The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren (5 page)

But I'm getting some bad vibes just about now. I mean, it's one thing to justify my new image to my family, but to my best friend?

Thank God, it's 6:00 and Natalie will be here any minute. Chase's group of friends has multiplied like dandelions in a windstorm, and they've been trailing my every move. Each time I slipped into my bedroom to read more of
The Siren Handbook,
I'd find random twelve-year-olds stashed in my closet or under my bed.

I look out the window. Aha, there she is, Miss Promptness in the yellow Sportage. After grabbing the Old Navy satchel I found at the outlet last summer, I tug my jean jacket out of the overstuffed coat closet. “Don't be out too late, honey,” Mom says as she kisses my forehead.

Chase's prepubescent posse begs me not to leave. I've had it. This is just too weird.

Even Pumpkin has taken to following me around—his tail waggin' and tongue hangin'. I swear, it's like I'm one of those doggie cookies Mom buys at the bakery and Chase's friends steal from the cookie jar, believing (for some unknown reason) that they're actually for
people.
Chase swears they taste like shortbread, but I'm not about to taste-test a doggie treat.

Anyway, if I were a walking, talking doggie cookie treat, it would make sense that the pipsqueaks and dog can't leave me alone. But I'm not. I'm something much more bizarre. I'm a Siren.

Oh! I almost forgot! I run back into my room and grab my flute case.

When I slip into the shotgun seat, fixing the spaghetti strap that keeps slipping off my shoulder, Natalie's chatting on her cell phone and doesn't even glance my way. Her tiny frame is stuffed into a plucky black sundress so small, she probably stripped it off her sister's Bratz doll. Her hair is flipped up even more than usual, and I catch a whiff of her Clinique Happy perfume. “I know, I know,” she mumbles. “I'll do it tomorrow.
Yeah, I
know
it's important. I won't forget.” She rolls her eyes in a nonverbal “Get off my case, meddlesome woman.”

After she hangs up, I ask, “What was all that about?” But I know it was her mom, nagging her to get a job. I hate to break it to Mrs. O'Brien, but Natalie has no interest in a job. She already has a car and a Visa card (thanks to her dad, who's afflicted with Overcompensating Divorced Parent Syndrome). Besides, a work schedule would only cut into her shopping time.

I, on the other hand, definitely need to get a job. Especially if I plan on driving something besides Mom's ancient Outback wagon. And that would only happen if she weren't using it, which, between her job (she's a kindergarten teacher), all her community dogooding, and tennis, isn't very often.

I guess I'll just apply for a job at Wendy's. Looks like I'm destined to do the “mustard, pickle, lettuce, tomato” mamba. I mean, it's not like I have a college degree yet, or any work experience besides baby-sitting my brother when my parents go out.

Would Wendy's give me Saturdays off, though? That's the day Alex and I get some old folks from Willington House together at
the Pet Advocacy of Denver (PAD for short), which is a really nice dog pound that arranges adoptions and never puts unwanted pets to sleep. There's this circular sidewalk behind the PAD and the old people walk the dogs around and around all morning long. Alex and I came up with this little idea when we were at band camp, and the rest is history. We like to think it's a win-win situation for everyone. Except for Natalie. She's allergic to dogs (and old people, I suspect), so she graciously declined our invitation to come with.

Natalie turns to me and drops her phone on her lap. “Omigod, Roxy?”

I smile, but there are butterflies in my stomach. “My grandmother got me a makeover for my birthday,” I say, borrowing Grandma Perkins's story. Too bad she's not here to help me right now.

Natalie twists her head from side to side, apparently searching for something. “Are we on some kind of reality TV show?”

“Uh, noooo. Why?”

“Damn,
girl. I barely recognize you. What all did they
do
to you?”

“A little bit of everything, I suppose. They did a really good job, huh?” I keep
smiling, not really knowing what else to say. To be honest, I'm afraid. Natalie reads all the fashion mags and watches TLC, so she sees professional makeovers all the time. She's gotta suspect something's fishy.

“You've got to get me an appointment, Roxy. I can't believe how great you look.” She checks her reflection in the visor mirror and says wistfully, “I wish I had a mysterious, filthy rich grandma who'd pop out of thin air to make me into a hottie.” She flips the visor up and her gaze settles on my chest. “Did your granny buy you a boob job, too?”

“I, uh, guess I just wasn't wearing the right bra,” I say, slouching into the seat. “You know they say eight out of ten women don't wear the right bra size?” Okay, so I'm a crappy on-the-spot liar. Gotta work on that.

“Omigod, Roxy. Your eyes. They're so … green. Are you wearing those tinted contacts?”

“Um, yeah. The makeover people thought I'd look better without my glasses so I'm giving contacts a shot.”

“Well, colored contacts are so last millennium, but they really do work for you. Hey, wait … I thought touching your eyeballs grossed you out.” She's watching me warily, her nostrils flaring slightly with
every breath. “I've been trying to talk you into contacts for years.”

“Yeah, well, they're not as bad as I thought. I guess I should've listened to you.” I smile at her, and promptly squash my lips together. Please, oh please, don't ask about my teeth. I can't squeeze out another single lie.

She shakes her head and switches her stereo to Y104, the same station we listened to when we were in junior high. An oldie by No Doubt is playing. Then she grabs a polka dot gift bag out of the backseat and hands it to me. “I hope you like it.”

I reach into the bag and take out a Roxy shirt. It's chocolate brown with orange and white stripes on the collar. Natalie is the proud sponsor of my wardrobe. She never lets me forget that my name happens to be the brand name of a company that makes surf-slash-snowboard clothes and accessories. Every birthday, I can bank on her giving me a Roxy tee, beach bag, or visor. And every Christmas, a Roxy sweatsuit or parka. It was fun at first, but now it's anything but novel. I'd never say anything to hurt her feelings, though. We're best friends, and she means well.

“It's awesome.” I peck her on the cheek and refold the shirt. “Thanks a bunch.”

“You're welcome, Roxy. It's totally
you.
I knew you'd love it.”

After she puts on her aviator sunglasses, we're off to T.G.I. Friday's.

“Sorry, ladies,” the hostess singsongs. “There's, like, an hour and a half wait.” Natalie and I exchange looks while she pops her gum.

“For just two people?” Natalie asks, exasperated.

The chick nods and then yells over the din, “Morton, party of eight, your table's ready.”

“Well, forget it,” Natalie says. “I'm just going to pee real quick and then let's try Chili's or something. Be right back, 'kay?”

“Sounds good.” I sit down on the edge of a bench to wait. But Natalie doesn't move. She just stands there, looking around the waiting area and the nearby tables, her lips slightly parted. The boys and men are checking me out. Every single one in sight.

Am I giving an accidental panty peep show? I cross my legs, just in case. A handful of the guys blink, clear their throats, or
loosen their ties. But I can tell they're still watching me. And so can Natalie. She shakes her head, her hair swishing side to side, and then drops her jaw. She's doing a remarkable impression of a goldfish.

“Well, no
wonder
they're all staring at you,” she hisses. “You're carrying your freaking flute case. God, Rox. You might as well have a neon sign over your head that says
LOOK AT ME! I'M A BAND GEEK!
Hel-
lo?”
She knocks on my head three times. “It's Saturday night, it's summertime, and we don't have to be in band class for, like, three whole months. What are you thinking? Are you going to do a nice little recital while everyone's waiting for a table?” She rolls her big blue eyes as if I'm the most ridiculous excuse for a human being she's ever known. I do look rather ridiculous, I guess. And thanks to Natalie's impassioned monologue, I'm feeling mighty ridiculous too.

After an encore of her dramatic eye-roll, she turns on her heel and marches to the bathroom.

As I feared, everyone's still staring at me. A couple of college-age girls are even laughing. My cheeks blazing hot, I slump into the back of the bench, wishing I could pull a
Susan Storm and become The Invisible Girl.

But wait! If I use my Siren powers, can I get that manager over there to give us a table? I've already made a fool of myself in front of all these people. What have I got to lose, besides an hour and a half wait? Heart pounding wildly, I assemble my flute and raise it to my lips.

Beautiful, mystical music wafts through the onion ring-scented air. From where I'm standing, it looks like all the men who hear my song are swaying, gazing at me with post-Thanksgiving-dinner, sitting-in-front-of-the-TV, favorite-football-team's-winning eyes. The ladies, however, are scrunching their noses, whispering and pointing, apparently shocked to see a girl playing a flute in the waiting area of T.G.I. Friday's. One of the college-age girls is laughing so hard she'll probably pee her (very tight) pants, and the other just stood up and said, “I can't believe this. What a freak!”

Is this really going to work? When I stop playing, I still have everyone's attention. I smile at the manager and curl my finger, gesturing him to come over, all Siren-like. But I don't feel Siren-like at all. Maybe I
am
a freak. I'm about to run out the
door, never to step foot in this restaurant for the rest of my life, but two seconds later the manager is right in front of me, apparently waiting for whatever I have to say. Oh my God. Here goes nothing.

I take a deep breath and he leans in, even closer.
You can do it, Roxy.
“Excuse me, do you suppose you can seat my friend and me right away? You see, we wanted to catch a movie, and the wait's awfully long, and …”

He takes my hand and escorts me to the hostess. “Carrie, make sure this young woman and her party are seated at the next available table.”

She scowls and narrows her beady eyes at me. My flight mechanism revs up as she paints an obviously fake smile on her face. “Sure, Greg. Anything you say.”

He does a little bow and tells me, “So sorry about the inconvenience. We're so honored you decided to dine here tonight.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks.” I take a deep breath and forge on. “It's one of our favorite places.”

As the hostess extracts two menus from behind the podium, I overhear a woman ask her friend, “Did that girl just get seated before us?”

“Isn't she that famous flutist, er … uh, what's her name?” her friend asks.

The first lady says, “Famous flutist? Good heavens, Martha. What are you talking about?”

I've never, ever had anything even remotely similar happen to me. Typically, I'm the one who's stuck on the bench for well over the projected wait time. The forever forgotten one. This is totally weird, but totally exciting. My Siren powers really work!

And I'm glad, because I'm awfully hungry. If Natalie weren't paying, I'd order everything on the menu. Wait a minute. Could I use my Siren powers to get free food? I guess it's worth a shot.

I follow the manager into the kitchen, heads swiveling in my wake as I meander around all the tables. I push through the swinging doors and whip out my flute.

Half a dozen cooks, two dishwashers, and a random waitress make up my audience. The waitress glares at me and says, “You must be lost. We don't do the live music thing at T.G.I. Friday's. Try the bistro down the road,” but I don't stop.

The manager is standing in front of me before I even finish my song. Hmm. How
long do I have to play for the powers to work?

“Hi, me again,” I say to Mr. Restaurant Manager, putting my flute away in its case. “I know this sounds kind of weird, but do you think you can give my friend and me all the free food and drinks we want? Just tonight, seeing as how it's my birthday.” Well, technically, it's the day after my birthday, but what's he going to do? Check my birth certificate?

He does a little bow, never breaking his glazy gaze. “Of course, my dear. I'll take care of it.”

Wow. Okay then. I give the rest of the kitchen people a little “thank you” grin and skedaddle.

By the time Natalie gets back from the bathroom, we've got a table by the window. “How'd you get us seated before all those people?” she asks, nodding at the crammed waiting area.

I shrug and replace the spaghetti strap that slipped off my shoulder. Stupid strap. “I guess we were the only party of two.”

“But this is a table for four.”

Again, I shrug, trying to appear as nonplussed as she is.

The bartender whips up some fruity mocktails he thinks we'll like, and in no time, our table is covered with a smorgasbord of food.

“So what did you get for your birthday?” Natalie asks, her mouth full of fried cheese. “Besides the rad shirt I just gave you.”

“Let's see … my parents gave me a silver frame, but Dad dropped it so they're going to get me another one. Chase got me a dorky T-shirt that says
my little brother did it,
and Grandma got me a … er … makeover.”

You know, being a Siren is one thing. But having to come up with all these lies really sucks. Does Grandma Perkins come up with stupid excuses like this? Or has she been a Siren for so long, lying comes naturally? Will it be easier for me when I've had some practice? And will it still bother me, or will I get so used to it, I'll forget what it's like to be completely straight with my friends and family?