I was sure that at fifty, pictures of a sixteen-year-old Kylie Frank would still make me feel hopelessly immature.

  Or maybe just plain hopeless.

  This morning was no exception. As usual, Kylie's buttery hair poured down her back, so shiny that, under the cheap fluorescent lights, it looked almost laminated. Her flawless, peachy skin was a facialist's dream. And she looked absolutely perfect in a pair of skinny jeans and pony-skin flats. Her square-necked tunic framed her thin, toned shoulders as if the cloth had been lowered over her head and cut specifically to her body.

  That was another thing: Kylie Frank could wear anything. Like everything else, clothing

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  loved her. The girl was living proof that natural beauty did exist; not everyone had to work hard to look perfect.

  Glancing down at my no-name brown cords and canvas high-tops, I felt a twinge of regret. My dad's a labor lawyer who thinks that all chain stores are Satan. If you even whisper the words "Abercrombie and Fitch," he throws a fit. Before anyone in my family shops at a new store, he researches it, just to be sure the owners are union-friendly and practice equal opportunity employment.

  It's not like I don't believe in fair labor practices. I do. But every once in a while it'd be really nice to buy a sweater at the mall like a normal person.

  Jules leaned across the aisle and placed a possessive hand on Kylie's arm. All signs of strain were completely erased from her face.

  "We?" she said, smiling coyly. "Interesting. Very interesting."

  Kylie cast a guilty look in Ella's direction. "Well, Tanner gave me a ride. It was on his way."

  Jules giggled. "Right. He's so into you."

  Ella's eyebrows met. "What about Matt? You know, he really likes you."

  Kylie ran a hand through her hair. I wondered what it was like to have hair that slipped right through your fingers. The sort of hair that

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  actually grows down, not out. Mine's so frizzy it feels like Brillo when I touch it.

  "Matt's sweet," Kylie said. "But I think we're better as friends."

  Ella shook her head and it suddenly occurred to me-I'd never even considered it before-that she might not be enjoying Kylie's royal status. She didn't look jealous, though. She looked worried.

  "I totally called this," Jules crowed. She turned to Ella, triumphant. "Didn't I call this?" "You sure did."

  Kylie sighed. "Stop it, okay, Ellie? Don't make me feel bad. I can see anyone I want."

  "Of course you can, sweetie." Jules was practically glowing. She was always looking for ways to strip Ella of her "Kylie's closest friend" status. But even I knew this was a losing battle. Kylie and Ella had gone to the same grade school and had been best friends since kindergarten. And although Jules was indulged, Kylie seemed to hold her at a distance. But her voice-whether consciously or not-always warmed whenever she spoke to Ella.

  "It's just-I don't know." Ella hesitated for only a second. "Tanner seems-"

  Jules's eyebrows shot up. "Hot? Cool? Sexy?"

  "Wait, isn't that the name of a Red Hot Chili Peppers album?" Kylie asked.

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  Jules gloated, confident she was just a split end away from having Kylie all to herself.

  "Limited. Tanner seems limited," Ella continued, ignoring them both. Her lips dipped into a frown. "Look, do what you want, definitely. But don't you think you should make sure Matt's okay?"

  "Why bother?" Jules snorted. "He saw you and Tanner talking last week. He's probably figured it out by now."

  Kylie opened her mouth to say something then seemed to change her mind. "No, Ella's right. I should call him."

  Jules's hand curled into a tight fist as her eyes flashed over Ella's skirt. "There should really be a law banning Jones New York for anyone under forty," she muttered, though I'm pretty sure I was the only one who heard her. When she spoke again, her voice was sweet and faux casual. "Sure. No biggie."

  Kylie smiled easily. "I'll do it tomorrow night, after the move. Tonight's gonna be crazy."

  "How about I come over and help?" Jules offered quickly, sniffing out another opportunity. "It'll be fun." 3

  "Thanks, but you so don't want to go there. Everything's such a mess." Kylie's smile lit her sapphire eyes, making them glitter. "But you guys have to check out the new place, over on

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  Thorncrest. My parents combined two of the upstairs bedrooms for me, so my room's gigantic...plus I get my own bathroom..."

  The morning bell sounded, drowning out the rest of Kylie's sentence. I didn't care, though. I wasn't even listening. I was miles away, standing in front of my house at 176 Thorncrest Drive. It's pretty much your typical suburban home: white brick, split-level, clean lawn. Not the sort of place you'd see in Architectural Digest.

  But here's the thrilling part: turning just a half step to the left, I was now facing a large, empty redbrick house with a for sale/sold ! sign in the front yard-178 Thorncrest Drive.

  My pulse quickened.

  Kylie Frank-the Kylie Frank-was my new neighbor.

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  TWO

  S o wait. This affects you how?" All morning long, I'd been dying to share the big news with my best friends, Gwen Connolly and Alex Ashby, but now I felt stupid for getting so excited.

  "It doesn't," I said in my best I-so-don't-care voice. "It's just nice to have a new neighbor."

  We were sitting at our usual lunch table, toward the front of the cafeteria. I watched as Gwen carefully unwrapped her latest culinary masterpiece, a peanut-butter-swirl chocolate brownie. As usual, her thick brown hair was pulled into a messy, thoughtless ponytail, and

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  she wore her self-described "chubby girl uniform": wide-leg pants with an elastic waistband-not quite sweatpants but definitely not pants pants-and an oversized sweater that grazed her knees. All black, of course. Gwen always joked that once a girl reached a certain weight, the fashion world closed the box of Crayolas on her. If she dressed in any shade lighter than charcoal, the plus-size police would track her down and haul her off to a carb-free jail.

  "Yum." She sank her teeth into the dense chocolate and swallowed. "Definitely beats last week's meringues. It's always best to go classic."

  I pulled my own lunch from a recycled brown bag. Besides Gwen, whose refined palate couldn't handle frozen lasagna and Oodles of Noodles, I was probably the only kid at Woodlawn who didn't eat the crappy cafeteria food.

  I sniffed my sandwich and dropped it onto the table. The only thing lamer than a bag lunch is a bag lunch containing tofu bologna.

  "Want some?" Alex pushed his bowl of mac and cheese in my direction, spoon extended.

  "Thanks," I said, grateful.

  "I can see how it might be cool to have someone new move in," Alex mused, backing me up. "Everyone on my street's over eighty. I keep telling my mom we should open a Denny's."

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  I laughed, then covered my mouth, which was full of pasta.

  Gwen rolled her eyes. "Sure, having a new neighbor's great. Except when she happens to be the Wicked Witch of the West." She used her index finger to mop up some stray brownie crumbs. "Post-Zone diet."

  This was nothing new. To Gwen, all A-listers looked mean and disgustingly malnourished. A serious foodie, she spent most of her free time perfecting her soufflé and dreaming of the French Culinary Institute. By the third week of school freshman y
ear, she was already counting the days until graduation. She hated Woodlawn. Of course, she claimed that it hated her first, but at this point it didn't really matter who'd started it up. She was definitely holding a grudge.

  "Come on," I said. "You don't even know her."

  As if on cue, the three of us turned our heads toward the back of the cafeteria, where Tanner Mullins was trying to pull a shrieking Kylie onto his lap. Everyone around them was laughing as if it were the funniest thing they'd ever seen.

  Gwen snorted. "Believe me. I know enough."

  It was useless. I loved my friends. They were great-so smart and funny-but they were completely closed off to all things high school. Gwen was practically married to her kitchen, and Alex

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  was always developing some strange new interest that had nothing to do with school, like building soapbox cars in his garage or discovering comets from his roof. Even though he got straight As, he'd never join the debate team or computer club. School activities just didn't occur to him.

  And neither Gwen nor Alex ever thought about their nonexistent social lives. They embraced their fringe/loser status as if it weren't at all important.

  This killed me.

  Okay, so maybe people hassled Gwen about her weight. They called her Pot Roast Connolly and made fun of her 36DD chest. It was totally rude, but did she have to write off all of high school just because football players were jerks? And Alex actually looked sort of cute when he remembered to cut his hair and change his T-shirt. Couldn't they try to be a little more upbeat? It was only sophomore year.

  I watched as Tanner pretended to pour a Red Bull over Kylie's head. She was leaning back, her face tilted up to the ceiling. Her hair tumbled down her back in a long yellow free fall, loose and natural.

  How could anyone not want to be a part of that? I wondered.

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  It just wasn't fair. I would've done anything to have Tanner Mullins pour a Red Bull over my head. He could've poured a whole case of Red Bulls. I'd have paid him to do it. I'd even pay for the Red Bulls, too.

  Alex nudged me with his elbow. "You're drooling, you know."

  I turned my head and blinked. "Wait, what?"

  Alex got a weird look on his face, like he'd just eaten something really sour. "You know. Tanner Mullins, all-star male bimbo. You're practically foaming at the mouth." He sounded impatient, almost annoyed.