Skin Read Online Free Page B

out of it. But Ms. Brame made a big deal out of it today in class.
    An asymptote is a line which a curve moves toward as it tends toward infinity but will never reach. I like that idea, though I guess it could be thought of as sad—a poor curve striving to meet a line.
    I’m graphing our homework functions while I watch TV. Some CSI thing. My laptop is open beside me. I’m not doing anything with it—Devin and I already IM-ed each other. But it’s just good to be logged on. Ready.
    “Pina, phone,” Mamma calls from the kitchen.
    I heard it ring, but I never figured it would be for me. A friend would text me. So I’m jangly now. And I don’t like it that whoever is on that phone heard Mamma call me Pina. I run up the basement steps and take the receiver from her. “Hello?”
    “Oh, hello, it’s Mrs. Harrison.”
    “Hi.”
    She wants me to babysit. I love Sarah, her daughter, but I feel suddenly tired. The last time I sat for Sarah, she painted her face with chocolate. Only it wasn’t chocolate. She just thought it was chocolate. It was some kind of chocolate-flavored laxative. And she kept licking it off her hands and I didn’t know how much she had eaten, so I had to call Mamma and we gave her ipecac and she vomited the rest of the night. And had diarrhea, as well. That was a normal night for Sarah.
    “How was your first day of school?”
    “Fine, thanks.”
    “I was wondering if you could babysit Friday night. We’re going out around seven, and I guess we’ll be back by midnight.”
    “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
    “Oh.” Silence for a moment. “Well, you know, you’re in eleventh grade now and you have so much experience sitting, we’ve decided to raise your pay an extra dollar an hour. How does that sound?”
    “That’s nice. But I can’t, Mrs. Harrison.”
    “Did I say ‘dollar’? I meant two dollars.”
    “I’m already doing something Friday.”
    “You have a date?” She’s not good at hiding her surprise.
    I’m almost insulted. Except the people I’m friends with don’t usually date. We hang out together. It’s different. “A party. Anyway, I’m busy.”
    “How about a bonus of five dollars at the end of the evening? That’s on top of the raise.”
    “It’s not the money, Mrs. Harrison.”
    “Please, Pina.”
    Whining is unfair. And it’s horrible that she calls me Pina. I hope that’s not her new name for me. “I really can’t. You’ll find someone else.”
    “Of course. Of course I will. Good-bye.” Her voice is so sad. “Enjoy your party. Good night, dear.”
    I hang up.
    Mrs. Harrison called me dear, but she must want to kill me now. Or maybe she wants to kill Sarah.
    I go back down into the basement. There’s a message for me on my cell. I blink in disbelief: it’s Joshua Winer.
    I’ve texted with Joshua Winer only once before, in fifth grade. We did it just to figure out how texting worked. This feels different. Well, it is different. I stare at his question:
    “hey, Sep. hows homework?”
    I type: “fine.” That’s lame. That’s what I always say. I delete and type: “normal.”
    “what r u doing?”
    I type: “learning about asymptotes.” Then I look at it. What if he doesn’t know the word? I delete. I type: “not much.”
    “im reading physics.”
    I type: “i have physics next semester.”
    “2 bad. U could have coached me.”
    What do I say to that? I type: “Ha.” But what if he thinks I’m laughing at him? Even when we were little, he didn’t like science so much. Except the part on weather. I remember him getting all excited about precipitation and air pressure and wind and everything. He was cute. I delete and type: “i have to translate a ton of Latin.”
    “u should take Spanish. its easy.”
    I type: “MayB next semester.”
    “then i can coach u.”
    I swallow. I type: “that would B fine.” Then I delete fine and type nice.
    “i liked ur lipstick today.”
    I remember the clerk in the department store. I type: “u