Second Skin (4 page)

"Philadelphia-well, the entire East Coast, actually-is just so behind the times," my mother said mournfully, placing her hands on her hips. "Did you know that San Francisco has entire cleaning crews that'll green your house for you?"

In the interest of ending the ecolecture as quickly as possible, I tried to make a face that communicated my outrage at this coast's addiction to lemon Pledge.

"It really is amazing what you can do with baking soda and a little vinegar," my mother marveled. "And it's incredibly cost-efficient too., I should've done this years ago."

My mom's a part-time accountant for Greenpeace's Philly office. I guess Greenpeace is the sort of place where even the number crunchers are passionate about the cause.

I never told either of my parents this, but sometimes I wished they had jobs that were just jobs, not causes. Gwen's dad was a dentist but he never lectured us about WaterPiks or railed against the perils of unflossed gums. And when he watched the news, that's all he did. Watched. He didn't shout things at the television or write angry letters to the anchors.

It's a miracle that Katie Couric never took out a restraining order against my parents.

She reached down and grabbed a felt bag with the words
I Am Not a Plastic Bag
stamped across the front. "And here are some pamphlets about the whole 'Go Green, Stay Clean' movement. I thought you'd want to take them to school. I'm sure the custodial staff would be really interested."

I felt my stomach clench. For the record, I've never had anything against the environment. Or stuffing my house with
I Am Not a Plastic Bag
bags. I was even pretty sure that, once my sinuses cleared, I'd get used to living in a bottle of vinaigrette. But home and school are two very different ecosystems.

I pointed at the offending felt. "I'm not taking that to school."

"Of course not," my mother said, laughing as if I'd just told her the most hilarious joke. "I'll get you a smaller bag. This one's huge."

I opened my mouth to protest, then realized the situation was hopeless. Not just because my mother was impossible to argue with, but because if I refused she'd probably just visit the school herself. And that would be way worse than, um, anything.

I wondered if the felt bags could be ordered with personalized statements printed on them.
Sam Klein Is a Hopeless Loser
sounded just about right.

"Forget it," I muttered. "Did I get any mail?"

"Just another one of your vapid magazines," my mother said, disapproval dripping from her voice.
"Elle
or something?" She sighed. "I really wish you'd consider reading that was a little more...inspiring."

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

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.

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

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 peanut butter spread over it.

As I climbed into the backseat, Alex dropped his
Ant-Man
comic and turned around to look at me.

"Ginger has a purse just like that," he said, pointing to my hair. Ginger is Alex's four-year-old sister. "I think it's called faux fur?"

"You guys suck," I said, sinking back against the seat cushion. So much for popularity of the DIY variety. "Does anyone have a rubber band?"

That was my morning. And nothing. Happened. All day. And now it was Friday night. I was heading into a weekend where the most exciting thing I had planned was babysitting the Packler twins, Bella and Grace.

Even so, I couldn't stop the excitement from building. It came every Friday, curling through me with absolutely no release. And when I woke up on Saturday morning, I felt completely depressed. My weekends were like sinking your teeth into wax fruit.

There was a whole part of life that I wasn't living.

The A-listers were living it for me.

I groaned. I was sort of tempted to bail, but Mr. and Mrs. Packler were really nice, and they'd never find a replacement so last-minute. Besides, I really didn't have anything better to do. By now, Gwen was probably whipping up a cheesecake, and Alex spent most nights up on his roof staring through his telescope.

I might as well get paid for watching
The Frog Princess.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, suddenly aware that I was still wearing my too-small save the dugong nightshirt.

As if he'd just read my mind, Alex pointed at my chest and smiled. "The dugong. Cousin of the manatee. Glad to know you're a fan."

My parents beamed at him like he'd just shrunk their carbon footprints.

I tried again. "It's Saturday." I watched Alex

"It's a good thing too," he said, wiping his hands on a napkin. He pushed his chair back and stood. "This isn't just any Saturday."

"It's not?"

"No way." He paused for dramatic effect. When he spoke again, his voice was announcer-low. "It's your quarter birthday."

I laughed. "My what?"

"You're sixteen-point-two-five years old today, Sam," Alex announced. His thick dark hair, still wet from the shower, stuck up in little tufts around his head. "It's an unsung milestone in every girl's life."

I grinned and slid into an empty chair. "And here I was, worried you'd forget."

Alex's mouth fell open. "No way. I'm a friend."

"I still remember my sixteen-and-a-quarter birthday," my mother said, faux wistfully. "It was magical."

My dad lowered his paper and rolled his eyes. "You people are crazy," he said, but he sounded amused.

Alex lifted his fork. "Big plans today, Sam. Huge."

I stood, giving my nightshirt a quick tug. "Okay, let me just go get changed."

I hopped into the shower. For the first time in a week, I actually felt excited about something that had absolutely nothing to do with Kylie Frank.

It felt good. I needed a little vacation.

Drying off, I slipped into a pair of jeans and a plain, no-message T-shirt and ran back downstairs. Alex was waiting for me at the door.

"Just drive carefully," my mother shouted after us as we left.

Alex looked at me knowingly. "She's right," he said.
"Lots
of accidents associated with the quarter birthday."

We headed out to his car, a dark blue station wagon he'd rebuilt so many times I doubted any of the original parts still existed. As I yanked the door open, my gaze shifted next door. The curtains to Kylie's room were still drawn. She was probably sleeping off the aftereffects of a crazy night.

I'd returned from the Packlers' at ten-thirty, covered with finger paint and graham cracker crumbs, and was fast asleep by eleven.

I shoved the thought out of my head and turned to Alex.

"So," I said, slipping my arm through the seat belt. "Where are we going?"