Second Skin Read Online Free Page B
or get my bangs cut."
My mother shook her head mournfully, as if I'd just presented her with a lifetime membership to the NRA.
"There's a whole world out there that has absolutely nothing to do with fashion tips and the red carpet," she informed me.
I looked around the room, at the green felt bags and the framed-yes, framed-Greenpeace posters hanging on the walls ( may the forest be with you and save our planet from corporate greed).
"No kidding," I muttered, turning toward the steps. "Listen, I have a ton of work to do."
I stomped up to my room and shut the door with just a little more force than was absolutely
39
necessary. After a minute, though, I started to feel sort of bad. It really wasn't my mother's fault I was in such a bad mood. It was Kylie Frank's.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days and, according to my calculator, 504 hours. That was how long it had been since the most popular girl in several zip codes moved in next door to me. And in that time, guess what had happened?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. At least to me. Kylie Frank, on the other hand, was extremely busy leading her ultrafabulous A-list life.
She was definitely too busy to meet her F-list neighbor, Sam Klein.
It's not like I didn't try. I'd plowed ahead with the baby-steps plan. I'd tried brownies, light chatter and the occasional hanging out in my front yard, with the hopes of triggering a "spontaneous" Kylie Frank run-in.
Nothing worked. Food bribes and banter might've won over Kylie's parents-they always waved and smiled when I saw them-but Kylie was impervious. Or maybe not impervious, just never around.
That was the real problem. The girl used her new house to sleep and change clothes, nothing more. I knew this because, even though I hadn't gotten to know her at all, I'd definitely learned a lot about her.
40
For instance, she left for school every morning at around eight-fifteen (and by "leave," I mean she hopped into Tanner Mullins's red Mustang convertible and the two sped off, happily fabulous). She didn't blow her hair dry either. (Oddly, this was the aspect of Kylie's life that drove me most crazy. How could you have hair that perfect naturally'? If life were even remotely fair, Kylie would have flatirons instead of hands.) On weeknights, she got home around eight, driven by Tanner, Jules or Ella.
And don't get me started on the weekends. That was another completely depressing (for me) story.
At first, I tried to stay positive about the whole thing. I told myself that with so much popularity in such close range, some of it was bound to rub off. I didn't need actual contact with Kylie; I could learn through observation alone.
I spent three days watching her float around (have you ever noticed how It-girls don't walk?), memorizing her graceful moves. I really thought I had it down, too. And then I got to school and walked right into a pole. And I mean smacked into the thing. (Really, what sort of idiot architect places a pole in the middle of a school hallway? No wonder everyone's always complaining
41
about the state of public education.) I grew a second head for almost a week.
And this morning, I woke up at five-thirty to blow out my hair-long, sleek and straight, just like Kylie's. I thought I did a pretty good job, too.
And then Gwen picked me up.
"What's with the hair?" she asked, twisting around in the driver's seat to open the back door. For some really weird reason, Doug, Gwen's ten-year-old Dodge Neon, only responded to her touch. Whenever anyone else jiggled the handles, the doors stayed stubbornly shut.
Alex and I kept telling her this was a major safety hazard, but Gwen insisted that the car was just being loyal. Like a Dalmatian.
"What do you mean?" I asked, raising a hand defensively to my head. It was definitely straighter than usual, but it felt pretty sticky from the half bottle of "smoothing cream" I'd used. And it was still pretty rough, too. Definitely more burlap than silk. Or burlap with a dab of
My mother shook her head mournfully, as if I'd just presented her with a lifetime membership to the NRA.
"There's a whole world out there that has absolutely nothing to do with fashion tips and the red carpet," she informed me.
I looked around the room, at the green felt bags and the framed-yes, framed-Greenpeace posters hanging on the walls ( may the forest be with you and save our planet from corporate greed).
"No kidding," I muttered, turning toward the steps. "Listen, I have a ton of work to do."
I stomped up to my room and shut the door with just a little more force than was absolutely
39
necessary. After a minute, though, I started to feel sort of bad. It really wasn't my mother's fault I was in such a bad mood. It was Kylie Frank's.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days and, according to my calculator, 504 hours. That was how long it had been since the most popular girl in several zip codes moved in next door to me. And in that time, guess what had happened?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. At least to me. Kylie Frank, on the other hand, was extremely busy leading her ultrafabulous A-list life.
She was definitely too busy to meet her F-list neighbor, Sam Klein.
It's not like I didn't try. I'd plowed ahead with the baby-steps plan. I'd tried brownies, light chatter and the occasional hanging out in my front yard, with the hopes of triggering a "spontaneous" Kylie Frank run-in.
Nothing worked. Food bribes and banter might've won over Kylie's parents-they always waved and smiled when I saw them-but Kylie was impervious. Or maybe not impervious, just never around.
That was the real problem. The girl used her new house to sleep and change clothes, nothing more. I knew this because, even though I hadn't gotten to know her at all, I'd definitely learned a lot about her.
40
For instance, she left for school every morning at around eight-fifteen (and by "leave," I mean she hopped into Tanner Mullins's red Mustang convertible and the two sped off, happily fabulous). She didn't blow her hair dry either. (Oddly, this was the aspect of Kylie's life that drove me most crazy. How could you have hair that perfect naturally'? If life were even remotely fair, Kylie would have flatirons instead of hands.) On weeknights, she got home around eight, driven by Tanner, Jules or Ella.
And don't get me started on the weekends. That was another completely depressing (for me) story.
At first, I tried to stay positive about the whole thing. I told myself that with so much popularity in such close range, some of it was bound to rub off. I didn't need actual contact with Kylie; I could learn through observation alone.
I spent three days watching her float around (have you ever noticed how It-girls don't walk?), memorizing her graceful moves. I really thought I had it down, too. And then I got to school and walked right into a pole. And I mean smacked into the thing. (Really, what sort of idiot architect places a pole in the middle of a school hallway? No wonder everyone's always complaining
41
about the state of public education.) I grew a second head for almost a week.
And this morning, I woke up at five-thirty to blow out my hair-long, sleek and straight, just like Kylie's. I thought I did a pretty good job, too.
And then Gwen picked me up.
"What's with the hair?" she asked, twisting around in the driver's seat to open the back door. For some really weird reason, Doug, Gwen's ten-year-old Dodge Neon, only responded to her touch. Whenever anyone else jiggled the handles, the doors stayed stubbornly shut.
Alex and I kept telling her this was a major safety hazard, but Gwen insisted that the car was just being loyal. Like a Dalmatian.
"What do you mean?" I asked, raising a hand defensively to my head. It was definitely straighter than usual, but it felt pretty sticky from the half bottle of "smoothing cream" I'd used. And it was still pretty rough, too. Definitely more burlap than silk. Or burlap with a dab of
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