Second Skin (3 page)

So before I lost my nerve again-and to shut the voice up-I leaned forward and pushed the bell. I could hear the chime as it rang through the house.

A pretty blond woman opened the door. She was holding a wad of bills. She had really smooth skin and familiar sapphire eyes. Even though she was wearing jeans and an old T-shirt, I could tell just by looking at her that she had a closet filled with all sorts of amazing designers, the sort of clothing that in my house triggered a three-hour lecture on the evils of an industry built on hyperinflated markups and a flagrant disregard for animal rights.

This was definitely Kylie Frank's mother.

Not once during my many months of eavesdropping had I ever wondered about Kylie Frank's family. It was sort of hard to believe she even had a family. Not in an orphan sort of way. There were just certain people who seemed beyond parents and all the things they represented, like allowance and curfews and corny jokes.

Kylie Frank was definitely one of those people.

"You're not my moo shu pork," the woman said. She sounded surprised and not at all pleased. When she spoke again, her voice was

Despite her tone, I couldn't help feeling a little flattered. Flattered and shocked. I stared at Mrs. Frank. Did she actually think I was one of her daughter's friends? Was she blind? Kylie's friends were cute and fashionable. They wore Juicy Couture and Paige Premium...and looked great.

I wore...no one. And didn't.

I tried again. "Uh, no. I'm not a friend--I mean...I'm actually your new neighbor. Sam Klein." I thrust the gift into Mrs. Frank's arms a little harder than I should have. One of the brownies slid over the side of the basket and flopped to the floor. "Welcome to Thorncrest," I mumbled lamely.

Mrs. Frank stepped out onto the porch and picked up the squashed brownie. When she straightened, her expression had warmed. "Oh! How sweet!"

The door swung open again and I held my breath. A dark-haired man who definitely wasn't Kylie filled the doorway.

I was relieved. Extremely relieved.

But just a little disappointed, too.

"Honey, meet our new neighbor, Sam Klein." Kylie's mom lifted the basket. "Look, she brought us a housewarming gift. Isn't that nice?" She turned back to me. "I'm Lydia Frank and this is my husband, George."

Without thinking, I extended my hand, hesitating midlift. Was it weird to shake now? I never knew.

Luckily, Mr. Frank took the cue. "It's very nice to meet you, Sam Klein," he said in that jokey-dad sort of way. He gestured to the neighboring houses. "So which one is yours?"

I pointed awkwardly to the left. My body just didn't seem to be moving properly. "Uh, my parents wanted to come too. They're working late."

Now, why had I said that? My dad's car was in the driveway, mere yards away. Both my parents were at home, watching Jim Lehrer. If they'd known what I was doing, they'd have insisted on coming over too. Just picturing my mother in her harem pants and felt clogs, lecturing Kylie's parents on the benefits of green living, made me feel faint.

"Oh, well. Another time," Mrs. Frank said. "I'm sorry if I was rude before." She looked at her husband. "I thought she was here for Kylie."

"Oh, don't worry about it," I said quickly, hoping to avoid the inevitable. But Mrs. Frank was

"Say, what school do you go to?" she asked.

"Our daughter's about your age," Mrs. Frank was explaining. She turned toward the house. "You two should definitely meet. Kylie!
Kylie!"

Panic ripped through me. The porch started to spin.

Abort. Abort mission.
I couldn't do this. Not yet. Forget carpe diem. I had to go home. Kylie's mother frowned. "She was upstairs just a minute ago. She might be on the phone." "Uh, that's okay. I should really-"

"Chinese food?"

The delivery guy from A Wok on the Wild Side had a serious unibrow and was in desperate need of a training bra. Still, I felt like kissing him.

"Listen," I said, turning toward the steps, "I'll let you guys eat. It was really nice to meet you."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay for some

"No, that's okay. Thanks, though." I flashed Kylie's parents my first genuine smile of the entire conversation. It was hard not to sprint as I stepped off the porch.

"Thanks for the gift!" Mr. Frank called after me. His head was half buried in the take-out bag and his voice was muffled.

As I walked back to my house, I could hear Mrs. Frank calling Kylie.

Everyone was always calling Kylie Frank.

I had to manage my expectations. Overnight, I'd streamlined my plan. Instant change wasn't realistic. But small, simple goals-that I could

Today's assignment? Make conversation-talk to Kylie Frank. It didn't have to be anything deep-no debates on capital punishment or where she saw herself in fifteen years-but it had to be an actual exchange. I kept reminding myself that "Is this your pen?" or "Excuse me but you're standing on my foot" wouldn't cut it.

As if on cue, Kylie floated into the room, followed by Jules and Ella. She was stunning in a fitted black leather jacket, leopard-print leggings and metallic flats. It was sort of amazing how the outfit was so chic on her but, I had no doubt, would make me look like an escapee from a mental hospital.

"It's gonna be great," Jules was saying. "I can't believe they're gonna be away for the whole weekend."

Kylie slid into her desk, dropping her black patent-leather bag onto the floor. "I know," she said, twisting around to face her friends. "My mom almost canceled since there's still so much unpacking to do, but my dad said they'd lose

"I don't know," Ella said, chewing her lower lip. "You just moved. Those parties can get pretty out of control. Remember what happened at Gina's?"

I shuddered. Even I'd heard about Gina Yonas's wild party and-thanks to a very clogged downstairs toilet-her never to be white again wall-to-wall carpeting.

"It's fine," Kylie said quickly, but I'd seen the shadow pass over her face. "We have hardwood floors."

"Besides, Gina let everyone in," Jules quipped, shooting Ella a "you're so hopeless" look. "We're gonna have a guest list."

"Right," Kylie agreed, flipping open her iPhone. "Just a few people-it'll be intimate. Very chic."

Ella shrugged, but she still looked concerned.

So Kylie Frank was planning a party. An A-list soiree was being thrown less than a hundred yards from my own bedroom.

Not that I'd be invited. At least, not today. But if I worked hard and stuck to the plan, it wasn't completely out of the question.

"Oh, quit being so negative," Jules huffed. "So we have a keg. Big deal. Bob's Beverage doesn't card. We can get one from there."

"It's closed," I blurted out, remembering an article in the paper bearing a headline to the tune

Of LOCAL DISTRIBUTOR CLOSED FOR SALES TO TODDLERS
.

I lifted my head. Ella, Jules and Kylie were staring at me. Arched eyebrows framed their surprised expressions.

Jules was the first to recover. "Please. Like you know anything about buying a keg."

I felt the color swirl into my cheeks. Just
ignore her,
I thought.
This isn't perfect, but at least you have their attention.

I looked at Kylie and forced myself to smile. "Um, you just moved next door to me," I told her. "On Thorncrest. I'm Sam. I live in the, uh, white house."

"Great," Kylie said, her voice flat as she studied her French manicure.

An awkward silence descended. It only lasted for a few seconds, but it was just long enough for me to imagine throwing a chair then myself through the nearest window.

"Um, if you have questions about the neighborhood or anything," I said, pushing on. "Just ask."

The bell rang as Mr. Martino rushed into the room, roll book in hand.

I watched as Kylie dropped her iPhone back into her bag, then turned to face forward.

Jules pouted. "Great. Now we don't have time for the guest list." She scowled at me. "Next time, try your own conversation?"

"Whatever," Kylie said, without turning. She still sounded bored. "We can figure it out during lunch."

I studied the back of her head, wondering if she had-in a weird way-just defended me.

Okay, maybe that was a stretch. But at least I'd made some progress on my plan. On the other hand, I wasn't sure if my reception-a bunch of not-so-veiled insults-really counted as progress.

Wait,
was
this my living room? It used to be. This morning, when I left for school, it had been. Now it looked more like a chemistry lab. In less than six hours, the furniture had been pushed up against the walls, and the floor was covered with all sorts of buckets and large white jugs.

And the whole place reeked of...salad dressing?

"Hi, sweetie!" My mom looked up at me from

I clamped my hand over my nose. "Fine. What's going on?"

My mom untangled her legs and stood, wiping her hands on her navy sweatpants. "I'm green cleaning the house," she announced importantly. She grabbed one of the jugs and gave it a dramatic little shake. "Vinegar."

"Neat," I said, completely unenthusiastic. I didn't ask for more information. Like it or not, I knew more was coming.

"I've always hated the idea of showering the house with toxic commercial cleaners," my mother continued, as if she were being interviewed on the
Today
show. She pointed an accusing finger at a big crate in the corner stuffed with bottles of Windex and Comet. "All those chemicals are petroleum-based."

I nodded, pretending to be intimately acquainted with the evils of petroleum and all its bases. The information was probably in one of the many articles my mother taped to my door on a daily basis with a "Sam-MUST read!!!" Post-it attached.

It's not like I tossed the articles out or anything. I mean, I definitely intended to read them. One day. In the meantime, I kept them