The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren (16 page)

“My pleasure, girl. I'm glad you're loving it.”

“So how
did
you get me this job, Rox? I saw the stack of apps myself today. There had to be—”

“Zach and I broke up,” I blurt out.

After a pause, she says, “Honey, I'm so sorry. Do you want me to bring some classics over? Maybe call Alex? We can pull an all-nighter like we used to. How about
Sixteen Candles
or
Pretty in Pink?”

“That's okay. I'm really okay….” I wonder what Alex is up to.

“How about some Ben and Jerry's?”

“No, no. I'm fine. It was totally mutual. Actually, if you really want to know the truth, I think he's back together with Eva.”

“That's terrible! You'd think he'd learn his lesson about that beyotch. Her heart is tiny and black and shriveled up. Like a raisin or something.”

I twirl open the blinds and then plop on my bed, stuffing a pillow under my chest. In the hallway I hear Dad reminding Chase to pack underwear for when he goes to Porter's. “She's really not that bad, Natalie. Besides, I think they're really good together.”

From this angle, I have a clear view of the McCoy's house. Alex's Civic isn't there.

“So, tell me—does being a Siren agree with you?” I'm shocked Grandma Perkins said the S word in public, but a quick scan of the Dairy Queen reveals we're the only two souls in here, besides the freckle-faced twentysomething behind the counter. He's got headsets on, and he's drumming his hands on the cash register to the beat of whatever his iPod is blasting into his eardrums, impervious to our conversation.

“I notice you're driving your father's Porsche these days.” Grandma Perkins winks at me, and then dunks the red plastic spoon into her vanilla malt. I called her an hour ago, asking her to meet me for a quick ice cream before she heads off to Jamaica. Or was it the Bahamas?

“I TiVo'd that fashion show you did at the mall, if you want to watch it sometime. You looked lovely, Roxy. I'm so proud of you.”

“Oh, thanks.” Did they happen to get coverage of my dainty little trip? I cram a bite of my milkshake into my mouth, the cold, minty, Oreo-chunky ice cream frolicking on my tongue.

Grandma licks her Liv Tyler lips and studies my face intently. “Are you still going with that boy from your school? The one you told me about?”

“No. That's so over.”

“Oh, good.” She relaxes her shoulders. “So you took my advice, I take it….”

I shrug. “I guess so.”

“Be careful, Roxy. I'd hate to see any harm come his way.” Her green eyes darken.

I take another big bite of ice cream. With
my mouth full, I say, “You can't tell me you've never ever been in love, Grandma.”

She blinks. “I most certainly have not. I'm a
Siren.”

“You made a baby with some guy. Weren't you in love with him? At least a little bit?”

She frowns. “I wanted a baby, that's all.”

“So you slept with him till you got pregnant and once you got what you wanted, you left him. Is that your story?”

She opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it. A moment later she says, “The point is, I wanted a baby and I got one. I love your mother very much. But I never loved her father. That's the way it has to be, Roxy. Because I'm a Siren.” She reaches across the table and pats my hand. “And so are you.”

“So you know, Mom's pretty pissed that you never told her anything about her father. Don't you think she has a right to know at least something about him?”

Grandma Perkins stares down at her lap. “I wish it could be different, but it can't. This is how it has to be.”

I gaze out the window at the traffic-y
University Boulevard. It's getting dark outside, and most of the cars have their headlights on. “I was reading
The Siren Handbook
last night—”

“That's nice, honey. It's full of such wisdom.”

“Do you really believe that if you fall in love with a man, he'll … die?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How do you
know?
How do you know it's not just a part of the legend? We've never known another Siren, so maybe that part of
The Siren Handbook
is outdated. You know, like how Sirens are half-birds or mermaids or whatever.”

She shakes her head, her eyes sad. “We must believe it word for word, Roxy. It's too great a risk to challenge it. Don't you remember what happened to the Siren called Thelxiepia?”

“She sang her Siren song and made a ship crash into the rocks by the island she lived on. Nothing new there, except that one of sailors miraculously made it to the shore alive. They fell in love and slept together and she got pregnant. But before the baby was born, the sailor died.”

“She fell in love and her lover died. Don't you see? We can't have something like that on our consciences.”

“So you left him before you could fall in love with him? Mom's father, I mean. To protect him?”

She breathes in and out, her perfect little nostrils flaring just a little. Then she sits up straight and performs her dazzling smile. “Did I tell you I'm going to Jamaica? This man I met has a lovely beach house, so I'm staying there.”

“How do you know this guy?” I ask, perfectly aware that she changed the subject big-time.

She wipes her mouth with a napkin, taking her time. “I met him in a singles chat room, and then he took me to a delicious dinner at The Bistro on saxophone night. When he told me about his beach house, I showed an interest, and he gave me the key.”

“When you were showing an interest, did you happen to break into song?”

“Well, dear, when I heard that saxophone, I just couldn't help singing along for a little while.” Grandma Perkins stands up and tosses our empty cups and balled-up
napkins into the trash can. The
THANK YOU
sign flaps back and forth. “Well, dear, I'd better get going. This was nice. We'll have to do it again.”

I smile at her and say good-bye. Waving like a newly crowned beauty queen, she slips out the door and saunters to her Lexus. So graceful, so elegant, so perfect.

She may pretend to be having the time of her life, but I know better. She's sad and lonely, and I don't want to become like Grandma Perkins.

When I get home, Alex is leaning against my door in a white T-shirt, baggy shorts, and flip-flops. His sun-bleached hair glistens golden underneath the porch light. God, it's good to see him. I lean forward and hug him. We break our embrace and, inexplicably, I feel my face flush.

“Your mom wanted us to keep an eye on things while they're on vacation,” he explains. “So I thought I'd drop by real quick and make sure everything's on the up-and-up.”

Great. How many people does Mom have spying on me, anyway? “I assure you, I'm being a model daughter. Want to come
in?” I ask, working my key in the door. The lock clicks and he follows me inside.

“I heard you helped Natalie get a job at that mall store,” Alex says. “She's stoked. It's all she can talk about.”

I shrug. “She was made for that job.” I grab a couple of Cokes and meet him in the living room. He sprawls out on the couch and I plop down beside him.

“So, you're here to make sure I'm doing okay?” I click the stereo remote and Astra 8 It trickles through the speakers. I didn't even realize that Alex's favorite CD was still in there from when we were studying for our history final. “That was sweet of you.”

“Yeah, well, that's me,” Alex says. “Sweet as sugar.” Though he's smiling, his eyes look cloudy.

I grab the afghan off the armrest and cuddle up with it. “I know I haven't been a very good friend lately. I haven't been a very good
person.
And you were right. I wasn't being real.”

“You've changed a lot this summer, but …”

“But what?”

“Never mind.” A minute later Alex says, “So, where did the 'rents go, anyway?”

“Disneyland. Guess they had a hankering to hang out with a freakishly large mouse in red trunks.”

“Don't parents usually
take
their kids to Disney?”

I laugh. “I thought the same thing. Then again, my parents are a far cry from normal.”

We sit in silence. Alex strums his fingers on his knee, in time to “Put Your Heart on Your Sleeve.”

“So, have you played your trombone much this summer?” I ask, using the reserves in my small-talk vault.

“Nah. I'll probably be exiled to third seat once school starts up. Do you play your flute much?”

“A little.” If he only knew …

“I saw Zach Parker at the movies last night. He and Eva were all over each other. So did you two break up, or do I have an asswhoopin' to do?” He scrunches his face all up and smacks a fist into his open palm.

I crack up. “It's cool. We broke up. But it's not like we were ever serious or anything.” Grandma Perkins would be so proud.

“So the wedding's off?” It looks like he's trying to maintain a straight face, but his
lips keep twitching upward like he's got a tic. He shrugs. “Natalie told me you wanted to marry him.”

I roll my eyes. She's so dead. “Yeah, well, that was when I was, like, twelve. Did she also mention I wanted to marry Orlando Bloom? And then adopt six kids from some third-world country?”

After Alex chuckles, he says, “I'm glad it's off.”

“Why's that? You couldn't decide between the crystal bowl and the matching his-and-hers towel set?”

“No problem there. A Crock-Pot's the only way to go.” He smiles. “Actually, I was scared you were going to ask me to be a bridesmaid. I'd feel so weird wearing a bridesmaid's gown next to Natalie. She has a much better figure than I do.”

I whack him on the head with a pillow. “You're so weird. And for what it's worth, there's nothing wrong with your figure.” Speaking of which, when did Alex go from a bony, awkward boy to a tanned, muscular guy?

He blows a flyaway hair off his face. “So, I suppose you're available now?”

“For what?” I reach in my pocket and
dangle my dad's car keys, jingling them in Alex's face. “A car pool?”

For a moment he watches the keys like a cat playing with string. Then he grabs my hand and holds it still in midair. “You know what I mean. Why do you always turn everything into a joke? I'm trying to level with you here, and you're making it so … difficult,” he says, squeezing my hand with an intensity that makes my stomach flip-flop.

I reel in my grin and put the keys on the coffee table. “Sorry. You were saying …?”

He releases my hand and then runs his finger around a button on the couch. “I'm curious. Did you ever read what I wrote in your yearbook?”

“Yeah, sure.” Truth is, I don't remember if I read it or not. But I'm not going to hurt his feelings by admitting that. I do recall him keeping my yearbook for four whole periods while he wrote it in. Not that it was a big deal. It's not like I had hundreds of people lined up to autograph my yearbook.

“And …?”

“Uh, it was very … nice,” I say.

He nods, looking into my eyes as if he's trying to read a deeper meaning. Without any warning, he leans even closer and kisses
me full on the mouth. I close my eyes and kiss him back for a second, and then pull back with a jolt.

I spring up off the couch. “What? What are you doing?” My lips are tingling, my eyes are stinging, and I can't decide whether to run out of the room or dive into his arms.

He stands and reaches for my hand, but I don't give it to him. “I'm just … I just wanted to kiss you.”

“Don't.”

“Why not, Roxy? Why the hell not? Give me one good reason. Just tell me—you know, so I can get you out of my system.”

I feel my jaw slacken, but the words won't come. They're hidden somewhere in the depths of my throat.

Alex stares at me, waiting. But when I don't answer him, he just shoves his hands in his pockets and makes a beeline for the door.

I run to the window. As Alex jogs down the street, it's like the floor is quicksand and I'm sinking lower and lower. I drop to my knees and stare as he disappears into the night. Astra 8 It croons in the living room, bringing back memories of going to their concerts. With Alex. Adorable, nice Alex.

“Please don't go, Alex.” My voice sounds so small in the empty house. “I just don't want to screw everything up.”

Am I too late? Have I already screwed it all up?

The CD ends and the stereo turns itself off. The house has never been so quiet. I lug myself up and run to my bedroom. What did Alex write in my yearbook?

Bingo. Under the bed.

I flip through the pages of the yearbook, most of which feature sports, student government, and anything else the Proud Crowd is into. Turning to the back, I scope out the band pictures. We're all holding our instruments like they're our babies. This is the page Natalie chose to sign:

Whoa. Rewind.

Alex?
I flip through a few more pages
and realize that somehow I've got Alex's yearbook. So if this one is Alex's, he must have mine. Wonderful. Now he's going to know I lied about having read what he wrote.

I flick through his yearbook until I spot the page with my handwriting on it. It's next to my photo.

It's a good thing the Sea Nymph gene found its way into my chromosomes. Imagine going through life looking like
that.
Strange, but I thought I looked pretty decent that day. I mean, I never equated myself to Lindsay Lohan or anything quite that delusional. Well, maybe … if Lindsay never worked out, wore Coke-bottle glasses, shopped Target's clearance racks, and had pimples and frizzy hair. I'd written in loopy, turquoise letters: