Under My Skin (3 page)

“Sure,” I say, like I understand.

My mobile buzzes. I yank it out of my back pocket.

Crap. It’s Mum.

Where are you?!

I can picture her stomping around the lobby in her heels frantically calling my name. She’s probably running down a list of scenarios. I’ve collapsed in the bathroom. I went outside for a breath of fresh air and collapsed on the sidewalk. I collapsed in the middle of the lobby and the ambulance has already hauled me away to the closest hospital.

“Um, I have to leave.” I offer my coffee to Mr. Tweed—he accepts it with a grin—and text back:
Outside. On my way
.

“Take it easy, kid.” Mr. Tweed raises both coffees at me in a toast.

“Thanks.”

I rush—if you could call a slightly fast walk rushing—to the lobby.

Mum’s expression when she spots me washes me in a layer of squishy, lung-crushing guilt. She envelops me in a bear hug. “I was worried.”

I catch Dad’s scowl and lower my gaze. “I’m alright.”

“Don’t ever do that again.” She lets me go to straighten her button down shirt and tuck a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. Dad settles beside her.

“I’m sorry.”

Mum checks her watch. “Well, what an afternoon. So, are my boys hungry?”

Dad hooks his arm through hers. “I’m a bit peckish.”

We head outside, Mum and Dad ahead, me in the middle, and all the words we haven’t said following behind, shackled to my feet and slowing me down. I screwed up. Mum should’ve yelled. I’d feel better if she yelled. That would be normal.

Darby

The party throbs around me, pulsing with the head-crunching beat. Arms flail, hair whirls, and bodies thrash. I ride the wave and let the collective energy take me over. I don’t know the Asian kid dancing in front of me, but I like him from the top of his spiked black hair to the tips of his neon green sneakers. The guyliner and painted black nails are the perfect icing to this sweet piece of cake.

He smiles at me. My stomach squirms, screaming with a bad case of the go-for-its. I wrap my arms around his neck and slide my fingers through his hair.

The guy responds by grabbing my waist. Yanking me close, he kills the space between us.

I meld to his lean body, stretching my neck so our mouths are even. His spicy cologne circles me as tight as his arms. It feels like the room has warmed by at least ten degrees. I inhale another breath of him. The room, music, and lights all fade away until it’s just him and me, a fire pit ready to ignite.

I lick my lips. His hands slip to my butt as his mouth closes over mine. He tastes like beer, chaos, and good times. I rise to my tip-toes, digging my fingernails into his neck.

He slithers his tongue past my lips. Me-to-the-
ow
he’s got a tongue piercing!

I duel with him for the title of Most Passionate Kisser until a strong hand clamps around my shoulder to haul me backward.

I whirl. “Hey!”

It’s my twin brother, Daniel. Thinks he’s my body guard with his face all hard angles in a scowl. His dark eyes fume. “What are you doing?”

I shrug. “What? I’m having fun.”

Guyliner hooks a thumb through his studded belt. “Hey, dude, we were dancing.” His voice is gravelly and rough, like his kiss.

Daniel squares off with him. “More like groping.”

Guyliner frowns. “What’s your problem?”

“You’re molesting my sister, that’s my problem.” He shoves Guyliner.

Guyliner stumbles back a step, cocking a fist. “Hands off.”

Daniel matches him. “I should say the same to you.”

I wedge between them, plant a palm in each of their chests, and pry them apart a few inches. “Guys,
guys
. Stop it.” I throw eye-daggers at Daniel. “I wanted to dance with him.”

“He’s a scumbag. Treated Mads like crap.”

Mads
. Madeline. Daniel’s secret crush. Ugh. Yuck. Disgusting. If they ever hooked up, I’d have to disown him. She’s way too cheerlead-y bubbly pop-tarty sweet for me. Her bedroom is probably decorated with lace, glitter, sparkly crowns, and pink teddy bears. “So? We’re just dancing.”

“You were sucking on his tongue like it was a lollipop.”

I purse my mouth. “I can handle myself.”

He sighs. It’s the first crack in his resolve. Oh yeah, he’ll go down in a ball of flames by the time this is done. He just doesn’t know it yet. “He was all over you.”

“And I was all over him.” I arch an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, she was.” Guyliner wheezes a laugh. His hand finds my rear end again. His other arm winds around my waist like he owns me.

Uh, I don’t think so buddy
. I pry myself away from him. “I’m so over this.” I storm away from them both, wading through the sweaty crowd toward the door.

“Bitch,” Guyliner calls out.

I show him how long my middle finger is.

Outside, crisp air smacks me in the face. It’s such a contrast from the sweltering heat inside. I suck in a dry breath. The layer of sweat coating my skin combined with the steady breeze makes me shiver. Jack Frost has moved in early this year.

I prop my back against the brick wall and jam my hands in my jeans pockets. Good old Daniel, always ruining everything. I just wanted to dance. And play tongue war.

The door flies open, hinges screeching in protest. Daniel bursts through and zeroes in on me immediately. The light from the neon sign above the door stains his face a pale red.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Strands of his dark hair fall into his eyes. He shoves them away with his hand, topping off his frustration with a heavy sigh.

“Excuse me?” I cross my arms and watch a rusted out sedan
a la
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 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 ventilation system’s mechanical hum. Stephanie stares at me with her eyes wide. Mads clamps her hand over her mouth.

“Miss Fox.” Mr. Watkins voice slices the heavy silence. “Starting your nonsense early, I see. Well I’m not tolerating it today. Please report to the Principal’s Office.”

“She started it,” I say, pointing at Stephanie’s smug face.

“Miss
Fox
. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I gather my stuff, tears stinging my eyes. I clench my jaw. There’s no way I’ll let myself cry here. Not in front of everyone, especially Stephanie.