The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren (18 page)

I'm totally psyched to have the house to myself 'cause Alex and I decided that for our first official date, we'd just hang out here.

We order a Hawaiian pizza and Cheese-Bread from Blackjack Pizza and then watch
Pirates of the Caribbean
snuggled on the couch in pillows and blankets. We talk and talk and talk. And then we somehow get into this
crazy pillow fight. I can't tell you who kisses whom first. It just happens. When we come up for air, I pluck a feather off Alex's nose and kiss it. His nose, not the feather.

Suddenly he pushes me away. “How come you wouldn't kiss me last night, but you're all into it today? What's changed?”

“I've
changed, Alex.”

He springs up and stalks into the kitchen. I follow, sidestepping Pumpkin.

“So,
how
have you changed?” Alex asks, grabbing a couple of Cokes out of the fridge.

I twirl a strand of my silky hair, thinking.

“I mean, despite the obvious,” he adds, unwrapping my hair from my finger and looking into my emerald green eyes.

“Are you really going to make me go into a speech about not judging people and being honest … all that deep stuff?”

He shakes his head and briefly presses his finger on my lips. “It's late. I should probably give my mom a call. You know, let her know where I am and all that.”

“Do you want to stay over? You know, like the good ol' days?”

He gives me a tiny grin and I notice his cheeks are flushed. “Sure.”

Five minutes later I turn off the light in my bedroom. As I'm drifting off to sleep, tucked seamlessly against Alex's side, I feel more comfortable than I've ever felt. I bask in his warmth, his scent, the mesmerizing sound of his heartbeat. Am I just dreaming, or did he really kiss me lightly on the forehead and whisper, “I love you, Roxy Zimmerman”?

When the sun blasts through the window the next morning, Alex kisses me on the lips.

We lie here like this for an hour, talking some of the time about everyday things. Other times, saying nothing at all, listening to each other breathe. It's during one of the quiet times that my stomach decides to let out a superloud growl.

“Guess that's my cue to get crackin' on breakfast,” he says, running his fingertips up and down my back. “It's the least I can do, after that gourmet meal you spent hours on last night.”

I laugh. Without a trace of grace, he rolls off the bed and stumbles to get his footing. I watch as he pulls a pair of tan shorts over his adorable Superman boxers. “I'll be back in a flash. You just stay here
and hold down the fort.” He puts on his Auto Spa shirt and then disappears down the hall. I hear him fumbling with the deadbolt on the front door.

I run after him, down the hall. I just assumed we'd have Pop-Tarts or cereal. “Where are you going?”

He flips around, his hair bearing a striking resemblance to a troll doll's. “McDonald's. You know, home of the Egg McMuffin?”

“Mmmm. My favorite.”

“I know.” He smiles at me as I pry open the lock. Then he goes out the front door, closing it softly behind him.

I watch him jog to his Civic. What's happening? My body is alternating between hot flashes and chills. I swing the door open and run out onto the lawn. “Alex, wait!”

I really shouldn't. What if the Siren curse is for real? But if it's so wrong for me to feel this way, why does it feel so
right?

Oh, God. I feel like I'm about to explode. Here it comes. “I … really-think-I'm-falling-in-love-with-you.”

He cracks a grin. He's going to laugh at me. He's going to freak out. He's going to … sprint over to me and give me a rib-crushing hug.

I feel his heart banging against my chest as we cleave to each other. Alex stoops down and rests his forehead on mine. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

I kiss him gently and then pat his butt and send him on his way to McDonald's for the yummiest breakfast in the world.

Half an hour passes.

Even if the traffic is horrendous, Alex should be back by now. I pick up the cordless phone and dial his cell number. It goes directly into his “Either I'm too busy to pick up or I'm screening my calls and you didn't make the cut” voice mail message. He should probably add “or my battery isn't charged,” because I'm sure that's why he's not answering.

After I throw away the Blackjack box and toss the pop cans in the recycle bin, I flick on the TV. Nothing's on. I put in the DVD we watched last night. I can't seem to concentrate. I pick up the
Gossip Girl
book that Natalie lent me, but the words are just a big black blur.

I'm bored.

I call Natalie. “Hey, girl. What's up?” she answers.

“Just hanging out with Alex. But he
went to get some food and hasn't come back. He's not over there, is he?”

“Haven't seen him. But I'll let you know if I do, okay? Gotta run, talk soon!” She makes a kissy noise and then the line goes dead.

I hang up and stare at the phone.

Which McDonald's did Alex go to, the one in Steamboat Springs?

After an hour, I'm seriously worried. “Where the hell is he?” I say out loud. I flip on the stereo and try to relax with The Ataris. But it doesn't work. I begin imagining the worst.

I scared him. That's the only thing that makes sense. I shouldn't have confessed my feelings for him. It was one thing for him to have a thing for me, but it probably freaked him out when I told him I felt the same way. We've always been friends. Now we're friends who hooked up. It happens all the time. I should've kept love out of it. Why'd I have to go and make everything so complicated?

Then a horrible thought slithers into my skull. What if …? No. There's no way Alex is dead.
The Siren Handbook
can't be serious about the If-you-fall-in-love-with-someone-he'll-die
rule.
The Siren Handbook
is so old—archaic, even. It's just a bunch of mythical mumbo jumbo.

Sure, a long time ago the men whom Sirens loved probably died. But back then, a twenty-three-year-old could collect Social Security and get the senior discount at the movies. There were all sorts of diseases and plagues and battles and cliffs without guardrails. Dog bite? Sorry, you're going to die. Poison ivy? Definitely doomed. Bad hair day? You're history, baby.

I run into my room and flip through
The Siren Handbook.
You can't take every word literally. Look at this: “If a Siren allows a man to get too close to her, he will die.” The Sirens back then lived on an island surrounded by deadly rocks. So, obviously if a man got too “close” to a Siren, he'd die. He'd smash into the rocks and die.

It's kind of weird how Grandma Perkins is so adamant about not falling in love with a man, though. Kind of scary, too. Very scary. I grab my purse, jump into the meticulously clean Boxster, and speed out of the neighborhood. If I have to look at every pair of golden arches in this whole freaking state, I'm going to find Alex.

The first McDonald's I come to is surrounded by fire trucks, cop cars, and an ambulance. I can't breathe and I don't think my heart is beating.

Like a wounded soldier, Alex's Civic lies on its side in a ditch. A little red cinnamon-apple-scented tree pokes out of the dirt by the front tire. My knees are so wobbly and my hands are shaking so violently, I have the hardest time driving to the side of the road. Oh, God. There's a huge semi half a block up in the ditch, facing the opposite direction. My skin is prickling like I just wallowed in stinging nettle.

I grab my flute and run to the nearest policeman. “What happened?”

“Car wreck,” he mutters, not even looking up from his computer-thingie. I don't have time for him to be all vague. I whip out my flute and play, ripping his sunglasses off his face so I can see his eyes. When he's under my Siren powers, I say, “Tell me everything you know about what happened here.”

“A young man, identified by his driver's license to be Alexander McCoy, age sixteen, was coming out of the McDonald's drive-through in his Honda Civic, when he broadsided
that semi over yonder, which was exceeding the speed limit by a good twenty miles per hour. The truck driver is fine, but the McCoy kid was rushed to St. Mary's Hospital. Terrible.”

Oh my God! Poor Alex! I've got to get to him.

“Alex McCoy. Is he okay?” I shout at the first person I see in the ER: an elderly, blue-haired volunteer in a Monet-inspired pinafore. She clicks her tongue and positions herself in front of a computer, striking keys in shaky slow-motion.

“Let's see … car accident. Oh, my. Yes, he's here.”

“Can I see him?”

She adjusts her glasses and then focuses on me. “I'm sorry, but he's in critical condition. They've taken him straight to surgery.”

“What do you mean?” At least he's not dead. I mean, I highly doubt they operate on people when they're already dead. I swipe away my tears, knowing that if I start crying, I won't be able to stop. “The doctors are doing everything they can,” she says in her quiet, baritone voice. “You can sit in the waiting room, if you like.”

The requisite fish tank, scratchy chairs, and weak magazine selection welcome me in the waiting room. As I sit here, I'm fit to be tied. Or sent to the loony bin, at least.

He's going to die. I killed Alex by falling in love with him. I'm sure my bawling, screaming, flailing of arms, and stomping of feet distresses everyone around me, but I don't care. I shake my head and pace around. Then I sit down on the coffee table and throw a pile of
Newsweek
and
Parenthood
magazines on the orange carpet.

“Miss? Please don't do that,” the old lady in Monet says.

I pick up one of the magazines and hurl it at the TV, right as one of the
Young and the Restless
stars screams, “You killed my baby!”

With shaking hands, I reach into my tote for my cell. When my fingers graze my flute, it feels warm, like I've been playing it in a full-length concert. I pull out the phone and dial Grandma Perkins.

Oh no. I can't hold the sobs back a second longer. “I've made a horrible mistake, Grandma. A horrible, deadly mistake.”

After a slight pause, she asks, “What have you done, dear? I'm sure it's not as bad as you think.”

I collapse into one of the rock-hard chairs and bury my face in my free hand. “I think I fell in love.”

Silence. “With that football player you were seeing? But I thought—”

“No, Alex McCoy. We're in band and a bunch of classes together. We've been good friends forever. But something strange happened. Something changed. It's like everything we've ever done together, everything we've ever said to each other, took on a whole new life. There was no warning—”

“There never is. That's why love is so dangerous. Have you told him?”

“Told him what?”

“That you're in love with him?”

“Yes.” A fresh batch of tears trails down my cheeks. “And he got in a car accident and he's at the hospital. He's in critical condition, Grandma.” Oh, God. What have I done? I'm a murderer! I'm no better than those Sirens in Greek myths who lured mariners to their deaths with their sweet music and beautiful faces.

I hear her ragged breathing through the phone. “Well, what's done is done. I'm afraid we're just going to have to let it run its course.”

“But I don't want him to die! Isn't there something I can do? Can I use my Siren powers to fix it? Can I play my flute and have the doctors make him good as new?”

“It doesn't work that way, Roxy. You can't make someone do something they're incapable of doing. The doctors will do the best they can, whether you use your Siren powers on them or not.”

“Isn't there anything in
The Siren Handbook
that'll help? Like an elixir or a special spell or something?” I'd read the book cover to cover, but I figure asking wouldn't hurt. You know, in case I missed it somehow.

She whispers, “No.” Just as I expected. Just as I feared.

“They won't even let me in to see him. I have to wait in this putrid waiting room. Oh, God. What if he dies all alone? I've got to get in there to see him!”

“Use your Siren powers, Roxy. Go to him. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

I hang up the phone and pull out my flute. There are a few men in the waiting room, a middle-aged cowboy, a pudgy guy wearing a Pi Kappa Alpha baseball cap, and a man who looks like he hasn't showered in
a week. I lift the flute to my lips and play the best I can with tears flowing down my face. When the men are swaying and completely at the mercy of the Siren song, I put the flute back in my bag. “Distract the old lady. I'm going in.”

They circle around the hospital volunteer, and the college dude tells her that her hair is so sexy and it reminds him of Marge Simpson. I'm not so sure that's a compliment, but by the flush on her cheeks, I'd say she's flattered. I wait until she's completely immersed in their attentions. Then I sneak past the desk and fly down the hall in search of Alex.

People in white jackets and robin's-egg blue scrubs whiz by me, paying no attention to the redheaded band nerd who masquerades as a beautiful Siren. I peek into all the rooms, finally finding Alex in the farthest one. At least, I
think
it's Alex.

I feel as if my stomach is slithering down my body and splatting on the bluish-white linoleum.

There's an oxygen mask over Alex's mouth. His eyes are closed, as if he's asleep. Everything about him appears corpselike and red and unreal. Like a character out of a Tim Burton movie.

A male doctor and two nurses (one male, one female) are buzzing around the bed, speaking in indecipherable medical language. “Possible spleenectomy … exploration of abdomen … closures of lacerations …”

Alex's shorts and gray Auto Spa shirt (now cut up) are lying on the countertop, beside some syringes and bandages and tubes of some sort.