The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren (2 page)

“Need any help with that?” Alex asks, nodding at the pile of school crap that I've stopped stuffing into my backpack.

“Hurry up, J.T.,” Devin calls over his shoulder. I sneak a peek at Zach's butt as he and Devin strut down the hall. Man, all those sports are definitely paying off.

J.T. bumps my arm when he's getting a football out of his locker. “Sorry,” he mutters under his breath. J.T. is the jock I know the best, probably 'cause his locker's next to mine. Lots of girls think he's all that, but I find
the whole unibrow thing a bit creepy. I'm convinced that J.T. stands for “Just Trim it.”

“It's okay.” I stoop down to pick up my backpack, and Alex grabs our instrument cases.

J.T.'s looking at me all weird. Then he grins and asks, “So, are you coming to my party tomorrow night?”

Am I hearing things? Did J.T. just ask me to a Proud Crowd party?
Me?
“Er, no …”

“Why not? I'm getting a keg and everything.”

“Okay, maybe.” Or maybe
not.
Sure, a jock just invited me to his party and maybe I should be stoked. Natalie would be so into it, she'd make a special trip to the mall to buy the perfect outfit. But I have a feeling this invite is nothin' but bad news. And even if it isn't an evil get-the-BeeGee-here-so-we-can-make-her-life-a-living-hell plan, I don't want to be anyone's charity case. Not even Zach Parker's.

“Cool.” J.T. tosses his football high up into the air and catches it.

I slam my empty locker. “Cool.”

Alex mutters, “Cool,” even though he's not even in the conversation.

J.T. jogs off, yelling to the other jocks,
“Hey, Zach! You've got a date for the party!” and all the other kids in the hall turn and stare at me, mouths agog.

Just kill me now.

I duck into the passenger seat of Alex's gray Civic. It smells like cinnamon apples, courtesy of the red paper tree dangling from his gearshift. Ever since Alex got this car, he's had a red tree in here. He must've bought a mondo box at Costco or something.

I click on my seat belt. Instead of starting the engine, Alex just looks at me. His light brown eyes are wide open, making him look kinda cute, in a puppy dog way. Natalie's always saying Alex has a Zac Efron thing going on, and though their hair and eye colorings are totally different (Alex is blond-and-brown, not brown-and-blue), maybe she's onto something. “You okay?” he asks, offering me some Skittles.

I pop a purple one into my mouth and shrug my left shoulder. “Fine. No biggie.” I'm just now noticing that he's wearing a yellow bowling shirt and army-green cargo shorts. I might not be a fashionista like
the Proud Crowd chicks or Natalie, but even
I
know his getup registers a negative score on the style meter.

We haven't said a word the entire drive, which is kinda weird because Alex always has something to say. “Is something wrong?” I ask, once we're at my house. “You're acting like the Paxil poster child.”

“Do you have a thing for Zach Parker?” he asks out of the blue.

I shrug casually, but I feel my face heat up like an atomic fireball. “Not really. Well, sort of. I mean, I don't really know him all that well.”

I replay the scene at my locker in my mind, like I've been doing ever since it happened. God, I just can't believe J.T.
said
that. You know, about me being Zach's date. First Eva, then J.T. I swear, humiliation is like quicksand. The more I try to get out of it, the deeper I sink. Deeper and deeper—oh, God. Is that a zit on my chin? Seriously, all this stress is doing nothing to help my complexion issues.

“I thought Natalie liked him.”

“Every
chick at Franklin likes him,” I say, adding a silent “Duh.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, Alex? Can I ask you something … personal?”

“Uh, okay.”

“We're friends, right?”

“Yeeees. But that's really not that personal, Rox.”

“No!
That's
not the question. I'm just making sure you'll be completely honest with me. Because friends are completely honest with one another. Don't worry about hurting my feelings. I just want … a guy's view.” Oh, great. It
is
a zit. Right in the middle of my chinny-chin-chin.

He squirms in his seat and fiddles with the air freshener. “All right. I'll tell you the truth.”

“Cool, thanks.” I take a deep breath. “On a scale from one to ten, one being mirror-shattering hideous and ten being … oh, let's say someone like Lindsay Lohan … what am
I?”

“I don't know, Rox.” He stares at the dash. “I don't really feel comfortable ranking people like that. It's not like I can just assign a number. It's just—”

“I get it.” I fumble with the door handle.

He reaches out and touches my shoulder.
“I … Okay. Here goes.” Now his face is more green than red. “A nine.”

I open the door and jump out. “A nine? As in just one away from a perfect ten?” I frown at him and cross my arms over my A-cups.

“You're a ten when you're smiling.” A tiny grin flicks across his lips.

“I'm no nine, Alex. You're just trying to be nice. I told you to be
honest.”
I slam the door and head for my house, my glasses slipping down my nose with every stomp. I hear Alex get out of the car, but I don't stop.

“Rox!”

“Good-bye, Alex. Thanks for the ride.”

I'm so sure. I ask Alex to be truthful and he has to be all nice and everything. If a girl asks for honesty, she wants it to be at least
somewhat
believable. If he'd told me I was a five, for example, I might have believed him. But a
nine?
Ha! Only in a parallel universe where frizzy hair and zits are the stuff of supermodels.

I run inside and toss my backpack and flute case on my bed. The house is a virtual graveyard, like it always is when I get home from school. It's actually pretty nice 'cause I get to have a little time to myself.

The doorbell chimes. Pumpkin, Mom's beloved Pomeranian, scampers down the hall to the front door, yipping enthusiastically. I follow behind, wondering if it's Alex. Maybe I should invite him in for a snack or something. I mean, it's kind of ridiculous for me to get all mad just because he was being nice. That's just Alex, Mr. Nice Guy.

Really, he's one of the sweetest guys I know. He's such a great friend, but sometimes I wonder if … well, what if he
was
being honest about me being a nine? In his eyes, I mean.

There's a cheery knock on the door as it's opening. “Yoo-hoo, birthday girl!” An elegant, manicured hand emerges and pats Pumpkin on the head three times. He immediately shuts his yapper and bows his foxlike head, making way for Grandma Perkins.

As much as I love her, I'm in no mood to have my cheeks squeezed by this lady who looks more like she's my mother than my grandmother. Agewise, anyway. She hogged all the Beauty and Talent genes, leaving Mom and me with the Good Personality leftovers. And we don't even have
those
when we're PMSing.

Grandma doesn't come over very much. For one thing, she and Mom don't get along all that great. I guess it's 'cause they're so different from each other. But the main reason I never see Grandma is she's never, ever home. She's always off doing something glam. Like going to some dude's condo in Hawaii, for example. Or cruising the Caribbean on another guy's yacht. Last month she hooked up with a trio of French men who gave her a private tour of Western Europe. So, anyway, we're together so rarely, she sometimes forgets I'm not a little girl anymore, like she's in a time warp or something.

Come to think of it, I bet she gives me another freaking Barbie doll for my birthday. Can you imagine? A Barbie for a sixteen-year-old! I never got into Barbie, even when I was six. But Grandma Perkins made sure I'd never have to endure a shortage of proportionally unrealistic plastic dolls.

Grandma Perkins shuttles her grocery sack to the kitchen and returns clutching her big sparkly handbag. She raises her hand to my face, and I wince. For the first time ever, she doesn't pinch me. She brushes a piece of hair off my cheek and smiles.

Her smile can make men fall to their
knees. It still amazes me that she hasn't landed a husband. She got pregnant with Mom when she was twenty, but she never married the guy. Men fall all over themselves to date my grandma, but she rarely goes out with the same one twice. Now that's what I call picky.

Or maybe it's just the lifestyle she grew accustomed to when she was a jazz singer. If you've never heard of Gertrude Isabel Perkins, don't sweat it. She was famous back in the Stone Age. Ah, well. Who am I to judge? If anyone is retreating into spinsterhood with grace and aplomb, it's Grandma Perkins.

She checks her watch, a diamond Cartier that a lovesick businessman gave her “just because.” She frowns slightly and takes my arm. “You were born at exactly two fifty-four, sixteen years ago.” Interesting. So she
does
know I'm sixteen. Mom must've clued her in.

She then asks, “Does your watch say ‘two fifty'?”

I glance down at my polka-dot pink watch, the one I got on clearance at Target. “Yeah. Why?”

Grandma Perkins puffs out her cheeks
and shakes her head. Her shoulder-length, light blond hair floats around her face like she's in a Pantene commercial. “Only four minutes, and then we'll know. Come with me.” She drags me into the bathroom, locks the door, and sits me down on the toilet seat.

I try to stand up, but she's pressing down on my shoulders with unbelievable strength. “What are you doing?” I ask. She's studying my face like she's never seen me before. Oh no! Don't tell me she's got dementia or Alzheimer's or something. “What's gotten into you, Grandma? Are you taking some new kind of meds?”

She loosens her hold a bit and offers me a small smile. “How do you feel, dear? Do you feel light-headed or anything?”

“No, why? Do
you?
You're acting totally weird …” Oh my God, is she having a stroke? A heart attack? Is she
dying?
I've got to get to a phone. I've got to call Mom or 911 or Dr. Phil or somebody. I bolt up off the toilet seat and try to get past her, but she blocks the door with her five-foot-nine, model-svelte frame.

“Just two more minutes. Give it just two more minutes,” she says, her voice a touch raspy.

I perch on the edge of the tub. I'm not sure what's going on, but I'm freaking. Is she hiding out from her latest boy toy or something? It wouldn't be the first time. Or maybe she's some sort of gangster or a cat burglar. I mean, how she lives such a glitzy lifestyle is a major mystery. It's not like she has a job or anything. Could the cops be on their way? Or the FBI? Or that dude from
America's Most Wanted?

She reaches out and grabs my upper arms. “It's time.”

My heart is beating so hard against my rib cage, I swear it's gonna shoot right out of my body. Suddenly I feel tingly. Like when my foot's asleep and the blood is rushing back in. Only it's all over my body. I can't help smiling. I can't help giggling. “Ha-ha-ha!” My voice sounds so distant and tinny in my own ears, like I'm in Eisenhower Tunnel. “Ha-ha!” There goes that weird laugh again. And what's that smell? It smells like the beach, like ocean water in here.

Oh, God. I can't see. Everything's so … blurry.
Blink, blink, blink.
It's not helping! I take off my glasses and examine the lenses. They're a little scratched up, but they're
clean. Well, as clean as they ever are. What's going on? After rubbing my eyes, I scan the bathroom. Weird. Everything is clear. I can see without my glasses!

Huh?

Grandma Perkins's beautiful lips curl into a smile and she takes a step back. Tears glisten in her emerald green eyes as she gazes at me. Quietly, she says, “Take a look in the mirror, Roxy.”

Still feeling rather punchy, I do as I'm told.

Oh. My. God.

I gawk at my reflection. My fiery red hair is now a shiny, sleek, gorgeous mane. I take a few steps back, shake it upside down, and flip up again. Not a hair out of place. Where has my frizzy, crooked-banged, 24÷7 bed-head hair gone?

And it's not just my hair. I jump up on the counter to get closer to the mirror. My eyes are as green as Grandma's and my skin is so dewy and flawless, I look like I just stepped out of a Neutrogena ad. My lashes are lush and curly, and my nose is blackhead-free. Oh! And that zit on my chin has mysteriously disappeared. I smile and see that my teeth are dazzlingly white.

I'm having a hard time breathing, like
when I wore that corset for Halloween last year. When I look down, I see why. My bra (a glorified training bra) is all but busting at the seams. Holy cleavage! I can't help but give my round, perky C-cups a quick squeeze. Wow.

“Grandma?” My voice wavers. “What's going on? Did you give me some kind of hallucinogen?”

“Of course not, honey. And to be frank, your references to drugs are making me a bit nervous. Remember, just say no to drugs.”

I study my reflection in the mirror. This is all so bizarre. “So if I'm not hallucinating, what's the deal?”

“You're going through The Change. It's your time.”

The
Change?
Before I can explain to her that I've already gone through puberty (thank-you-very-much), she drags me away from the mirror and whisks me down the hall. “We mustn't dawdle,” she says. “Your parents and brother will be home soon, and we have so much to talk about.”

A nanosecond later we're in my bedroom with the door locked and the blinds closed. She digs in her handbag and produces a wrapped gift. Aha. The perfect size
for one of those collectors' edition Barbies. She lowers herself gracefully onto my bed. “Take a load off, honey,” she says, patting the daisy-patterned bedspread. “This is a day you'll never forget.”