Second Skin

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.

vii

1

-Oscar Wilde

3

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.

5

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

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.

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

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

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,

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 around as if they were being filmed for a new MTV pilot.

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

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.