Second Skin

by Jessica Wollman

  "I can't return popularity," I whined aloud, sounding exactly like a four-year-old at Toys "R" Us. "Who does that?"

  I glanced down at my shoes-white canvas Keds. That said it all. I was a pair of Keds-colorless, plain and almost painfully flat.

  Kylie Frank, on the other hand, was a stiletto.

  Time for a shoe swap.

  I went over to my desk, shut down my computer and turned off my phone. I was pretty sure Kylie had no idea what my e-mail or IM address was, but I wasn't taking any chances. The fewer ways to track me down, the better.

  I walked back to the bed and picked up the Skin. And that was when I remembered the rules. Kylie had mentioned something about a set of rules. And a user's manual.

  I had neither.

  Okay, so I hadn't thought the plan completely through.

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  No biggie, I told myself. You're smart. You can figure this out. It'll be like on-the-job training.

  When I'd first found out about the Skin, Kylie was removing it. And this afternoon she'd taken it off again to shower. So clearly, you didn't have to wear the Skin all the time.

  I was making progress already.

  But then there was the whole maintenance issue. I had no idea how to wrap my head around that one. I mean, I had the Skin, great. But how was I supposed to wash it? This wasn't the sort of thing you could research on Wikipedia-or by reading a box of Tide. Actually, forget Tide. Maybe I needed special soap. Or was the Skin dry clean only?

  Yikes. What if I accidentally washed the popularity right out?

  Maybe it was best to avoid washing altogether, even though Kylie Frank had worn the Skin less than a half hour ago. Or was that completely unsanitary, like buying used underwear or something? Gross. What if I got some sort of disease? Kylie seemed really healthy, but you never knew.

  I held the Skin up to the light. It looked perfectly clean and smelled like, well, nothing at all. Maybe popularity was impervious to stains and odors.

  Since that last thought was the only one that relaxed me, I decided to stick with it.

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  Quit stalling. If you want to be popular, you have to wear popular.

  My stomach twisted as I heaved all the lingering questions out of my head and, before I could change my mind, stripped off all my clothes. I lifted the Skin, running my hands up and down the torso, looking for the zipper.

  It was there, in the back. I pulled it down and stepped inside: first one leg, then the other, and finally my arms. I thought I'd have to tug a little-like an actual pair of nylons-but I didn't have to do any work at all. In a matter of seconds, the Skin spilled over me with a gentle swoosh, covering my body from neck to toe.

  I was inside popularity. And it felt...great.

  I edged the zipper up to my neck and looked down. I could still feel the Skin but I couldn't see it anymore. Anywhere. Including my feet (this struck me as particularly odd since, off the body, the Skin's feet weren't divided into toe compartments...but now my toes were totally free and completely wiggleable). As soon as I'd put it on, it had disappeared, melting over me, sleek and luxurious, like a really expensive body lotion.

  And there was something else too. Maybe it was because the Skin felt so good. Or it could've been the magic working. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the Skin and was all in my head.

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  To this day, I still don't know, and at that particular moment I really didn't care. At all. Because the thing is, I felt amazing. Inside and out. Wearing the Skin, I was sure I stood taller. And my skin looked just a little creamier-smoother and slightly tanned.

  I was definitely more leggy blond than Whopper woman.

  Kylie's going to kill me, I thought, suddenly and with absolute certitude. No way was she going to let something like this slip out of her grasp without a fight. Nobody would.

  I was safe for now, but I was definitely in for some ugliness-sooner rather than later.

  Relax, said a voice inside my head-obviously not the same one that had just called me a thief. Enjoy the moment.

  Great advice, I decided. Pulling on my pajamas, I strutted around the bedroom like a Victoria's Secret model decked out in this season's newest nightie (if this season's nightie happened to be a flannel gown from L.L. Bean...but whatever). I was bold. I was confident. I was completely un-me.

  I glanced at my window and froze mid-sashay. The blinds were down but even so, I could easily guess what was going on next door. It wasn't hard to picture Kylie Frank, fresh from the shower, her towel-clad form bending over the

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  empty bottom drawer. She'd check once, twice-maybe even a third and fourth time before diving into a panicked, desperate search for the Skin that would start in her bedroom and spread to other parts of the house. I was pretty sure she'd be up all night.

  A twinge of anxiety worked its way down my spine.

  So much for relaxing, I thought.

  I couldn't help it. I was scared.

  Plus, I felt guilty. I hated what I'd done, that my actions had cost someone else. It was collateral damage, sure, but it was awful. And it was all my fault.

  On the other hand, my life was on the verge of a major rewrite. I was sure of it.

  Popularity loved me. I couldn't just turn it away.

  The phone rang in the hallway and my new, semiflattened stomach dropped somewhere below my knees.

  Had Kylie Frank figured it out already? I was so dead.

  "Sam, Alex!" my mother called from downstairs.

  Relieved, I opened my door and cat-walked into the hall. "Hey," I said, scooping up the phone. There was the trace of a giggle in my voice.

  "What's so funny?" Alex asked, amused.

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  "Nothing," I said. I carried the receiver back to my room and got into bed. The butterflies in my stomach swooped into my throat, making my voice jumpy and excited. "What's up?"

  "Your cell was off, but I just thought I'd check in. You know, in case you had any questions."

  "Tons," I said, smiling into the phone. "For starters, why do people always grab a million more napkins than they'll ever use from those dispensers in the cafeteria?"

  Alex laughed. "I meant about geometry. The napkin thing is way out of my league."

  "Don't sell yourself short," I told him. I yawned. "Listen, if you're really nice to me tomorrow, I'll let you check my work. Deal?"

  "Wow, you're the best," Alex said gravely.

  "I know. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Definitely."

  I pushed the Off button and dropped the phone onto the floor next to my bed. It was a drain on the batteries and pretty much guaranteed a lecture from one or both parents on waste, but I didn't care.

  I had the Skin. I had everything.

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  THIRTEEN

  A new life, I decided the next morning, definitely deserved a new wardrobe.

  I stood in front of my open closet, searching the depressing landscape for a Skinworthy outfit. I'd woken up early, strangely refreshed and surprised I'd been able to sleep at all considering that today was the day. Sam Klein was being re-launched into society, new and improved. And she had the power of the Skin behind her.

  I was ready. More than ready.

  Unfortunately, my wardrobe, having stalled somewhere around 2007, wasn't. Not by several seasons.

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  I flipped through the hangers, eyeing and dismissing each item in a matter of seconds. There were jean overalls (No thank you, Old McDonald), a brown burlap smock dress I was certain had been designed by Mr. Potato Head and green wide-wale cords that were perfect for Earth Day.

  It's not like I expected to wake up to a whole new life, with a truckload of admirers, a brand-new Lexus and a closet filled with expensive bags and shoes. (Okay, that's exactly what I expected.)

  But it wasn't my fault, I reasoned. How was I supposed to know how the Skin worked? I didn't have the manual or the rules.

  This was definitely going
to be a problem. Since I had no idea what sort of time restrictions, if any, applied to removing the Skin, I'd decided to sleep in it. This morning I'd taken it off to shower, since I'd seen Kylie do the same. I'd tucked it into a pink shoe box and, just to be safe, slid it under my bed. Postshower, it had slipped back on, smooth as silk. But I still had so many questions about its wear and use...and no place to go for answers.

  All the It-girls have them, I heard Kylie saying. One in every school.

  I straightened. If that was the case, then the world was filled with secret-Skin-wearing

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  homecoming queens. Maybe there was some sort of network I could tap into. A support group for the magically popular? Or even better-a chat room.

  I walked over to my computer and turned it on, carefully avoiding e-mail and IM. I googled the words second skin and sat back, waiting to be connected with A-listers around the world.

  The results were a little disappointing. Second Skin was a blister treatment, a lab in Northern California, a gay bar in Chelsea and a foreign film that looked mildly pornographic. But not, according to my laptop, a magical wet suit.

  Slightly frustrated, I got up and plucked the most neutral items I could find from the closet-black jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. They'd have to do. Besides, I was already wearing the most important item of all.

  I checked my watch. It was only seven a.m. I was more than an hour early, which was perfect. I had to be out of the house by the time Kylie Frank woke up and pounded on my door. I shot off a quick IM to Gwen (Don't pik me up. G2G early 4 geo.), grabbed my knapsack and headed downstairs.

  My parents were at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the paper.

  Both wielded scissors. This was their morning routine-massacring the newspaper and saving

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  relevant articles for their various issues-related scrapbooks. The angry-looking albums filled our shelves-an alphabet of activism, from "Animal Rights!" to "Toxics!" peppered by the occasional organic cookbook.

  Why, I wondered for the millionth time, can't my parents just read mysteries and romances like normal adults? If I ever found a Harlequin anywhere in my house, I'd seriously have it framed.

  "You're up early," my mother chirped. She looked at me, her eyes widening slightly. "Are you wearing makeup?"

  My heartbeat kicked up a notch. "No," I said, swiping a hand across my cheeks as if to prove my blush-free status. "Why?"

  "I don't know," she mused, still studying me. "You just look...different." She rose from the table, placing her hands on her hips. "It's fine if you want to experiment with a little makeup, Sam, but please use a brand that doesn't animal-test. I can get you a list if you want."

  "And don't buy anything from Walmart," my father added as his scissors moved swiftly across his paper. "Talk about union busting."

  "Okeydoke," I said happily. Instead of being annoyed-my normal response to my parents' PC inquisitions-I actually felt hopeful. If my mom had noticed the difference, I hadn't imagined it:

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  the Skin was working. "But I don't really wear makeup."

  My mother sighed loudly. "Just keep animal testing in mind. What goes on in those labs is criminal." She gave her head an angry shake. "Now, how about some oatmeal before you go?"

  "I don't eat breakfast," I informed her. Again.

  "Suit yourself." She shrugged, looking like I'd just told her I was dropping out of school to join a Kiss cover band. "It's only the most important meal of the day."

  I glanced at my watch. "Fine," I muttered. We went through this every morning. "I guess I have time."

  One bowl of organic mush later and I was on my way. I was halfway out the door when my father came rushing after me.

  "Almost forgot these!" He handed me a stack of flyers. "I can't believe it's January already."

  Every month, my father's law firm printed up a new flyer exposing the latest corporate criminal. Even though I'd never volunteered for the job, he'd appointed me "head of youth marketing," which basically meant I was supposed to post the flyers around school.

  I usually stuck a few in the girls' room and ditched the rest.

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  It seemed that this month's evil empire was Nike, which, according to the flyer, abused workers in third-world nations. I studied the papers in my hand, absorbing the angry red swoosh and the warning: just don't do it.

  "Isn't that sort of old news?" I asked.

  My dad shrugged. "If it's still happening, it's not old."

  I tucked the flyers under my arms and headed out. Kylie's house, I noted with more than a little relief, was completely dark and silent.

  I speed-walked the six blocks to school, rushed through the heavy blue doors and dumped my things, including my dad's flyers, in my locker. Then I headed to the closest bathroom and locked myself in the first stall. I'd decided last night that, in order to avoid any early-morning run-ins, it was best to avoid homeroom completely.

  I grabbed a magazine from my backpack and tried to read an article about celebrity cellulite but couldn't really focus. Instead, I doodled across the cover (if you ask me, every actress looks better with a goatee) as thoughts popped into my head like champagne corks.

  The confidence from this morning was gone, replaced with nervous energy and a trace of

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  doubt. In my room, anything had seemed possible, but at "Woodlawn "anything" seemed a lot less likely.

  Schools were supposed to be supportive and nurturing environments-at least according to the posters in the guidance counselor's office. But for me, Woodlawn had always had the opposite effect. Walking through the halls, I felt hopelessly unimportant, in danger of fading away completely.

  I shifted uncomfortably, realizing that, at that very instant, I had a far more pressing problem than the stolen Skin or even Kylie Frank's wrath.

  I had to pee.

  The good news: I was in the bathroom, actually sitting on the toilet. The bad news: I was in the Skin. And, so far as I could tell, the only zipper ran vertically along my spine, not horizontally, um, a little farther downtown.

  I had no choice. I'd have to take it off. All of it.

  As quietly as I could, I slipped off my clothes, then worked the zipper down my spine, pulled my arms out of the Skin and gently tugged.

  It's not that big a deal, I reasoned postflush. Scuba divers must do this all the time. Besides, if the Skin actually worked, it would definitely be worth the hassle.

  The bell rang just as I was getting dressed. I

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  shoved the magazine back inside my knapsack and swung open the stall door.

  But what if the Skin didn't work? I was sure I was its most challenging case. Could my dorkiness melt all of the magic?

  I paused at the row of sinks and checked out my reflection in the mirror.

  It was me, all right. Round face. Way-too-curly hair. So-so brown eyes and a nose that was verging on too big but, for the time being, at least, had settled for prominent. I guess my cheeks looked a little flushed from my acrobatics inside the stall, but other than that I couldn't really see the difference my mother was talking about. Any sort of supermodel effect I'd expected from the Skin definitely hadn't kicked in yet.

  Bummer.

  "Aren't you Sam Klein?" asked the girl standing next to me. She was tall and skinny, with dyed black hair and a nose ring.

  Abby Lawton, I thought. She sat two seats away from me in geometry but hadn't spoken to me all year. She usually spent the class hunched over, peeling the black polish from her nails.

  "Um, yeah," I said, surprised she even knew my name. I rarely spoke in any of my classes, but in geometry I was borderline catatonic.

  "I think Kylie Frank is looking for you. I

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  heard something about it in the hall." She turned back to the mirror. "Cool shirt."

  I stared at her. Wait, what? A compliment? Nobody at Woodlawn complimented me. They didn't talk to me. As
far as I knew, they couldn't even see me.

  Was this the Skin? Or maybe I'd misunderstood. I could be going deaf. That was definitely more believable.

  I was on the verge of asking Abby to repeat herself when the second bell rang. I had about thirty seconds to get to English, otherwise Mr. Hill would lock me out. He lived for that.

  I grabbed my bag and pushed my way through the door.

  And that was when I heard it: "Sam Klein." Up and down the halls, the school was almost pulsing with the name. My name.

  Sam Klein.

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  FOURTEEN

  "Hey, that's Sam Klein, right?"

  "Wait, where?"

  "Oh, that's her."

  I moved down the hall toward my locker, soaking up the attention as it swirled around me.

  Of course, I assumed it was the Skin doing its thing, working its magic. I could almost feel the boost as I skipped several rungs up the Woodlawn High social ladder.

  I was wrong.

  People were definitely talking about me. The Abby Lawton thing hadn't been a fluke. But it

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  wasn't because of the Skin. It was because of Kylie Frank. When the most popular girl in school demands a sit-down with a total nobody, it tends to rouse curiosity. And trigger a lot of talk.

  In history, Kim Price and Georgia Beeler-soccer players who, before today, definitely had no clue who I was-approached me.

  "Kylie's looking for you," Kim announced as I unpacked my bag.

  "Yeah, what's up with you guys?" Georgia chimed in, eyeing me with a new, almost hungry interest. "How do you even know Kylie?"

  "She, uh, lives next door to me," I explained, shrugging a shoulder and doing my best to hide my disappointment. With or without the Skin, I was still a nobody. And Kylie Frank still ruled. How could that be possible?

  It was like that in every class, all day long. After a lifetime of invisible-girl status, people were finally seeing Sam Klein, only it was through the lens of their Kylie Frank worship. My newfound celebrity was simply a testament to her unflinching power-hold over the student body. I'd come to school expecting the halls of Woodlawn High to have magically transformed into a friendly neighborhood coffee shop, but it just wasn't like that. Sure, I heard