Under My Skin Read Online Free Page A

engine. The metal beast grumbles to life.
    I click on the seat belt, chipping my neon yellow nail polish on the buckle. “You could’ve avoided this by waking me up.” I have to shout over the horrid sound grumbling from under the car’s hood.
    He shifts into reverse, laughing. “I thought you could take care of yourself.”
    I roll my eyes.
    “I have double practice after school today, so you might want to take the bus. Unless you occupy yourself with something else.” He grabs the travel mug from between his legs and takes a long drink.
    “And miss a ride in this pile of bolts? No way.” I snatch the mug out of his hand and suck down two gulps before the super sweet taste hits me. I grimace. “Ick, can you say diabeetus ?”
    “Don’t hate on the Mustang. She’s a classic.” He swirls the mug. “And light and sweet is the only way to go.”
    “Black is better. It’s simple.”
    “It’s bitter.”
    We banter for the rest of the drive, then part ways at the school’s main entrance. Our schedules couldn’t be more different—I’m in some regular classes with extra breakout sessions with smaller groups during the day because of my special ed-ness—and I’m okay with that. Daniel’s pity-stare is hard enough to deal with as it is. Plus, I don’t need exhibit A sitting next to me when the teachers compare me to him. I get enough of all that at home. Things like, “Daniel doesn’t struggle with this. Why can’t you do your homework like Daniel? Why don’t you ask for Daniel to help you?”
    I stop at my locker to grab my books and notebooks. Six paintbrushes fall out onto the floor as soon as I pull the door open. Of course.
    History is my first class and it’s with the “regular” kids. Thanks to Daniel, I’m not facing a tardy.
    I slip into my seat, mentally preparing to become a vegetable for the next forty-five minutes.
    Mr. Watkins sits at his desk in front of the room. He’s already scribbled all over the whiteboard. The mess of letters blur together into nonsense. It’s too much for my dyslexic brain to unscramble. No matter how much money my parents spend on tutors and gimmick programs, I can’t seem to figure out what everyone else sees so easily.
    Instead of copying the factoids, I continue the doodle I’d started yesterday in my notebook. My new series is Fire and Ice and want to capture jagged fracture lines in a random, but meaningful way. That’s where things get interesting—in the contrast.
    Zig-zags cascade along top half of the paper, some thick, some thin, all shooting off from the starting point. Along the bottom are rows of lapping flames. They’d look better with my colored pencils, but they’re sitting abandoned in my locker, so I have to highlight and lowlight with shading.
    Stephanie Veene bumps into my arm as she brushes past me. My pencil streaks across the page. A dark gray line cuts the flames in half, ruining the whole thing.
    “Slut,” she says in a fake whisper.
    In the next seat over, Madeline Frank, yes, Mads , smirks and nods, “Yeah, slut .” Stephanie’s echo. I don’t feel bad that Guyliner treated her like crap. I do feel bad that Daniel likes her. He’s way better than her.
    Stephanie settles in the seat directly behind me, snickering. She’s a Varsity Cheerleader and has all the blonde hair and lack of brains to go with it. It would be so satisfying to take a pair of scissors to her French braid.
    “Excuse me?” I say.
    She purses her perfectly plump lips. “Did you have a good time giving a blow job to that guy at the party?”
    “ What? ” I wheeze the question, shock stabbing my chest.
    A satisfied smile slithers across her face. “Everyone’s talking about how you hooked up with him.”
    Mads laughs like a hyena. Too bad her red, puffy eyes give away the fact she’s cried recently.
    I shoot to my feet. “I didn’t hook up with anybody you gossip-addicted bitch!”
    The entire room freezes. The only sound comes from the