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EIGHT
A keg of beer changed my life. I know that sounds weird-especially coming from someone who, until just a few months ago, had no idea how to operate one. (Okay. Forget operate. I'd never even seen a keg.) Not to mention the fact that I think all beer tastes like mucus. Still, I stand by the statement. A keg of beer changed my life. And in a pretty major way too.
When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I did was hop out of bed and look out my window. I had a great view of Kylie's house-the side as well as the front and back yards.
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I'm not really sure what I was looking for. Traces of the party, I guess. But since I hadn't really been to a party since a Chuck E. Cheese sort of age, I had no idea what to expect.
At first glance, I was actually a little disappointed. Kylie Frank's house looked fine. Totally fine. The cars, people and music were all gone. The sun was up, so I couldn't tell if any of the lights were still on, but the lawn looked pretty pristine. No toilet paper-strewn shrubs or crushed beer cans in the grass or passed-out bodies lining the driveway. It was just a neat suburban house with a neat suburban lawn. If it had been warm outside, I'm sure I'd have heard birds chirping through the window.
And then I saw it. The keg Tanner and his friends had rolled into the house was now sitting in the middle of the front yard. It was sparkling, which at first I thought was because of the way the sun struck the metal surface. But when I squinted and looked a little closer, I realized the whole keg-and the area around it--was covered with glass.
Kylie Frank sat on the steps of her porch just a few feet away, talking on her cell. Her hands were fluttering around, and after a few seconds, she leapt to her feet and started pacing.
Something was happening. I pressed my ear
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against the window, then drew back immediately. It was a stupid thing to do. Not only because the glass was freezing, but also because I wasn't bionic. As sharp as my eavesdropping skills were, I was too far away to hear anything.
Dressing quickly, I flew down the steps and out the front door, careful not to let it slam. Then I cut across the front yard and positioned myself behind the tree closest to Kylie. When I poked my head out, I saw what had her so upset.
The picture window on the first floor of her house was shattered. The remains were scattered everywhere-the grass, the keg, the porch. It was a mess.
"I can't believe it," Kylie was saying into the phone. She was still wearing her outfit from the night before-a gray trapeze dress with knee-high black patent leather boots. And even though her clothes looked slept-in and her hair was a little more rumpled than usual, she looked way better than I did despite my perfect bedtime hygiene and nine-plus hours of sleep.
"Seriously," she continued. "How drunk can you get? They threw a keg out my window." She paused as the person on the other end responded. "Okay, fine. The beer funnel was a bad idea. But Ella, my parents get home tomorrow. They're going to kill me."
I leaned forward a little, then stepped out
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from behind the tree. I was gaping, but it wasn't like Kylie was even looking at me. Yet.
"I did ask them to pay for it," Kylie snapped. "Nobody has any money." She frowned slightly, raking her hand through her hair. "I'm sorry. I know you're just trying to help. Listen, I'll call you back, okay? I need to think."
I watched as Kylie flipped her phone shut and buried her head in her hands. My pulse kicked up a notch as the realization hit. For the first time in my whole, completely lackluster high school career, I had something that Kylie Frank needed.
I ran back up to my bedroom and grabbed the pink metal cash box my grandmother had given to me when I was eight. At the time I'd used it for my various collections-candy, marbles, shells-but I'd cleaned it out when I'd started babysitting. At this point it was stuffed. Almost nine hundred dollars, not including the forty I'd made Friday night. I had no idea how much Kylie needed-I wasn't sure if she knew. Still, it was something.
As I walked downstairs and back outside, I racked my brain for a proverb about kegs and opportunity. The equivalent of "when one door closes another opens." The closest I got was "Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer," which actually
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wasn't very close at all, but I didn't mind. All the events surrounding the keg disaster spread out before me like pages in a book. And I was pretty sure-no, I was positive-that I was in one of the chapters. At least one.
But when I reached Kylie, I hesitated. The usual anxiety triggered by close proximity to A-listers twisted my stomach. Money or no money, this was Kylie Frank. Sure, I'd sat behind her. I'd walked near her. I'd studied her from a safe distance and listened in on her conversations. But my one and only attempt to engage her in an actual conversation had crashed and burned. Completely.
I looked down at the cash box and winced. It reeked eighth birthday. Why hadn't I just shoved the money into my pocket?
Quit stalling, I ordered. It's now or never.
I opened my mouth. "Hey," I said.
Kylie looked up at me, her eyes narrowing slightly, like she was trying to place my face somewhere in her full, party-soaked life. Her expression reminded me of all the times I'd stood in front of my closet searching hopelessly for clothing I simply didn't own. Kylie Frank could think all day; she'd never find me.
It was painful to watch.
"I'm Sam," I said quickly. "Your neighbor. And I, uh, sit behind you in homeroom."
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Kylie nodded distractedly, but I couldn't tell if her nod meant "Right. Of course that's you," or "Whatever. Let's just move on."
She waved toward the broken window. "Um, I'm sort of in the middle of a crisis here."
I took a deep breath. "Right. I mean, that's why I came over. I think maybe I can help." I flipped open the cash box and pushed it forward.
Kylie's gaze settled on the neat roll of bills, her blue eyes widening with surprise. "I don't get it," she said, after a minute. "You came over to give me all your money? Just like that?"
I shrugged. "Um, sort of. Well, maybe not all. But some. And I'm not giving it to you. It's more of a loan."
Kylie leaned back against the steps and stared up at me, cool and expectant.
"We could work out, like, a payment plan," I said, pushing out the words.
"A payment plan," Kylie repeated, her voice flat.
I cleared my throat. Why was this so hard? "Right. Weekly. Or, I don't know, monthly, if that works better for you."
She straightened slightly. "Why?" she asked. For the first time ever, she sounded genuinely interested in my answer.
I stared down at my feet. What could I say? You're the most popular girl in school and by
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lending you money I'm linking us together, forcing a "Kylie and Sam" situation? And any resulting attention you pay me is way more valuable than cash?
"I don't know. It's just-" I swallowed. "Why do you care? You need the money. I have money-"
"I don't know," Kylie said. "It just seems weird."
I looked at her. She was trying to sneer now, but something held her back.
Nerves, I realized with d rush. Kylie Frank is nervous.
Go on, whispered a little voice inside my head. You're making progress. She needs you.
I slapped the lid over the cash box and gave the combination dial a playful twist. "You're right," I said cheerfully. "Just forget it. Tell your parents I'm really sorry about the window. And let me know what homeschooling's like."
I spun around and headed back across the yard. I'd barely cleared the porch when Kylie's voice rang out.
"Wait!"
I turned as Kylie walked toward me.
That's right. Kylie Frank-the Kylie Frank-was following me.
"I'll take it," Kylie said, extending her hand. "Let me get the window fixed and we can work something out. That payment plan."
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I hesitated. "You can't just take the money and ditch
me," I warned. I took a deep breath. "I know about the party. I can always tell."
Kylie shot me a measuring sort of look, as if trying to decide something about me or the situation in general.
"I won't ditch you," she said finally. "I'll get you the money. I don't have a job or anything, but I'll figure it out."
Gingerly, I placed the cash box in her hand. "Deal," I said, relieved.
I watched as Kylie opened her front door and disappeared inside. She hadn't bothered to thank me, but I decided not to let that bother me.
I was at my front door when I remembered the cash box's lock. Kylie would need the combination if she ever wanted to spend the money. Turning around, I walked back to Kylie's house and rang the bell. I could hear music playing-something loud and poppy I'm sure every high schooler in the country would recognize except me.
"Hello?" I called out, rapping my hand against the door. It swung open and I stepped inside.
Kylie's house had the exact same layout as mine. It was trashed from the party the night before.
Still, it looked a lot cooler.
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Where my house was filled with lots of old, overstuffed furniture, purchased by my parents from local flea markets and thrift stores for their "history and character," everything in Kylie's house was sleek and modern. Couches were flat and boxy. Trinkets didn't exist. And they had a plasma-screen TV. Several, in fact. My parents wouldn't even get cable. ("Why bother?" my mother always asked every time I suggested it. "We get PBS.")
"Kylie?" Following the music, I headed up the stairs and walked down the hall toward an open door.
The room was empty, but the television and stereo were both on and I could hear water running. Standing in the doorway, I studied the room, absorbing the pale blue walls covered with friendship collages and framed pictures. There was' Kylie in her pep squad uniform, making poly-blend look sexy. There she was again, just the perfect amount of soaked, washing cars for Unicef with the rest of the A-listers. It was all there, right in front of me: homecoming queen, Spring Fling, fall fashion show...the high school life that existed for everyone but me.
I turned away from the pictures and then really wished I hadn't.
Kylie Frank was standing in front of me, completely naked.
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Being flashed by the most popular girl in school was definitely not how I'd pictured the morning. (But okay, while we're on the subject and because I'm sure you're wondering, naked Kylie Frank was, if possible, even more sickeningly perfect than the fully clothed version. Flat-stomach-long-legs-make-you-want-to-hit-the-gym-and-then-kill-yourself perfect.) Besides that, I'm not really a nude sort of person. I don't even like being naked when I'm supposed to be naked-like in dressing rooms or before I take a shower. Usually, I carry my clothes into the bathroom with me so that I can hop back into them as soon as possible.
So sure, the au naturel factor was definitely disconcerting. But there Was something else going on too.
Something far more disturbing.
Kylie lifted her arms up behind her neck and unzipped her skin.
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NINE
S he didn't see me, at least not at first. I just stood there, gaping, as Kylie pulled the zipper down her back and wriggled. As she moved, I actually saw something-something flesh-colored-slip down the perfect column of her body.
The material started to shimmer. The looser it got, the more it sparkled. What had moments before spread over Kylie's body and disappeared like a second skin now looked more like a nude-colored catsuit. Or a body stocking dusted with glitter.
Was it a girdle? But I was pretty sure nobody but my grandma Frieda even wore girdles anymore.
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Especially not Kylie Frank, the most perfectly proportioned girl in the tristate area. She had no use for lipo-lingerie or undercover body shaping. She didn't even need control-top panty hose.
Or did she? I narrowed my eyes slightly as Kylie stepped completely out of the suit. She still looked good: flat stomach, toned limbs and not a ripple or pucker in sight. But her skin had lost its tawny, sun-kissed glow. It looked pastier, like the pale, dry midwinter skin everyone on the East Coast-myself included-suffered through.
Whatever it was she'd been wearing was better than spring break and a tanning bed combined.
"What is that?" I blurted out.
Startled, Kylie turned her head, met my gaze and screamed.
"What are you doing here?" she shrieked. The suit was now completely off, and it rested in her hands, limp and twinkling. When she saw me looking at it, she shoved it behind her back and out of sight.
I wiped my suddenly clammy hands on my jeans. Even though Kylie was the naked one, there was something in her tone that made me feel vulnerable.
"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I-I just wanted to give you the combination to the cash box-"
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"I can't believe you just barged in here!" she cried, cutting me off. "Who does that? Get out!"
She was panicked. I could see it in her face. Her eyes were wide and jumpy and her cheeks were drawn. It was weird to see her like this, so anxious and, well, scared.
But it also gave me strength. Because I knew, right then and there, that there was more to Kylie's mystery undergarment than seamless support and an invisible panty line. And-call it insight born from years of frustrated popularity fantasies-I also knew that it was somehow tied to my social success.
"What were you wearing before?" I demanded, trying desperately to keep my eyes focused on her face. I'd never actually had a conversation with a completely naked person, and it was very disconcerting. Not to mention icky. "You have to tell me."
Kylie shook her head. "If you don't get out right now, I'll call the cops."
I squared my shoulders. "Good idea. Maybe they'll fix your window and roll the keg off the lawn."
Her eyes flashed. "I mean it! Leave!"
I crossed my arms over my chest and forced what I hoped was a don't-mess-with-me look onto my face. "Not until you explain."
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"I'm not explaining anything to you," Kylie said with a sneer.
"Well, unless you want to blowtorch the cash box," I said, surprising myself, "it seems like you don't have a choice." I was tempted to toss in a "tough noogies" for good measure but decided to quit while I was ahead.
"God, you're pathetic," Kylie spit, but a muscle under her eye had started to twitch and I could see that I'd gotten to her.
"Tell me," I said. "Or bye-bye bay window."
"Look, I can't," she sputtered. Her hands were still behind her back and she stood rigid, as if she were afraid to move. "I'm not supposed to...you don't understand."
"I understand that money is often exchanged for goods and services," I pointed out.
Kylie sighed. Her shoulders drooped a little as she slowly pulled the catsuit out from behind her back.
I stepped closer for a better look. As I moved, the suit winked at me.
"Uh, that's not Victoria's Secret, is it?" I guessed. "I mean, what is that?"
Kylie stared down at the Skin with a wistful, almost reverent expression on her face. "This," she whispered, "is popular."
A ripple of anxiety shot down my spine.
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Yikes. Major yikes. Clearly, Kylie Frank was insane. Possibly even dangerous.
"Look, why don't you keep the money?" I reasoned, thinking that my chances of becoming popular would be even more diminished if I was chopped up and living in Kylie's freezer. "It's okay. I'll just go now and you can, um, find your clothes and call Home Depot. The combination's really easy-two-four-six-eight-but I can write it down if you-"
"What, you don't believe me?" Kylie said, sauntering across the carpet toward her dresser. My discomfort seemed to have restored her confidence. "Well, it's true."
"What's true?" I asked.
"The Skin," Kylie said as she opened the bottom drawer and tucked the suit neatly inside. She pulled out a T-shirt and slipped it on over
her head.
I was so relieved she wasn't naked anymore I actually felt a little faint. "The Skin?" I asked.
"You should be happy, you know," Kylie continued, plucking a pair of bikini undies from the drawer. "Everyone thinks popularity is a quality-like thick hair or a great sense of humor-when really it has nothing to do with any of that."
I stared at her. "It doesn't," I repeated, but the way it came out, it sounded more like a question.
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Kylie shook her head. "Nope." She waved a hand toward the dresser. "It's all about the Skin."
"I don't get it," I said, shaking my head for what felt like the hundredth time. "You're saying that that thing is why you're so popular? How?"
Kylie flashed me a smile. "You know, I have absolutely no idea. I got it the night before freshman year-it was just sitting under my pillow along with a user's manual and a set of rules. I've been wearing it ever since."
I stared at her, waiting for a big laugh and a loud "Kidding!"
When neither came, I finally spoke.
"And you didn't find this just a little strange?"
Kylie swiped a pair of terry-cloth sweatpants off her floor and pulled them on. "Well, sure. I mean, I almost threw the whole thing out." She reached up and swept her long blond hair into a high ponytail. "But then I read the rules and it..." She trailed off as if trying to remember. "I guess it just seemed too good to pass up. The note said there was one in every school, so I figured, why not?" She shrugged. "You know what I mean."
"Okay," I said, gathering my thoughts together. "You're saying that these skins are, like, everywhere?"
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Kylie frowned. "No. Like I said, there's one per school. You know how every school has an It-girl? Well, every It-girl has a Skin."
"And that's what makes them It-girls? Isn't that a little Invasion of the Body Snatchers?"
Kylie snorted. "Hardly. I mean, this isn't a mind-control sort of thing. I'm still the same person, with or without the Skin. I guess it's just sort of..." She frowned, searching for the right word. "I don't know. Magic?"
I stared at her, not sure what to say.
"Listen, you can't tell anyone about this," Kylie warned. "I'm serious."
Second Skin Page 4
