The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren (6 page)

“So, how was Colorado Springs?” I ask, shifting to a topic I hope I won't have to lie about.

“Same ol',” she says, haphazardly assembling a lettuce wrap. “I'm always with my dad, so I don't ever get to flirt with the Air
Force guys. But the good news is, he took me shopping and bought me a boatload of really cute clothes.” She stuffs the wrap in her mouth and then licks the peanut sauce off her fingers.

“Need to hit the bathroom?” I ask, once we're done eating and drinking way too much. It's always nice to ask, just in case our bladders are on the same schedule. Unlike a lot of girls, Natalie and I are perfectly secure going to the restroom alone.

She says, “Nope, I'm good. I'll just wait here and get the check.”

I hurry to the hall by the restrooms and plop down on a little bench. Framed black-and-whites of Hollywood movie stars cover the wall. A picture of Marilyn Monroe is right in front of me. She's wearing a cute white bathing suit, looking over her shoulder coyly.

I pull out my cell and dial Grandma's number. “Hi, Roxy. How are you? It's fun being beautiful, isn't it?”

Roxy Zimmerman, beautiful. Roxy Zimmerman, a hottie. A girl can totally get used to this. “Grandma … are you busy? Are you, like, on a date or something?”

She laughs her lovely laugh. “Of course
I'm on a date, honey. You don't expect me to pay for my
own
seafood dinner, now do you? I'm in a delightful five-star restaurant in Maine. I had a hankering for some lobster, you see, and it's not like Colorado—”

“Maine?” Just like that.

“Was there something you needed to know? Something about your …
birthday present,
perhaps?” I can all but see her giving me a long-lashed wink over the phone.

“Nothing important. Just a little bummed about having to lie to my best friend, you know, to keep it all on the down-low. I feel like a lying scumbag.”

“Of course you do. I had the same concerns when I was your age.” I hear a muffled, “James, my granddaughter is on the phone and I need a little privacy. Do you mind excusing yourself for a moment or two? Thank you.” Next, in a hushed tone, she says, “You see, lying is perfectly acceptable because this is a very special case. It's a tip-top secret that cannot be leaked, no matter what the circumstances. If you blow your cover, you'll blow the cover for all of us—today and forevermore. If you tell anyone our secret, you will lose your powers.” She continues in her regular voice, “That,
my dear, is the sobering truth. So. Is there anything else I can help you with before the main course arrives?”

“Yeah, one quick question. How long do I need to play my flute for someone? You know, for it to work?”

“That depends, honey. I'd give it at least thirty seconds until you learn to recognize the signs that they're under your power. Each man is different, but most will get a peaceful look in their eyes, as if they're hypnotized. Men who are already under the spell of your beauty tend to be more susceptible and are quickly entranced, so they may only take twenty seconds or so. If you happen to use your Siren powers on the same man more than once, he'll be under your spell almost immediately. Remember when I went to Europe with those Frenchmen last year? I had them under my spell in less than five seconds of singing.”

“Wow.”

“Exactly.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Natalie approaching. I tell Grandma Perkins, “Oh, gotta go. Ciao!” and then hang up.

“Who was that?” Natalie wants to know.

“My grandma.”

She gives me a weird look. “I know she's cool and everything, but what's the deal? It's like you two are best buddies all of a sudden.”

“Yeah, it's pretty bizarre,” I agree, dropping my cell into my purse. “But I think she's just lonely or something.”

Natalie snorts. “Grandma Perkins,
lonely?
I don't think so!”

I just laugh, but I know what she's getting at—and it bothers me. Of course, Natalie's not the only one who thinks Grandma's a bit of a slut. My parents do—not that they've ever said it outright, but I can just tell. And I used to think that too. But now, well, I'm thinking we might have it all wrong.

I stand up and Natalie follows me into the bathroom. After I've done my thing and am washing my hands, Natalie says, “So, I handed the waiter my Visa, and he just shook his head and said it was on the house. Whatever that means.”

“It means it was free.”

“No, I mean,
why
was it free?”

“Oh, yeah. I think the manager said something about being the ten-thousandth
customer, so it's the big prize,” I try, hoping she'll buy it.

I can all but see the little cogs turning in my best friend's head as she refreshes her lipstick. But she doesn't question it.

A young woman and a toddler emerge from the handicapped stall and commandeer the sinks. Natalie and I jump back so we won't get splashed.

“Well, thanks again for my dinner. Just because it was free doesn't mean it doesn't count.” I hug her.

“You're quite welcome, Roxy. And your birthday celebration night is just beginning.”

Before we leave, I practice making a coy Marilyn Monroe face in the mirror. Oh, how fun! I hope I can look like this next time I put somebody under my Siren spell.

“Um, Natalie? This isn't the way to the theater.”

She brakes at a red light and looks over at me, a mysterious smile on her freshly lipsticked mouth. “I know. We've had a change of plans.”

“What do you mean? Where are we going?”

“To a party.” She turns down her stereo, muffling Kelly Clarkson.

“Whose
party?”

“J.T. Brewer's.”

I shake my head, my mouth going dry. “No way, Natalie. Are you crazy? It's going to be a total Proud Crowd party. We're so not invited.”

“Au contraire, madame,”
Natalie says in a faux French accent. “J.T. himself invited you.”

I scrunch my nose and give her a look that clearly says, “How the heck did
you
know?”

“Alex told me. And it's a well-known fact that the invitation extends to all the friends of the invitee.” The light turns green and she steps on the gas. “That's what makes it a
party.”

I slap my forehead. “Remember the last Proud Crowd party we went to?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you telling me you don't remember? You have no recollection of calling me last summer, begging me to go to Devin's house for a party? We weren't even invited; you just happened to overhear the jocks talking about it at Seven-Eleven. We bought new outfits and did each other's hair all cute and showed up right on time. Right
on time to be left with Devin's bratty little brothers. We babysat them so the jocks could go to the
real
party, at Amber's house.”

Natalie squeezes her steering wheel extra hard as she turns up University Boulevard. “Okay, okay. I remember. But Devin's parents paid us each five bucks an hour, and we snuck a wine cooler out of the fridge, so it wasn't
all
bad. Plus, that was a long time ago. We've all grown up a lot since then.”

I cross my arms over my chest, still shocked to feel my new boobs. “Whatever.”

A few moments later Natalie says, “Listen, Rox.
Everyone'
s going to be there.”

“So Alex is going? And what about Fuchsia, Ginny, Carl … and that new guy from Texas who plays the trumpet?”

“I know what you're thinking, Rox. We are
not
band geeks,” she says indignantly. “We are talented musicians.”

I really,
really
don't want to go to this party. I can't face the jocks. Not after the Zach's Date Incident. We're just a block or two from J.T.'s house, and I definitely have cold feet.

“Don't you want everyone to see you
after your makeover?” Natalie asks. “I'm serious. You look even better than Tess McGill in
Working Girl
or Allison Reynolds after Claire gets ahold of her in
The Breakfast Club.”

“When are you going to move on from all those eighties movies, Natalie?”

“You've got to respect the classics. But the point is, you look fabulous and Zach's going to go gaga over you.”

Well, she's right about me looking fabulous. But could she be right about Zach? If I show up at this party, will I finally get that kiss I've been longing for? Yesterday, when I was an ordinary-looking BeeGee, doubtful. But now that I'm a Siren, is it possible?

Natalie gets a gleam in her eye as she says, “You know what? When I was at Seven-Eleven yesterday, I heard that Zach Parker and Eva the Diva are the newest residents of Splitsville.”

“I never even knew they were back together. Didn't they break up at prom because he forgot to pick her up and she arrived fashionably late, and they crowned Amber Prom Princess in her place?”

“He didn't forget to pick her up, it's just that he forgot to pick her up in his uncle's
Bentley. So when he showed up in his pickup, she refused to get in. Anyway, they got back together that very night. And from what I hear, they did a whole lot more than just kiss and make up.”

I forgot to mention another very important requisite of being in the Proud Crowd. Being a gossip. Obviously, Natalie's got that one down pat. “I know you fill up at Seven-Eleven just to get the latest scoop. Seriously, Natalie. You should start your own website.”

“I'm just well-informed, that's all.” She flicks some gum into her mouth and hands me a piece. “Point is, Zach's back in the game. And you, my dear, are gonna score.”

An assortment of shiny SUVs are parked haphazardly up and down the steep, tree-lined street. I roll my window down, flooding Natalie's Sportage with the thumping of bass from J.T.'s Tudor-style house.

“Do you hear how loud the music is? The cops are going to be here any second,” I say, rooting in my purse for lip gloss.

She parallel parks with the expertise of someone who's been driving for eight whole months and snorts. “Don't be such a sissy.”

She hops out, and I pretend to be checking myself out in the visor mirror. But really, I'm putting my flute together and stuffing it down my shirt. I know Natalie would never let me get away with taking my whole flute case into a party. I might need it, though. Hopefully, no one will notice it if I tuck it down my cleavage and maneuver it down the front of my leg like this.

Acting against every fiber of my being, I follow her down the sidewalk, maneuvering the tip of my flute down the front of my pants as discreetly as possible. “Why do you even want to go to this party?” I ask. “Are you sick of the friends you already have?”

“I love my friends.” She waits for me to catch up and then puts her arm around my shoulders. “Especially you. I'm
helping
you, Roxy. You want Zach, right? I'd bet my new Stella McCartney A-line miniskirt that he'll take notice of you tonight. I mean, look at you!” A huge smile spreads across her face.

It takes every ounce of self-control to keep from breaking into a smile myself. “You're so full of it. You were planning on
dragging me to this party before you saw me as … um, someone who got a really great makeover.” I clear my throat and do a little wiggle to shift my flute back in place.

She shrugs. “Maybe. But I knew you'd look cute regardless. And if you want Zach Parker, you've gotta meet him on his own turf. You know, let him see you hobnobbing with his circle of friends.”

I know Natalie genuinely wants to help me, and there's probably a grain of truth in what she said about getting Zach to see me somewhere besides school. But the fact that Natalie wants more than anything to be a Franklin High A-lister isn't lost on me.

“Okay, but when I want to leave, you have to promise to take me home,” I say as we cross through J.T's front yard. “It's my birthday, you know.”

Crap. This flute-down-the-shirt thing isn't exactly comfortable. Can people see it? Note to self: No hugging and no slow dancing with anybody.

She raises her delicate eyebrow. “Deal.”

We slip through the front door, Eminem's music giving me an insta-headache. About twenty teenagers are jammed into the living
room—some dancing, some lounging on the white leather couches. Everyone's shouting, and it reeks of sweat and cologne and beer. This must've been what Kurt Cobain meant by “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

“Do you see him?” I ask.

Natalie shakes her head.

We wander over to the fireplace to get a better look. By now, more and more partiers are taking notice of us, and there's a lot of whispering going on. I strain to hear what they're saying, but it's too loud in here.

“Let's get a drink,” Natalie yells over the music, grabbing my hand. She yanks me past the gyrating sea of bodies to the kitchen, where one of the Proud Crowd chicks is doing a keg stand, the hem of her skirt sliding down to expose her pastel yellow panties.

“Fourteen … fifteen … sixteen …,” the mob chants.

The guys promptly stop counting when they see us, and a cheerleader performs a bubbly solo from back by the dishwasher. Her voice trails off after “twenty-one.” The chick on the keg spits the tap out, a stream of beer squirting out.
Every guy in the room stares at me, mouth agog.

I snatch the tap away from the dazed keg master (who is still spraying people with beer) and pass it to Natalie. “I'm going to go outside for a sec. I just need some fresh air,” I tell her, my flute painfully poking into my thigh.

“Okay, hang on.” She passes me a flimsy white plastic cup half full of lukewarm beer, half full of foam. I escape out the back door. I'm excited for Zach to see me like this, but I'm pretty nervous too. I'm not quite ready to “bump into” him. I need to collect my thoughts, psych myself up.