Skin Read Online Free

Googled “white lips.” Sites came up about little white bumps on your lips. Herpes. My lips are smooth. Besides, there’s no way I could have herpes. You get herpes from kissing someone who has it. I haven’t kissed anyonesince Raul last spring—and that hardly counted, and, anyway, I would have shown symptoms long before now if he’d been infected.
    I think.
    Another site was in Chinese. So much for that. Another site was about musical taste, and suggestions for what to listen to. Nope. Then there were sites about CO2 training. I don’t know what that is, but it can’t be relevant.
    So I gave up. If white lips are a symptom of something, it’s probably not anything dangerous, or those things would have come up at the very head of the list. Right?
    My job is to cover up and forget about it till Thursday. Easy. Sure. Like not thinking of an elephant when people say, “Don’t think of an elephant.”
    Whatever. I’m anxious. But maybe the real reason I’m pampering myself, the real source of my impending gloom, is Joshua Winer. I want him to like me. That is a terrible realization. Our friendship in elementary school was sort of like a crush. We never kissed, of course, or even held hands. But it was special in that preteen boy-girl way. Maybe I never got over it.
    I swallow. Could I be that dumb? I’m a realistic person. When groups formed in middle school, the social hierarchy quickly became clear. I’m not popular or pretty—so I’m not on Mr. Cool’s tier. People from different tiers don’t mix.
    And that means I don’t like the fact that I can’t get him out of my head now.
    I need a picker-upper, all right.
    I have set my sights on lipstick. After all, lipstick saved the day today. Lipstick is the best short-term solution. And shiny pink, while it seemed pretty to me when I was ten, is totally ridiculous now. So here I stand, at the cosmetics counter in this fancy department store, looking at shades.
    “Can I help you?” The clerk has very black, very dyed hair. Her lips are purple. She’s young, and both hair and lips look good on her. Slinky, that’s a name to fit her.
    “Do you have lip color?”
    “This is a cosmetics counter; we have lots of lipstick.”
    “I mean lipstick in lip color—the color of lips.”
    “Oh, you mean clear? You want lip gloss, then.”
    “No, not clear. I mean the natural color of lips.”
    “Everybody’s got different colored lips.”
    “I want my color.”
    “What’s your color?”
    I was hoping she could tell from the rest of me. Oh, dear. I’m trying to remember. It isn’t actually that easy. It’s not like you list it on forms all the time, after color of hair and color of eyes. I know it’s darker than my cheeks. “Brown.”
    “You want brown lipstick?” She makes it sound as though I’m demented.
    “I just want to look natural.”
    “Then don’t wear lipstick.”
    “Do you want to sell me lipstick or not?”
    “I don’t care. I get paid by the hour. What, did you think this was a commission job?”
    Attitude. Everyone has attitude. I’m used to it. High school is the definition of
attitude
. But right now it makes me feel defeated. “I need help,” I say, and my voice sounds pathetic even to me.
    Slinky softens. She puts her elbows on the counter, rests her chin in her palms, and studies my face. “Did you choose that pink you’re wearing?”
    “Yes. But I was only ten then.”
    “Good. Do you want me to choose a shade for you?”
    “Yes. Please.” Then I add, “Thank you.”
    Her fingers run over the dozens of glossy tubes. “Here.”
    “That’s purple.”
    “It’s burgundy. A wine color. It’s more sophisticated than that cotton-candy pink. It’ll look good on you. Give me your hand.”
    I stretch my hand out.
    She draws a heart on the back of my hand in purple lipstick. “See? Isn’t that nice?”
    “I’ll take it.”
    “Apply it lightly. Not gobbed on like that.”
    My lipstick is gobbed on? “Lightly does