Second Skin

by Jessica Wollman

  Gwen looked at us and groaned. "Come on," she said to me. "You should be happy you're not over there, Sam. You're way too cool."

  "Here it comes." Alex shook his head but he was smiling now. His voice sounded relaxed.

  I shot my hand up in mock protest, relieved that his tone had lightened. "No! I take it all back, okay? Just no theory. Please."

  Last year, after a particularly humiliating gym class starring Gwen and a very broken sports bra, she'd formed a simple theory about the four years commonly referred to as high school but which she called hell. The theory, she claimed, was grounded in fact and based on extensive research (personal experience in the form of cruel

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  gags and snide remarks). Basically, it went something like this: high school is stupid.

  Following this logic, any. truly cool person could never ever be appreciated at Woodlawn. Similarly, everyone at the top of the food chain was completely soulless and moronic.

  Convinced her theory was genius, Gwen invoked it at every opportunity. Alex and I had heard the same lecture so many times that just mentioning it made us laugh.

  "For your information," Gwen announced, "I wasn't even thinking about that." She smiled grandly. "But now that you mention it..."

  I giggled as Alex made fake vomiting noises.

  But to be honest, my heart wasn't really in it. A part of me was already walking to the back of the cafeteria, ready to join Tanner and Kylie and the Red Bull. Apart of me had already decided.

  I was going to find a way in. I'd make it work. Kylie's move was the best thing that could've happened to me.

  I'd show them.

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  THREE

  O kay. I might not be cool. I might have fusilli hair. I might have only two friends and-thanks to my consumer-culture-hating parents and their no-brand-name leanings-be saddled with a wardrobe that would traumatize Marc Jacobs.

  But I, Samantha Klein, could sure put together a killer gift basket.

  When I got home from school that afternoon, the moving vans were parked in Kylie's new driveway. For two solid hours I watched as furniture and boxes were lugged into the big brick house.

  As soon as things calmed down, I got to work.

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  It was all a part of my new carpe diem attitude: only Samantha Klein could make things happen for Samantha Klein.

  Project gift basket was my first take-charge move. And phase one of the plan--putting together the actual basket-was simple. A little tissue paper, some of Gwen's gourmet brownies and a big Welcome! card purchased at one of those fancy stationery stores my mother despised, and I was in business. No problem.

  Phase two, however, was a little more difficult. Said gift basket had to be given. This meant that I had to actually visit the most popular girl in school. At her house. Completely uninvited.

  This was why I found myself standing on Kylie Frank's new front porch admiring the bounty I was supposed to be delivering but absolutely unable to deliver it.

  Just raise your hand, I kept telling myself. Knock. Ring. Yell. Do something.

  I lifted my arm but hesitated when I read my watch. It was seven. What if the Franks were eating dinner? Or what if they hated unexpected guests, even ones bearing dessert?

  Maybe it was best to leave the gift on the porch.

  I tried to lower the basket to the floor but this voice-this really annoying voice--started to swirl around inside my head.

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  No. Carpe diem. You have to do this. Now.

  So before I lost my nerve again-and to shut the voice up-I leaned forward and pushed the bell. I could hear the chime as it rang through the house.

  A pretty blond woman opened the door. She was holding a wad of bills. She had really smooth skin and familiar sapphire eyes. Even though she was wearing jeans and an old T-shirt, I could tell just by looking at her that she had a closet filled with all sorts of amazing designers, the sort of clothing that in my house triggered a three-hour lecture on the evils of an industry built on hyperinflated markups and a flagrant disregard for animal rights.

  This was definitely Kylie Frank's mother.

  Not once during my many months of eavesdropping had I ever wondered about Kylie Frank's family. It was sort of hard to believe she even had a family. Not in an orphan sort of way. There were just certain people who seemed beyond parents and all the things they represented, like allowance and curfews and corny jokes.

  Kylie Frank was definitely one of those people.

  "You're not my moo shu pork," the woman said. She sounded surprised and not at all pleased. When she spoke again, her voice was

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  cold and definite. "Kylie isn't allowed to have friends over on school nights. Different house, same rules."

  Despite her tone, I couldn't help feeling a little flattered. Flattered and shocked. I stared at Mrs. Frank. Did she actually think I was one of her daughter's friends? Was she blind? Kylie's friends were cute and fashionable. They wore Juicy Couture and Paige Premium...and looked great.

  I wore...no one. And didn't.

  I tried again. "Uh, no. I'm not a friend--I mean...I'm actually your new neighbor. Sam Klein." I thrust the gift into Mrs. Frank's arms a little harder than I should have. One of the brownies slid over the side of the basket and flopped to the floor. "Welcome to Thorncrest," I mumbled lamely.

  Mrs. Frank stepped out onto the porch and picked up the squashed brownie. When she straightened, her expression had warmed. "Oh! How sweet!"

  Is Kylie even home? I wondered. Maybe she's out with Tanner?

  The door swung open again and I held my breath. A dark-haired man who definitely wasn't Kylie filled the doorway.

  I was relieved. Extremely relieved.

  But just a little disappointed, too.

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  He smiled at me. "Who's this?"

  "Honey, meet our new neighbor, Sam Klein." Kylie's mom lifted the basket. "Look, she brought us a housewarming gift. Isn't that nice?" She turned back to me. "I'm Lydia Frank and this is my husband, George."

  Without thinking, I extended my hand, hesitating midlift. Was it weird to shake now? I never knew.

  Luckily, Mr. Frank took the cue. "It's very nice to meet you, Sam Klein," he said in that jokey-dad sort of way. He gestured to the neighboring houses. "So which one is yours?"

  I pointed awkwardly to the left. My body just didn't seem to be moving properly. "Uh, my parents wanted to come too. They're working late."

  Now, why had I said that? My dad's car was in the driveway, mere yards away. Both my parents were at home, watching Jim Lehrer. If they'd known what I was doing, they'd have insisted on coming over too. Just picturing my mother in her harem pants and felt clogs, lecturing Kylie's parents on the benefits of green living, made me feel faint.

  "Oh, well. Another time," Mrs. Frank said. "I'm sorry if I was rude before." She looked at her husband. "I thought she was here for Kylie."

  "Oh, don't worry about it," I said quickly, hoping to avoid the inevitable. But Mrs. Frank was

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  already studying me, her blue eyes sharp with realization.

  "Say, what school do you go to?" she asked.

  Great. What was I supposed to do now? If I mentioned Woodlawn, they'd definitely ask if I knew Kylie. And any sort of admission would trigger a similar conversation with their daughter. I could just see the whole humiliating scene play out. I could feel Kylie's confusion as she sifted through a mental yearbook, searching for my face...only to come up empty-handed.

  "Our daughter's about your age," Mrs. Frank was explaining. She turned toward the house. "You two should definitely meet. Kylie! Kylie!"

  Panic ripped through me. The porch started to spin.

  Abort. Abort mission. I couldn't do this. Not yet. Forget carpe diem. I had to go home. Kylie's mother frowned. "She was upstairs just a minute ago. She might be on the phone." "Uh, that's okay. I should really-"

  "Chinese food?"

  The delivery guy fro
m A Wok on the Wild Side had a serious unibrow and was in desperate need of a training bra. Still, I felt like kissing him.

  "Listen," I said, turning toward the steps, "I'll let you guys eat. It was really nice to meet you."

  "Are you sure you don't want to stay for some

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  egg rolls?" Kylie's father asked as he reached out to grab the order.

  "No, that's okay. Thanks, though." I flashed Kylie's parents my first genuine smile of the entire conversation. It was hard not to sprint as I stepped off the porch.

  "Thanks for the gift!" Mr. Frank called after me. His head was half buried in the take-out bag and his voice was muffled.

  As I walked back to my house, I could hear Mrs. Frank calling Kylie.

  Everyone was always calling Kylie Frank.

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  FOUR the next morning I tried again. Baby steps, I told myself as I sat in homeroom waiting for the A-listers to fill the chairs around me. Last night I'd been too ambitious-had expected too much. That's why I'd freaked out. What had I been thinking? That after a bite of brownie Kylie Frank would suddenly open her eyes and decide she was desperately in need of a frizzy-haired friend who knew way too much about hemp? It was ridiculous.

  I had to manage my expectations. Overnight, I'd streamlined my plan. Instant change wasn't realistic. But small, simple goals-that I could

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  handle. Maybe I wouldn't leap from F- to A-list, but I might just manage to creep.

  Today's assignment? Make conversation-talk to Kylie Frank. It didn't have to be anything deep-no debates on capital punishment or where she saw herself in fifteen years-but it had to be an actual exchange. I kept reminding myself that "Is this your pen?" or "Excuse me but you're standing on my foot" wouldn't cut it.

  I'm going to do it, I thought. We're neighbors now. There's a lot we can talk about. Besides, Kylie Frank's just a person. How hard can it be?

  As if on cue, Kylie floated into the room, followed by Jules and Ella. She was stunning in a fitted black leather jacket, leopard-print leggings and metallic flats. It was sort of amazing how the outfit was so chic on her but, I had no doubt, would make me look like an escapee from a mental hospital.

  "It's gonna be great," Jules was saying. "I can't believe they're gonna be away for the whole weekend."

  Kylie slid into her desk, dropping her black patent-leather bag onto the floor. "I know," she said, twisting around to face her friends. "My mom almost canceled since there's still so much unpacking to do, but my dad said they'd lose

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  their deposit, so..." She trailed off, smiling widely. "Off they go!"

  "I don't know," Ella said, chewing her lower lip. "You just moved. Those parties can get pretty out of control. Remember what happened at Gina's?"

  I shuddered. Even I'd heard about Gina Yonas's wild party and-thanks to a very clogged downstairs toilet-her never to be white again wall-to-wall carpeting.

  "It's fine," Kylie said quickly, but I'd seen the shadow pass over her face. "We have hardwood floors."

  "Besides, Gina let everyone in," Jules quipped, shooting Ella a "you're so hopeless" look. "We're gonna have a guest list."

  "Right," Kylie agreed, flipping open her iPhone. "Just a few people-it'll be intimate. Very chic."

  Ella shrugged, but she still looked concerned.

  So Kylie Frank was planning a party. An A-list soiree was being thrown less than a hundred yards from my own bedroom.

  Not that I'd be invited. At least, not today. But if I worked hard and stuck to the plan, it wasn't completely out of the question.

  First things first, I thought, straightening slightly. If I wanted an invite-or anything else A-list-I'd have to talk to the A-listers first.

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  "Tanner's gonna want beer," Ella warned. "There's nothing chic about a keg."

  "Oh, quit being so negative," Jules huffed. "So we have a keg. Big deal. Bob's Beverage doesn't card. We can get one from there."

  "It's closed," I blurted out, remembering an article in the paper bearing a headline to the tune

  Of LOCAL DISTRIBUTOR CLOSED FOR SALES TO TODDLERS .

  I lifted my head. Ella, Jules and Kylie were staring at me. Arched eyebrows framed their surprised expressions.

  Jules was the first to recover. "Please. Like you know anything about buying a keg."

  I felt the color swirl into my cheeks. Just ignore her, I thought. This isn't perfect, but at least you have their attention.

  I looked at Kylie and forced myself to smile. "Um, you just moved next door to me," I told her. "On Thorncrest. I'm Sam. I live in the, uh, white house."

  "Great," Kylie said, her voice flat as she studied her French manicure.

  An awkward silence descended. It only lasted for a few seconds, but it was just long enough for me to imagine throwing a chair then myself through the nearest window.

  "Um, if you have questions about the neighborhood or anything," I said, pushing on. "Just ask."

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  "Thanks," Kylie said, her eyes still on her nails. "But I think I can handle it."

  The bell rang as Mr. Martino rushed into the room, roll book in hand.

  I watched as Kylie dropped her iPhone back into her bag, then turned to face forward.

  Jules pouted. "Great. Now we don't have time for the guest list." She scowled at me. "Next time, try your own conversation?"

  "Whatever," Kylie said, without turning. She still sounded bored. "We can figure it out during lunch."

  I studied the back of her head, wondering if she had-in a weird way-just defended me.

  Okay, maybe that was a stretch. But at least I'd made some progress on my plan. On the other hand, I wasn't sure if my reception-a bunch of not-so-veiled insults-really counted as progress.

  Forget baby steps, I thought, sliding down in my chair. I'd settle for a crawl.

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  FIVE

  " U m, what's that smell?" I shrugged off my coat and looked around my living room.

  Wait, was this my living room? It used to be. This morning, when I left for school, it had been. Now it looked more like a chemistry lab. In less than six hours, the furniture had been pushed up against the walls, and the floor was covered with all sorts of buckets and large white jugs.

  And the whole place reeked of...salad dressing?

  "Hi, sweetie!" My mom looked up at me from

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  her cross-legged position on the floor. "How was your day?"

  I clamped my hand over my nose. "Fine. What's going on?"

  My mom untangled her legs and stood, wiping her hands on her navy sweatpants. "I'm green cleaning the house," she announced importantly. She grabbed one of the jugs and gave it a dramatic little shake. "Vinegar."

  "Neat," I said, completely unenthusiastic. I didn't ask for more information. Like it or not, I knew more was coming.

  "I've always hated the idea of showering the house with toxic commercial cleaners," my mother continued, as if she were being interviewed on the Today show. She pointed an accusing finger at a big crate in the corner stuffed with bottles of Windex and Comet. "All those chemicals are petroleum-based."

  I nodded, pretending to be intimately acquainted with the evils of petroleum and all its bases. The information was probably in one of the many articles my mother taped to my door on a daily basis with a "Sam-MUST read!!!" Post-it attached.

  It's not like I tossed the articles out or anything. I mean, I definitely intended to read them. One day. In the meantime, I kept them

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  stacked in my closet next to a box filled with my old Halloween costumes.

  "Philadelphia-well, the entire East Coast, actually-is just so behind the times," my mother said mournfully, placing her hands on her hips. "Did you know that San Francisco has entire cleaning crews that'll green your house for you?"

  In the interest of ending the ecolecture as quickly as possible, I tried to make a face that communicated my outrage at this coast's addiction to le
mon Pledge.

  "It really is amazing what you can do with baking soda and a little vinegar," my mother marveled. "And it's incredibly cost-efficient too., I should've done this years ago."

  My mom's a part-time accountant for Greenpeace's Philly office. I guess Greenpeace is the sort of place where even the number crunchers are passionate about the cause.

  I never told either of my parents this, but sometimes I wished they had jobs that were just jobs, not causes. Gwen's dad was a dentist but he never lectured us about WaterPiks or railed against the perils of unflossed gums. And when he watched the news, that's all he did. Watched. He didn't shout things at the television or write angry letters to the anchors.

  It's a miracle that Katie Couric never took out a restraining order against my parents.

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  "So, wanna help me mix?" my mother asked brightly. "We can have a little green party down here."

  Oh god. Did my mom just say "green party"?

  She reached down and grabbed a felt bag with the words I Am Not a Plastic Bag stamped across the front. "And here are some pamphlets about the whole 'Go Green, Stay Clean' movement. I thought you'd want to take them to school. I'm sure the custodial staff would be really interested."

  I felt my stomach clench. For the record, I've never had anything against the environment. Or stuffing my house with I Am Not a Plastic Bag bags. I was even pretty sure that, once my sinuses cleared, I'd get used to living in a bottle of vinaigrette. But home and school are two very different ecosystems.

  I pointed at the offending felt. "I'm not taking that to school."

  "Of course not," my mother said, laughing as if I'd just told her the most hilarious joke. "I'll get you a smaller bag. This one's huge."

  I opened my mouth to protest, then realized the situation was hopeless. Not just because my mother was impossible to argue with, but because if I refused she'd probably just visit the school herself. And that would be way worse than, um, anything.

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  Couldn't I just be a closeted green person?

  I wondered if the felt bags could be ordered with personalized statements printed on them. Sam Klein Is a Hopeless Loser sounded just about right.

  "Forget it," I muttered. "Did I get any mail?"