Second Skin

by Jessica Wollman

  "I won't," I muttered. "It's too crazy for gossip."

  Kylie laughed. "This from the girl willing to fork over her entire life savings just to sit at the cool table." She shot me a look. "It's not that crazy."

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  TEN

  " I s this too bitter?"

  I snapped my head up and looked at Gwen. We were sitting in her kitchen, surrounded by cookbooks and various pots and pans. Her arm was extended, holding out a mixing bowl filled with some sort of bright yellow jelly.

  I peered inside. "Mmm...looks good. Can I taste?"

  Gwen rolled her eyes. "Thanks for tuning in. I've only been asking you for the past five minutes."

  I swept my finger around the rim of the bowl and into my mouth. "Yum," I said. "Lemon?"

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  "Persimmon," she corrected. "I told you that, too. Seriously, Sam, what's with you?" She glanced down at the yellow mix and frowned. "If it tastes like lemon, I added too much zest."

  "It tastes great," I assured her. "Really."

  "I'm not sure I can trust you," Gwen said, shaking her head. "What with your recent lobotomy and all."

  "What lobotomy?" Alex asked, strolling into the room. He was carrying Gwen's Cuisinart in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other. "I think I fixed it," he told her, placing the machine on the counter. "But you have to quit overstuffing it. That's why it jams."

  "Thanks," Gwen said as she poured an entire tray of ginger snaps down the Cuisinart's neck, ignoring Alex's glare. She nodded toward me. "I was just telling Sam she's been a serious space case lately."

  I raised a hand in protest. "Please. I prefer the word preoccupied."

  "I don't know," Alex said slowly. He pulled out a stool and sat down at the counter. "Preoccupied sounds a little intellectual. Like you're trying to stop global warming or something."

  "Hey!" I said. "How do you know I haven't been?"

  Gwen and Alex shared a look, then burst out laughing.

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  Alex glanced at my backpack and the magazine poking out of the front. " 'Why Celebs Don't Wear Underwear,' " he read from the cover. " 'What Flavor Lip Gloss Are You?' " He grinned, admiring the mustache and chest hair I'd doodled on a beaming rock diva. "Hey, can I borrow that after you're done?"

  I scowled. "Fine. So I've been a little out of it. Big deal."

  He cleared his throat and straightened. "So, uh, how was geometry? I never heard from you this weekend."

  I squinted my eyes, trying to remember the test I'd taken only the day before. There had been shapes, definitely. And numbers. None of it had made any sense, but I'd somehow managed to plow through, handing in the papers without thinking of their inevitable return to me: marked up with angry red slashes and a bright red "See me" at the top.

  That was what happened when I attempted math without Alex.

  "It was fine," I muttered. "I haven't gotten it back yet."

  Alex pursed his lips. "Seriously, Sam, what's going on?" he asked, his voice quiet.

  I looked back and forth between my friends. Three days had passed since I'd found out about the Skin and I still hadn't said a word. I felt

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  guilty too. It was huge news, and in the past I'd always shared huge news with them. Sure, Kylie Frank had sworn me to secrecy, but that wasn't what was keeping my mouth shut. I knew I could trust Gwen and Alex if I told them.

  The truth was: I didn't want to tell them. I'd been trying, semisuccessfully, to convince myself that this was their fault. They were the ones with the ultranegative attitudes, the ones who mocked everything high school. So what, I reasoned, made the Skin any different?

  They probably wouldn't even care, I kept repeating. They think popularity's stupid, so why bother?

  Given what I'd just learned, I guess they kind of had a point. After all my coveting and craving, being popular wasn't such a riddle after all. It wasn't reserved for thin-limbed girls named Ashley. And more importantly, it wasn't some sort of indecipherable code specifically designed to keep people like me, with subpar hair and fashion-challenged wardrobes, out. Teen Vogue had been right all along. Popularity wasn't about who you were.

  It was about what you wore.

  I wish I could say that the realization was liberating, that the secret helped me get over the whole thing. I wish it helped me stop caring.

  But knowing that popularity was as simple as

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  slipping on a pair of Spanx (and, from the looks of things, a lot less binding) had actually made things worse. I was more obsessed than ever. Because the more I thought about it-and over the past few days it had been the only thing I thought about-the more I wondered: if popularity was so easy, then why couldn't I have it? Why not me?

  All I needed was the Skin.

  Sadly, that was the only thought that felt truly liberating. I'd spent all of high school so far wishing I could trade up. Myself, my hair, my clothes. I'd wasted so much time and energy trying to become a better version of myself. I'd memorized every "How to Be Popular" article published in the last decade, to the point where I could recite not only the contents but also the author and date of publication. I'd suffered through so many painful and just plain stupid self-improvement ploys-from lazy push-up bras that refused to push up anything to body sugaring. (Don't ask. Just don't do it.) And all because I thought I was to blame for the total nonevent that was my high school career.

  Well, now I knew. My lack of polish and social grace had absolutely nothing to do with anything. Popularity wasn't personal. The only thing keeping me from the top of the spirit pyramid was a thing. Apiece of hosiery.

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  And I wanted it. Desperately.

  This was the real reason I kept the Skin to myself. If I said as much to Alex and Gwen, they'd only argue with me. They'd be completely disgusted, if they even believed me. And they'd definitely try to talk me out of what I was certain would be my next move.

  I was going to steal the Skin.

  It was an awful thing to think-and do-but really, the more I thought about it the more sense it made. Besides, what choice did I have? Kylie Frank had been wearing the Skin for almost two years. She'd used my hard-earned money to fix her window and, crisis averted, had plunged seamlessly back into her fab life. Wasn't there something wrong with that? Wasn't it time for her to share?

  I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to shut out all the ugliness.

  "Sam," Alex said. I opened one eye and looked at him. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Oh my god. The persimmons. Do you think you have food poisoning?" Gwen gasped and spun around. "I think we have some Pepto in the bathroom."

  "No, no," I said, laughing in spite of myself. "I'm fine. I swear. I just..." I looked at Alex and said the first thing that popped into my head. "The test was a disaster. I shouldn't be allowed to

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  open a geometry book without you around to chaperone."

  Alex smiled easily and placed his hand lightly on my shoulder. "Is that what's bothering you? Forget it. We'll crush them on the next one."

  Gwen bent down and pulled open the oven door. The room immediately filled with comforting, familiar Gwen-scents: Cinnamon. Melted butter. Vanilla.

  "Here," she said, deftly extracting a sheet of brightly covered pastries. "Persimmon squares make everything better."

  "Plus," Alex told me, "they're squares. So technically, you're studying."

  "Thanks," I said, leaning toward the sheet and pointedly ignoring the little twang in my chest.

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  ELEVEN

  I t's possible to justify anything. Because, really, aren't there at least two sides to every situation? Isn't that what's so wrong with the paparazzi's relentless persecution of celebrities?

  This is what I told myself as I snuck across the Franks' yard and swiped the spare key from underneath the flowerpot, like I'd seen Kylie do a hundred times before.

  This isn't evil, I reasoned as I slid the key into the lock. It's active. Proactive.
I was trying to turn my life around. I was evening the social scale...and if I happened to tip the balance a little in my favor, well, I was only human.

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  I let myself into Kylie's house and climbed the stairs. I'd been stressing about the whole breaking-and-entering thing for almost a week but it turned out to be a lot easier than I'd expected. So easy, in fact, I wondered why my whole street wasn't robbed more often. Like on a daily basis.

  Even though I was sure no one was home, I tiptoed all the way to Kylie's bedroom, just to be sure. I brushed aside the do not disturb sign that hung from the doorknob, noting with satisfaction that it had been swiped from a Marriott.

  See, I thought as I cut across the room and opened the closet door. I'm not the only thief.

  I stood there for a minute, absorbing the colorful terrain that was Kylie Frank's wardrobe. There were tiny pleated skirts and satin skinny pants, plus about a dozen pairs of jeans. The whole spread looked like an "after" snapshot from a Seventeen closet makeover. I could just picture the article in my head: "Go from Forgettable to Fashionista with Just a Few of These Must-Haves!"

  Shoving aside the hangers, I tucked myself in between a navy coat and a bright red wrap dress.

  And then I waited.

  It was actually really boring. I mean, in the movies, break-ins are always these heart-pounding, nail-biting affairs, filled with Mission:

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  Impossible-style music, Brad Pitt look-alikes and leggy, leather-clad brunettes. But here I was, sitting at the bottom of someone else's closet (sure, it was one of the more fashionable closets I'd seen, but it was still a closet) trying desperately not to nod off.

  The scene was hardly movieworthy. It was barely even soap opera material.

  I was braiding my hair for the tenth time when, finally, the energy in the room seemed to shift. There were footsteps in the hall and then the door swung open.

  "I'm so sorry!" Kylie Frank was saying as she breezed in. I could hear her footsteps on the car- pet, then a thud as she dropped something-a bag, maybe-onto the floor. "I wanted to meet you, but Tanner had a game. He gets really upset when I don't watch him play. Then he wanted to work out afterwards, so I got stuck at the gym..."

  I peeked through a crack in the door. Kylie stood over her bed, iPhone at her ear. "I know, I know. You should definitely hate me. It's just I'm so busy all the time. I really have to get a grip." She paused for a response, then sighed. "I swear, we'll hit the mall tomorrow, okay, Ellie? Listen, I gotta go. I'm all sweaty and I've got, like, a million hours of homework. See ya."

  Kylie pressed a few buttons on her phone, then tossed it onto the bed. I watched anxiously

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  as she unpacked her leather hobo bag (three notebooks, a sweater and a makeup case the size of a Honda).

  "You have sixteen new messages," chirped the voice-mail woman.

  Whoa. Sixteen? How was that even possible? We'd only been out of school for, what, three hours?

  "Hey Kylie, it's Matt. Just calling to say hi. Hope the move went well ..."

  Matt Kane. The guy Kylie had dumped for Tanner. I thought back to that other morning in homeroom. What had Ella said? Matt really likes you...

  Based on his tone, I had to agree. I barely knew Matt-and I was sure he wouldn't know me if I fell on him-but I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the guy. It was obvious he was trying to leave one of those light-and-breezy sort of messages. But what was even more obvious was that he was completely head-over-heels for Kylie Frank. His voice was a dead giveaway.

  Kylie reached for the phone, snapping it shut with a groan. When she turned around, her expression caught me off guard.

  She looked sad, not annoyed.

  Scooping her bag off the floor, she fished out a framed picture. I couldn't make out what it was, but it seemed to cheer her up.

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  "I'm just feeling sorry for Matt," Kylie said to the picture as she placed it gently on her night-stand. "But that's stupid. Matt sounded fine. Great."

  Are you hearing-impaired? I felt like asking. The guy actually sounds like a lovesick puppy.

  There was a knock on the door, and then Mrs. Frank poked her head into the room. Her platinum hair was twisted into a knot and she wore a tan suit with chocolate suede pumps, just the sort of outfit I'd imagined she owned during our first meeting.

  "Hey," Kylie said, turning to face her mother.

  Mrs. Frank's gaze slid from the pile of notebooks scattered across the floor to a neat column of boxes stacked in a corner of the room.

  "I'm about to start dinner," she said. Her voice was clipped and reminded me of when she'd mistaken me for one of Kylie's friends. "Have you finished your homework?"

  "Not yet. I'm working on it."

  Mrs. Frank frowned. "Those boxes aren't going to just pop open and unpack themselves, Kylie."

  "I know. " A slight edge had crept into Kylie's voice.

  "Well, we've been here for a month. Your father and I are almost done with every other

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  room in the house," her mother said as her eyes zeroed in on Kylie's cell phone. She sighed. "Please don't tell me you've been on the phone this whole time."

  "I wasn't."

  Mrs. Frank turned and placed her hand on the doorknob. "I'm heading back downstairs. I thought I'd just make some pasta and a salad."

  "Sure," Kylie said. I could tell she was relieved. She'd definitely gotten off easy.

  "Please don't make me take away your phone," her mother said quietly.

  She closed the door behind her and I watched as Kylie sank back down onto the bed.

  So, I thought. There are certain things the Skin can't protect you from. Like parents.

  Was Kylie wishing, like I had so many times, that she had a different sort of mother? A mom you could take shopping without fear of public humiliation? The sort of mom who offered advice without judgment and enjoyed the occasional ice cream pig-out slash heart-to-heart?

  Maybe Kylie Frank and I shared something else in common besides nine hundred dollars and the secret to popularity.

  Kylie walked across the room through an arched doorway I assumed led to her bathroom. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of water

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  running and Kylie returned, stripping off her clothes.

  There was the Skin-smooth and perfect. I watched as she reached behind her neck and unzipped, then peeled the whole thing off. It hung limply in her hands as she stepped across the room, opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and tucked it neatly inside.

  My heart pounded as Kylie stepped back inside the bathroom and shut the door.

  It was now or never.

  There was only one small problem. Okay, two: my legs had stopped working, and I was on the verge of hyperventilating.

  I took a deep breath. I've never stolen anything in my life, I thought. And, really, what has Kylie Frank ever done to me?

  I remembered Kylie's face as her mother was lecturing her. She'd looked small, somehow. Not nearly as poised. Or perfect.

  I pushed myself onto my feet. I couldn't do it. It just wasn't going to happen.

  I walked across Kylie's room, fully committed to my decision.

  I was halfway to the door when it hit me. Full force.

  Popularity was everywhere: on the friendship collages that wallpapered Kylie's bedroom; the twelve new e-mails that had just popped up

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  on Kylie's iBook; and in the framed picture on Kylie's nightstand...of Kylie kissing Tanner Mullins.

  Kylie was kissing Tanner Mullins.

  I stared at the picture. It was a great shot. Tanner leaned into Kylie, their faces flushed with excitement. Kylie's head tilted off to one side, playful in a sexy, kitten-heels sort of way.

  They looked so perfect. So romantic. So very, very high school...

  I turned my back on the picture and retraced my steps across the room.

  Slowly, deliberately, I opened the chest and grabbed the
Skin.

  I held my breath and tiptoed out of the room. A door was open at the end of the hall and I could hear the murmur of voices. Kylie's parents, I guessed.

  I stepped carefully down the stairs, trying to avoid any attention-grabbing creaks, and shot out the front door.

  And then I ran.

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  TWELVE

  C heap nylons. If you're wondering what it feels like to hold popularity in your hands, head directly to the hosiery aisle at your nearest Target and rip open a carton of nylons. Avoid name brands; they're way too high-end. Popularity is more Hanes than Donna Karan. It's totally synthetic, without a touch of silk.

  And it was mine. All mine. When I got back to my room, I shut my door and spread the Skin out on my bed.

  "What happens now?" I asked, half expecting the thing to answer me.

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  But it just sat there, lifeless and shriveled, like a flesh-colored union suit. It reminded me of this special I once saw on Oxygen: Body Image, Exposed. All these women of various weights and shapes wore nude body stockings, then stood in front of a mirror and explained how they felt ("My reflection really makes me regret all those Whoppers"). It was actually pretty interesting, especially when one of the women-a tall, überleggy blonde-fell so in love with her pseudo-naked self that she wore the body stocking to her local grocery store and got arrested.

  I stared at the Skin. If I put it on, what would my reflection tell me? Would my life instantly change? And how about my appearance? Kylie had looked pretty much the same in and out of the Skin, but maybe I was different. Anything seemed possible.

  Really, I wondered. What now?

  You're a thief. It doesn't belong to you. Give it back.

  The words popped into my head before I could stop them.

  It was true. I'd stolen popularity.

  My heart thumped inside my chest.

  It wasn't too late to return it. Sure, I'd have to sneak back into the Franks' house, which was definitely pressing my luck. But Kylie was probably still in the shower. If I left now-right now- 1

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  could tuck the Skin back inside the drawer and then slip out. No one would know what I'd almost done.

  And nothing would change. That was a definite. I'd be stuck with myself-not the new-and-improved version the Skin promised. I'd live out the rest of high school craving everything popular-and getting Gwen's brownies and computer Scrabble with Alex instead.