The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren (17 page)

I'm laughing out loud, the memories flooding my mind. We really have had some good times together, Alex and me.

The next morning, I grab Alex's yearbook, jump in the Boxster, and zip down to his house. His mom answers the door, her peroxide-blond hair a beehive of rollers. “Roxy? Is that you? Land sakes, you've sure blossomed.” She touches her hair, looking kinda self-conscious.

“Thanks, Patricia. Is Alex around?”

“Come on in, dear. So, I hear your parents went to California?”

“Yeah. They're celebrating their anniversary.”

She stands there in the foyer, staring at me like I'm a Girl Scout and she's trying to decide how many boxes of Thin Mints to buy.

“Is Alex here?” I ask again.

She shakes her head, looking decades
older than Grandma Perkins. “He's at work at the car wash.”

This must be my lucky day! Maybe I can switch the yearbooks and Alex will be none the wiser. I'd already planned to tell him the truth, that I hadn't read what he'd written. It would've been difficult, especially since he's not exactly happy with me right now, but I felt it was the right thing to do. I don't want to make the same mistake I made with Natalie. But now, since he's not home …

Patricia says, “Is everything okay, Roxy? You look a little—”

“I think I might have left something in his room. Do you mind if I go back and look for it?”

“Not at all. Help yourself. I'll just be in my office.”

“Okay, thanks.” I wander up to his bedroom and flip on the light. It's tidy, but nowhere as clean as mine is these days, thanks to my little bro's maid service. He's got three Ansel Adams photos on the wall, and a
Pirates of the Caribbean
movie poster that I gave him ages ago. A potted cactus rests on the window ledge, and a collection of bobblehead dolls adorns his dresser.

I open his squeaky closet door and rummage around, searching for my yearbook. Finally, I spot it on the top shelf, behind his trombone case.

Flopping onto the navy plaid quilt on his bed, I open the book to the band photo pages. I instantly recognize Alex's miniature, scratchy print:

Hmm. Sweet, but I have to admit I was expecting something more … I don't know,
profound? I mean, he made such a big deal out of my reading it. And then, when he kissed me, well, I thought maybe he'd written something about … well, never mind.

Alex kissed me. That was totally bizarre. But was it, really? Or was it kind of … nice?

I glance over the faces of my fellow band geeks, briefly recalling our times in summer camps and our competitions with the other high schools in Boulder and the Springs. And when I spot a blond-haired wisp of a boy grasping a trombone with both hands, I smile to myself. The guy who always stared at me and wanted to bet which song we were going to play for the concert finale. He brought Skittles to band almost every day, sharing with me. My flute always smelled fruity, thanks to Alex.

Alex McCoy was the boy I wished I could just stuff into my locker whenever Zach Parker and the other jocks passed by us in the halls. I was ashamed of Alex. I was embarrassed to be his friend whenever any of the Proud Crowd group was around, like when Eva and Amber were at 7-Eleven. As these revelations hit me, I feel like I just ate a handful of Sour Patch Kids with a mouthful
of canker sores. The sour, stinging, painful truth.

I turn to the little black-and-white sophomore class pictures and find Alex's. Next to his photograph, in black chicken scratch print, are the words
“I love you. A.M.”

I feel a weird, fluttery sensation somewhere behind my rib cage. It's barely noticeable at first, and then it grows more and more intense. Slowly, I lower my head onto his pale yellow pillow.

Sure, I pretty much knew that Alex had a crush on me. But do I like him back … like that? I've been so obsessed with getting Zach Parker to notice me, have I brushed off my true feelings for Alex?

What's that smell? I take a small whiff, and next, a bigger one. Then I bury my nose in his pillowcase. It smells delicious. Speed Stick—Irish Spring delicious. Alex McCoy delicious. I could lie here breathing in his signature scent forever.

After snapping the yearbook shut, I place his on the top shelf of the closet and turn out the light. My book tucked under my arm, I roam down the hall and poke my head into Patricia's office. She's a freelance journalist, and with all her newspapers,
magazines, and who-knows-what-else, her workspace is a freaking disaster area. I'm serious. Someday somebody's going to call Disaster Cleanup or that reality TV show where those two ladies miraculously organize everything. But until then, I'll just be mindful of stepping around the piles.

Patricia swivels around in her mustard yellow office chair, knocking over a mug of coffee. Thank God, it's nearly empty. “Hi, Roxy. Did you find what you were looking for?” She sops up the small black puddle with the bottom of her Reebok sweatshirt.

“I did. Thanks.”

I pull into the parking lot at Liberty Park. Today I'm doing that photo shoot for Vail's upcoming hot-air balloon fest, and, luckily, it's another of Colorado's bluebird-blue sky days. There's a makeshift makeup and wardrobe area set up in the little white gazebo. Three men are dragging a hot-air balloon basket this way, and a group of little kids are following them Pied Piper—style across the lawn.

“Yoo-hoo! Are you Roxy Zimmerman?” a voluptuous woman hollers from inside the gazebo.

“That's me.”

“Oh, good. I'm Mac Baxter, and I'm going to be doing your makeup today.” She holds my hand as I take a seat on an old-time barstool.

A hobbitlike man jumps into the gazebo and says, “I'm making a Starbucks run. Would you ladies like anything?”

“Aren't you an angel!” Mac says. “I'll take a coffee—black—and a scone.”

“I'd love a vanilla latte,” I say, and the little man takes off across the park.

A changing curtain is set up in the opposite corner of the gazebo, and an elegant black ball gown hangs from a lattice. “You're a pretty young lady,” Mac says, wrapping a makeup bib around my neck to protect my track jacket. “Just look at that skin. It's positively flawless! And I don't think I've ever seen such green eyes.” In a frenzy of foundation, eyeliner, mascara, powder, lip liner, and lipstick, she dots, sponges, smears, swishes, brushes, and blends. She pauses, makeup sponge midair, and catches my eye in the mirror. “What's wrong, dear?”

“How do you know if it's love, Mac?”

Before she can answer, the production
assistant sets my grande Starbucks cup on the counter, next to the case of eye shadows. He's breathing heavily, as if he's been running. I take a sip. “Thanks, I needed this.”

Apparently satisfied, our personal barista exits, his Vans smacking the asphalt path as he hurries off to assist the photographer.

I twirl the Starbucks cup around and around on my knee. What's this? I pick it up and study the logo more closely. I jump in my seat, eyeliner streaking from my eyelid to ear.

Could it be?

“Oh, dear. I'm so sorry….”

It's a Siren! There's a picture of a Siren, right here on my coffee cup.

“Let me get a tissue….”

How many hundreds of Starbucks cups have I drunk out of in my lifetime, and why am I just now seeing the Siren?

The way the sunlight dapples through the lattices, the Siren's eyes seem to glow. Is she trying to tell me something?

I wait, but nothing happens.

Mac dabs at my right eye, looking at me with one finely plucked eyebrow arched. “You're staring at that like you've never seen a coffee cup before. Are you sure you're okay?”

Then it dawns on me. Sirens don't sit on their butts waiting for something to happen. They
make
it happen!

“Actually, I'm not okay. I messed up. But I'm going to be okay. I just need to talk to somebody. I need to go. I'm sorry.” I stand up start running through the park.

“Wait! Only one eye is done!”

After hitting a gas station and stocking up on Skittles, I drive the Boxster over to the car wash. I walk into the little office, and three guys in Auto Spa T-shirts stop what they're doing to check me out. (Will I ever get used to that?)

A guy with a Sudoku puzzle in his lap says, “Hello, young lady. You looking for an application?”

Ignoring him, I close the door behind me. “Where is Alex McCoy working today?” I ask the older man, who to me looks the most “managerish.” His name tag reads
STANLEY.

“Um, yeah. Do you want me to get him for you?” Stanley asks, sitting up straighter in his folding chair.

The fan on a little table hums softly, puffing and wheezing in a gallant effort to
cool the room. A gust promptly catches my hair, and I feel it lift and then fall back into place, every strand picture-perfect. “No. Actually, I just need to know which part of the car wash he's working today.”

“He's waxing, under the blue tent,” the Sudoku guy offers, flashing his toothy grin.

“Thanks.” Hmm. “Who actually drives the cars from the exterior wash to the waxing tent?”

Stanley nods toward the window. “Missy's doing that.”

I whip out my flute and play until Stanley is fully under my Siren powers. “Stanley, go tell Missy and Alex to switch.” I look at the rest of the guys in the room (who are also under the spell, natch) and say, “And don't mention me to anybody.”

“Sure thing.” With that, Stanley jogs out the side door and I hurry back to the Boxster to get everything ready. Then I sit on a bench in the shade and watch Alex drive a Buick, a Nissan, and finally a red Porsche Boxster to the tent. A few minutes later he steps out of the Boxster and looks around. Then he spots me sitting here and runs over, his smile reaching from ear to ear.

“Roxy!”

“Hey, Alex.” I stand up and he gives me one of his fabulous hugs.

“You mean it?”

“Of course I mean it, you big goof! What are you waiting for?”

I lean closer to him, catching a whiff of that delicious Speed Stick—Irish Spring cocktail that I've been craving. And then I kiss him right on the mouth. It's absolutely, spontaneously, romantically perfect. My head spinning, my knees wobbly, I sink onto the bench.

Alex rakes his fingers through his blond hair, giving it a good dose of I-don't-give-a-shit-what-my-hair-looks-like. He sits next to me, fixes me with his puppy-dog eyes, and says, “So, is this a tribute to
Clockwork Orange?”

I wrinkle my nose. “What are you talking about?”

“Your makeup. It's caked onto this eye”—he lightly touches my left temple—“and this one has no makeup at all.” Now he touches my right temple, sending a zing of electricity from my head through my entire body.

“And what's this? I've never been into cutting-edge fashion, but what's this supposed to be? The bib look?”

Oh, God. I reach up to my neck, and sure enough, I'm still wearing the paper clothes-shield thingie. How embarrassing! I rip it off and stuff it into my tote. “Better?”

He shrugs. “Whatever makes you happy.”

You
make me happy. That's what I want to say. I feel like I'm going to explode, I want to say it so badly.

“Did you really come out here to kiss me?”

“No.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “I came here to apologize for lying to you. I said I read what you wrote in my yearbook, but I hadn't. But now I
have
read it, and …” Ugh. This isn't coming out like I'd hoped.

He takes my hand and asks, “Wanna blow this joint?”

“Why, Alex! Are you saying you're going to ditch work?”

“I just happen to have an excellent excuse this time.”

“Oh?”

He says, “Yeah, migraine,” and I crack up. He springs off the bench and helps me up.

“Let's go.”

I look around for my car. “Have you seen an adorable red Boxster lying around?”

“Apparently, the owner only wanted an
exterior wash and wax, but when I was driving it out of the car wash, I noticed that the words
KISS ME
were spelled out in Skittles across the front seat. So it was my professional opinion that the car had to be vacuumed. Of course, at no added expense to the customer. After all, at Auto Spa, we aim to please.”

I drawl in a fake Southern accent, “Why, Alex. That's mighty sweet of you,” and give him another kiss.

“That's me, sweet as sugar.”