Free Second Skin by Jessica Wollman

just look...different." She rose from the table, placing her hands on her hips. "It's fine if you want to experiment with a little makeup, Sam, but please use a brand that doesn't animal-test. I can get you a list if you want."
    "And don't buy anything from Walmart," my father added as his scissors moved swiftly across his paper. "Talk about union busting."
    "Okeydoke," I said happily. Instead of being annoyed-my normal response to my parents' PC inquisitions-I actually felt hopeful. If my mom had noticed the difference, I hadn't imagined it:
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    the Skin was working. "But I don't really wear makeup."
    My mother sighed loudly. "Just keep animal testing in mind. What goes on in those labs is criminal." She gave her head an angry shake. "Now, how about some oatmeal before you go?"
    "I don't eat breakfast," I informed her. Again.
    "Suit yourself." She shrugged, looking like I'd just told her I was dropping out of school to join a Kiss cover band. "It's only the most important meal of the day."
    I glanced at my watch. "Fine," I muttered. We went through this every morning. "I guess I have time."
    One bowl of organic mush later and I was on my way. I was halfway out the door when my father came rushing after me.
    "Almost forgot these!" He handed me a stack of flyers. "I can't believe it's January already."
    Every month, my father's law firm printed up a new flyer exposing the latest corporate criminal. Even though I'd never volunteered for the job, he'd appointed me "head of youth marketing," which basically meant I was supposed to post the flyers around school.
    I usually stuck a few in the girls' room and ditched the rest.
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    It seemed that this month's evil empire was Nike, which, according to the flyer, abused workers in third-world nations. I studied the papers in my hand, absorbing the angry red swoosh and the warning: just don't do it.
    "Isn't that sort of old news?" I asked.
    My dad shrugged. "If it's still happening, it's not old."
    I tucked the flyers under my arms and headed out. Kylie's house, I noted with more than a little relief, was completely dark and silent.
    I speed-walked the six blocks to school, rushed through the heavy blue doors and dumped my things, including my dad's flyers, in my locker. Then I headed to the closest bathroom and locked myself in the first stall. I'd decided last night that, in order to avoid any early-morning run-ins, it was best to avoid homeroom completely.
    I grabbed a magazine from my backpack and tried to read an article about celebrity cellulite but couldn't really focus. Instead, I doodled across the cover (if you ask me, every actress looks better with a goatee) as thoughts popped into my head like champagne corks.
    The confidence from this morning was gone, replaced with nervous energy and a trace of
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    doubt. In my room, anything had seemed possible, but at "Woodlawn "anything" seemed a lot less likely.
    Schools were supposed to be supportive and nurturing environments-at least according to the posters in the guidance counselor's office. But for me, Woodlawn had always had the opposite effect. Walking through the halls, I felt hopelessly unimportant, in danger of fading away completely.
    I shifted uncomfortably, realizing that, at that very instant, I had a far more pressing problem than the stolen Skin or even Kylie Frank's wrath.
    I had to pee.
    The good news: I was in the bathroom, actually sitting on the toilet. The bad news: I was in the Skin. And, so far as I could tell, the only zipper ran vertically along my spine, not horizontally, um, a little farther downtown.
    I had no choice. I'd have to take it off. All of it.
    As quietly as I could, I slipped off my clothes, then worked the zipper down my spine, pulled my arms out of the Skin and gently tugged.
    It's not that big a deal, I reasoned postflush. Scuba divers must do this all the time. Besides, if the Skin actually worked, it would definitely be worth the hassle.
    The bell rang just as I was getting