The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren (12 page)

“Actually, I'm kind of sick of this joint. How about we go to the Olive Garden? They have really good … breadsticks.”

“What?”

“If you didn't blare your music, you'd be able to carry on a conversation,” I say, getting more irritated by the minute.

“Did you say something?”

“Never mind.” What's the worst that can happen? Natalie's already mad at me, so it's not like my showing up here is going to change anything. Besides, I'm going to have to face her sooner or later.

Natalie sees us the instant we step into the familiar black-and-white-tiled hangout. She
slams her hands on the table of our regular booth and springs up, her brown flippy hair taking on a life of its own. Like Medusa's.

“What are
you
doing here?” she demands. Ginny, Carl, and Fuchsia whip around to see who she's talking to. Hey, where's Alex? Maybe he had to work tonight.

I'm suddenly aware I'm way overdressed for a place like Murphy's. There's gotta be thirty people in here, and everyone's staring. Well, except for the biker chicks at the pool table.

“Just getting a bite to eat. That okay with you?”

“Sure,” she says, an impish smile spreading across her berry-tinted lips. “Just don't think you'll be sitting at
our
booth.”

Zach makes a “Who are these people?” face and I snap, “Why would we sit with you guys when there's an empty booth over there?” As I grab Zach's wrist and lead him to the table, I force myself not to look back. I don't think I can handle seeing Natalie's face right now.

How long is this stupid feud going to last? I mean, Natalie's biggest dream is to be accepted by the Proud Crowd. And she
knows
I've had a crush on Zach Parker for
eons. Why can't she just be happy for me? Why does she always have to make everything about
her?

“You all right?” Zach asks, grabbing a Murphy's menu from behind the metal napkin dispenser.

“Yeah, why?”

“Don't let those band geeks get to you, Roxy. They're just jealous. You'll get used to it. I hardly even notice it anymore.”

I'd like to say that Zach and I are having a marvelous time getting to know each another over the best French fries in town, but, sadly, that's not how it's going down. He's just sitting there, ogling me like I'm some kind of pinup girl, dunking his fries in my ketchup.

“Sweet Home Alabama” rains through the overhead speakers, and my mood instantly improves. I glance over at the jukebox, and there's Alex, wearing his too-short movie uniform pants and the Avalanche T-shirt I gave him for his b-day last fall.

He beelines over to Natalie and the gang and I hear him say, “Hi, guys. What's up?”

With his mouth full of cheeseburger,
Zach mumbles, “Hard to believe you used to be one of them,” nodding at their booth.

“What do you mean?” I ask, karate-chopping the ketchup bottle a few times and then giving it a good hard jiggle. If Zach's going to use all my ketchup, the least he can do is squirt some more on my plate.

“You used to be a BeeGee.” He studies my face and then adds, “But it's okay, 'cause you're not anymore.”

“How do you figure?” I ask. Oops, that's enough ketchup. The waiter is going to have to refill this bottle before the night's over.

“You're with me now. And you're so good-looking—”

“Right.” I am with Zach now, and I am pretty. So why aren't I walking on air? I mean, being seen everywhere with Zach and the make-out action is fun and everything … just not what I expected. I wish I knew why; I mean, what else could a girl want?

“Sweet Home Alabama” wraps up. Knowing Alex, the next song will be something by Van Halen. Or possibly U2. That old jukebox hasn't been updated since the eighties.

As I take a long drag of my Diet Coke, my gaze floats over to their booth yet again.
Alex's face is pink and jolly as he talks, his hands gesturing wildly. Everyone seems to be really into whatever story he's telling. The instant my eyes lock with Alex's, he doesn't look quite as jolly anymore.

I blink and look over at Natalie, who's sitting next to him. When she sees me, her eyes narrow, and she scoots out of the booth. Looks like she's heading to the ladies' room.

I tell Zach, “Be right back,” and dash after her.

She's leaning over the sink, putting on lipstick with short, fierce strokes. A tear rolls down her cheek. In a soft voice, she says, “Why do you always have to rub it in my face?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“If you're going to hang out with the Proud Crowd, the least you can do is stay away from our hangout.”

“It's not like I'm hanging out with
them.
I'm hanging out with Zach.” I try to catch her eye in the smudged mirror, but she looks away. I never knew a soap dispenser could be so riveting. “Under all that brawn and beauty, he's a nice guy. You should get to know him.” That's what I keep telling myself, anyhow. But I'm not so sure I believe it.

She snorts. “As if.”

“You could've at least responded to my text message this morning,” I say, squeezing in beside her to check my hair. Oh, right. Perfect as usual.

“I didn't get it,” she says through clamped lips.

I catch her eye in the mirror. “Of course not.”

“No, seriously. I didn't get it.” She sighs. “My mom won't pay my cell phone bill till I get a job.”

She digs a piece of gum out of her Kate Spade knockoff and flicks it into her mouth. Without offering me any.

“Why are you so mad at me?” I ask.

“You want the abridged version?”

I shrug. “I'm all ears.”

Natalie holds up a finger. “First of all, you totally sold me out at that party. You acted all embarrassed to be associated with the likes of me. That makes you a two-faced
bitch,
my dear.” She gives me a second to process her slam before holding up a second finger. “Two, you're a
liar.
And that's even worse, in my book. It's hard to be friends with a liar.”

Oh no! Does she know about the Siren
thing? My pulse races.
Calm down,
Roxy. There's no way she could know. “What are you talking about? I haven't lied to you!”

“Well, if you're not hanging out with the Proud Crowd, why did Eva let you wear her hair clip? And is that Eva's dress, too? She doesn't even loan her new clothes to Amber.”

I'm so stunned, I don't know what to say. She really thinks I'm in tight with Eva. Which, if you think about it, is kind of funny. But even if it were true, why's Natalie so pissed about it? She can't tell me that if Eva offered
her
a chance to borrow something from her closet, she'd turn it down.

Natalie pops her gum and reaches out to touch the silky fabric. “Jaded's fall collection, am I right? It's the one on
Lucky's
‘Must Have' list.” She swings the door open and, before stomping out, glowers at me over her shoulder. “Not that
you
would know.”

Alone in the bathroom, I whisper at the closed door, “Well, if you were just a tad more civil to me, you could've come over to my house and seen the new fall collection up close and personal.” But even though my
words are all tough and bitchy, I'm miserable. I miss Natalie in a big way.

I turn to look at my reflection in the mirror—something I do a lot these days. Behind all the beauty, is the old Roxy in there somewhere? The one who deserved to be best friends with Natalie O'Brien?

When I go into the kitchen for breakfast the next day, my dad's reading the
Denver Post,
gulping his orange juice.

“Oh, good morning, honey. Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure.” I grab a cup out of the cabinet and the bottle of vanilla Coffee-mate out of the fridge. As he fills my cup for me, I suppress the urge to suggest he match his shoes to his pocket protector.

“So, how did your driving test go?” he asks, peering at me over his newspaper.

“Great,” I say, stirring my coffee. “It was actually pretty easy. Guess I'm a natural. And it's kinda funny you mentioned it, because I was just going to ask you about
a car. You know, something to putt around in now that I'm an official licensed driver and everything.”

Since Natalie and I aren't exactly getting along, it's not like I can just call her up and ask her for rides like I'm used to doing. There's always Alex, I suppose. He's such a sweetie; he'd drive me anywhere I'd want to go. But with him working two jobs and all, I doubt he'd be able to moonlight as my on-call chauffeur. Plus, he looked at me all weird at Murphy's, and I can't help wondering if Natalie has recruited him for the Roxy Haters Club. That leaves Zach. And to be perfectly honest, I'm getting really sick of riding in Zach's truck. Has the guy never heard of a car wash?

Dad clears his throat, like he always does right before delivering less-than-wonderful news. Oh no. If I don't get a car of my own, I'm screwed!

I beam at him, giving him my best I'msuch-a-good-daughter look. “It doesn't have to be anything fancy,” I say brightly. “Natalie gets along just fine in her little Sportage. And Dad, you have to admit I'm doing great in school. I mean, I got all As last year. Well, except for that B in geometry. Oh, and that
C in my track gym class, but that was only one credit. And it's not my fault I get cramps in my side every time I run more than two laps.” I stare down into my coffee cup. It's obvious I'm not getting anywhere with this. I know he's going to tell me I can't have a car until I get a job and earn enough money to buy one myself. That's just the way Dad is: unwaveringly pragmatic, left-brained, and sensible.

Dad clears his throat again, folds the newspaper, and lays it down on the table. Here it comes. Drum roll, please …

“Honey, you
do
get good grades, and I
am
very proud of you …”

I take a deep breath and try to wipe the disappointment out of my emerald green eyes. But wait! I lean forward and grab his hand. “And not only are my grades good, I've been practicing very hard on my flute. You won't believe how good I've gotten. Hang on, I'll show you!” I jump up, run into my room to get my flute case, and zip back into the kitchen.

Dad's at the sink, rinsing out a coffee mug.

“Do you want to hear this new song I learned?” I ask.

He gives me a half grin and takes a seat. Aha. Like a sitting duck. He'll never know what hit him.

I take out my flute and start playing. When I can see that his eyes are all weird-looking, I go for it. “Dad, I'd like you to let me use your car anytime I want to.”

He shoots off his chair. Oh no. He's not going to hurl fruit at me, is he? “Honey, I'm going to give you the keys to my Porsche. I'll just take the bus.”

My jaw drops to the kitchen floor. Did he just say … ? Am I hearing things? This is off the hook!

I snap my mouth shut and then grin as if Dad's letting me use his car (and volunteering to take the bus, no less) is totally normal. “Thanks, Dad. That's very generous of you.”

Mom comes in right when Dad is handing me his keys. She shoots him the evil eye and taps her foot, clearly upset. “Stan, what are you doing?”

“Well, dear, we happen to have an exceptional daughter, and I feel it's time we reward her.”

“But your
Porsche?”
Mom says. “May I remind you Roxy just got her license? What if something happens?”

Dad chuckles. “Merrilee, don't be ridiculous. I trust her. She passed her driver's test with flying colors. There's nothing to worry about.”

Mom pours herself a cup of coffee, but there's barely any left. She opens the drawer to get a coffee filter and then slams it shut. “Well, I just think we should discuss this.”

“I'd love to stay and chat,” I say cheerily, “but I've got an interview.” I twirl the key ring on my finger, grab my magical flute, and make a beeline for the garage. Getting Dad's car was so easy! A girl can get used to this.

There's a beautiful Paris Hilton-esque girl behind the mahogany desk. A gigantic black sign that reads
ENVISION MODELING AGENCY
in sleek white letters hangs on the wall behind her, and a song by Dashboard Confessional (or a band that sounds just like them) is droning softly.

“I'm Roxy Zimmerman. I have an appointment.” I reach up to smooth my hair and catch a glimpse of my reflection in a big framed mirror on the far wall. Huh. How can my hair look so perfect when I just drove here in Dad's convertible? Don't Siren locks ever get windblown?

The front door opens, and a blaze of sunlight temporarily blinds me. A petite, stocky man in a pin-striped suit breezes past the desk, his shiny wing-tips squeaking on the slate floor. The receptionist straightens her posture and chirps, “Good afternoon, Mr. Valdez.”

He comes to a screeching halt and turns around. “And who have we here?”

I glance over my shoulder, but there's no one there.
Me?
“Um, Roxy Zimmerman.”

“She has an appointment with Janna.” The receptionist fills him in, tapping her bejeweled, manicured finger on the computer screen. “Looks like Philip invited her.”

Mr. Valdez strokes his mini-goatee as he looks me up and down. “Tell Janna I'll take this one.”

The receptionist's eyes widen and she does as she's told. “Come with me,” Mr. Valdez says, leading me down a long hallway wallpapered with thousands of head shots in uniform black frames. Even though the man can't be more than five foot four, I'm having a difficult time keeping up with him in these heels. A gorgeous guy in head-to-toe black steps out of one of the rooms
and nods his greeting to Mr. Valdez as he strides toward the reception desk.

I wish I'd worn something a little less … flowery. This bright pink sundress with little white roses seemed like a good idea a couple of hours ago. After all, it
is
upbeat and attention-grabbing. But now that I'm here, I'm kicking myself. (Natalie wouldn't have let me leave the house in this thing.) Besides, my new Pucci tote clashes big-time. Ugh.