Under My Skin Read Online Free

1980 crawl past.
    He blocks my line of sight to get my attention. “You don’t want to be seen with that guy. People talk, Darbs.”
    I start walking down the block. “I don’t care what people think. Besides, we were only kissing.”
    “I’m looking out for you.”
    “Why?”
    Daniel matches my pace. “Because you’re my sister and I care about you.”
    “You don’t want my reputation to make you look bad.” Poor, perfect Daniel. Basketball star, debate team captain, and straight A student with a smile every dentist would envy, Daniel lives in a world of popularity I’ll never hope to visit. Must be so hard for him to have a slacker, loser sister like me. I get it. Really, I do. He’s afraid people will call me a slut for making out with a stranger on the dance floor. I’m the pimple on his otherwise flawless face.
    He exhales as if I’ve slugged him in the gut. “That’s what you think?”
    I snort.
    He nudges me with his shoulder. “Come on, drop the tough guy act, okay?”
    At the corner, I pause, not because he’s gotten to me but because I’ve realized I should’ve turned left rather than right. The car is parked two blocks in the opposite direction.
    I can’t deny everybody likes Daniel better and it’s because he’s a genuine person. A good guy. Responsible. We’re two different people. A fact that gets forgotten because we shared Mom’s uterus at the same time. “I can take care of myself.”
    “You say that, but who picks up the pieces when you come home, crying and wailing because the latest Mr. Guyliner has broken up with you?”
    “Did the phrase Guyliner actually fall out of your mouth?”
    “Isn’t that what you call it?”
    “Yeah, but it’s funny coming from you.” I smirk, trying to suppress a giggle. “I never asked you to ‘pick up the pieces.’”
    “No, but I always do.” He drags a hand through his hair. “The car is the other way, you know.”
    “I figured that out. That’s why I stopped.” I grin at him.
    He chuckles. “You’re an idiot when you get mad.”
    “Thanks.” I punch his bicep. My hand bounces off, ineffective. He’s a wall of muscle. “Seriously, though, you could have a lot more fun if you stopped worrying about me all the time.”
    He tips his head to the sky to stare at the stars. “Hmmm, I’d have so much free time I could pick up another hobby.”
    “Ha-ha.”
    We walk toward the car, argument left behind at the corner.
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    Mondays suck. Well, pretty much every morning does, but Mondays are the worst. They’re the start of the week, the five day marathon filled by a gauntlet of challenges, each one harder than the last. A pop quiz in math, then an essay in history, followed by a science lab—I’m paired with a kid who smells worse than a dumpster in summer—and a finale of reading aloud in English lit. Nothing strikes fear in my heart more than staring at a page of wobbly letters scrambled across a page … unless you ask me to make sense of them all while standing in front of a class of my peers.
    I hit the snooze button so many times that I don’t have time to shower. After yanking on a pair of paint-stained jeans with holes in the knees and a black cable knit sweater two sizes too big (also with paint stains), I pull my black and blue striped hair in a ponytail, brush my teeth, slap on some mascara and lip gloss, and fly out the door.
    Daniel’s waiting in his car—a cherry red 1967 Mustang Coupe Dad and he had restored. Dad spends extra time with Daniel on projects like this one. He doesn’t do the same with me, but really, how awkward would it be sharing paintbrushes and palettes with Dad?
    The answer is very. Extremely. Beyond the ability to imagine awkward.
    I heave open the door and slide into the black leather seat, suppressing a shudder at the thought of painting with Dad.
    “Thanks for waiting,” I mumble, pulling the door shut with a solid thud .
    “I was about to leave.” He turns over the