The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren (3 page)

I raise a now-elegant eyebrow, stealing a peek at myself in my bureau mirror. Still gorgeous. What the hell's going on?

She hands the gift to me. “What I'm about to tell you is going to change your life forever. Open it, Roxy.”

I pluck off the violet bow and stick it on my head (old habits die hard). Then I tear the pale green paper to find an ancient, leather-covered book. “Oh, I get it. The Barbie's inside, huh?” This must be the way they package the really expensive Barbies. Maybe Grandma got me this one in Rome or something.

Grandma's left eyebrow rises. “Oh, honey. I know you're disappointed that it's not a doll. But you're not a little girl anymore.” She pats my knee. “Most people grow out of the Barbie stage by now.”

Not a Barbie? Who is this woman sitting on my bed?

I run my fingers over the cover of the book. I try to read the title, but it's written in
some strange, curlicue language. The pages are thick, with shiny bronze edges that might have been gold at one time. “A Bible?” I guess. “A scrapbook?”

She laughs—a beautiful, fluttery sound. “No, no. It's
The Enchiridion of the Seirenes.
But I just call it
The Siren Handbook
because that's what it is.”

“The
what?”

“Roxy, you are a Siren.”

“Come again?” I take the bow off my head, ripping out a few of my hairs. A few of my beautiful, shiny, straight, golden-red hairs.

“We're both Sirens.”

“You can't be serious.” I snort-laugh, sprawling out on my pillows. Did she get bitten by a rabid raccoon on the way here? A diseased prairie dog or a mosquito, perhaps? Or … is she telling the truth? After all, something very bizarre is happening here. Something I can't explain.

“Yes, honey. I'm serious.”

“A Siren? You mean one of those mermaid things? If I jump in the water, will I grow a big fish tail?” I ask jokingly.

“Actually, the original Sirens had the upper bodies of beautiful maidens and the
lower halves of birds. Through the ages, the image has evolved, and now Sirens are oftentimes depicted as mermaids. But we've evolved even further, and as you can plainly see”—she gestures up and down her pink-and-black Chanel suit—“we don't have any fish or bird body parts. Just beautiful woman parts.”

It takes every ounce of self-control not to slap my forehead. What am I supposed to say, “Oh, that's cool. 'Cause I'm allergic to feathers, and scales don't do anything for my complexion”?

“So let's just pretend that we're having a completely sane conversation,” I say when I finally find my voice. “I guess my next line would be something to the effect of ‘Cool! I've always wanted to be an imaginary creature thought up by some dude in a toga.'?”

Sirens are imaginary, right? They aren't real. And I most definitely am not one. Feathers and scales aside.

She marches over to the bookshelf and slides out my Webster's. “Maybe this will help.” Pacing around my room, she flicks through the pages and reads the definition out loud: “‘Any of a group of female and partly human creatures in Greek mythology
that lured mariners to destruction by their enchanting music.'” She shakes her head. “Here's another one. ‘A woman who makes bewitchingly beautiful music; a temptingly beautiful woman.'” She taps her finger on the page. “Yes, yes.”

As this is sinking into my mind, she sits down on my bed and gazes at me all mushy. Like how I'd imagine she looks at the puppies at the pet store. Or the lobsters in the tank at fancy restaurants. “My granddaughter is a Siren.”

Oh, God. She's the portrait of sincerity. Grandma Perkins truly believes I'm a Siren. I swallow, contemplating what to say next. I guess I'll just go with the flow. Test the waters, so to speak. At least it'll make her happy. And maybe, when she comes back to the real world, we can just pretend like none of this happened.

“You didn't know until today?” I ask. “That I'm a Siren or whatever?”

Her green eyes twinkle. “I had my suspicions. You have so much beauty on the inside, you just needed for the outside to catch up.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” I ask, lifting the leather-bound book onto my lap. “If I'd
known I had even a chance of becoming knock out gorgeous, it would've saved me a lot of pain growing up. Do you have any idea how many times I've been called Pepperoni Face? Peppermint Patty? Band Geek of the Week?” I can go on and on….

“I
couldn't
tell you, dear. It's one of the two rules. We cannot tell a soul. If we do, we lose our Siren powers. Of course, if you someday have a daughter or granddaughter who becomes a Siren, you can mentor her, as I'm doing for you.” She rocks back and forth gently, a wistful look in her eyes. “My mother told me I was a Siren on my sixteenth birthday.”

I never knew my great-grandmother, but I've seen pictures. She was one of the most elegant, beautiful women I've ever seen—sorta like Nicole Kidman but not as pasty. “So your mom was a Siren, then you … and now me? What about Mom?”

She leans in so close I can smell her minty breath. “The Sea Nymph gene is passed down from mother to daughter, but occasionally it skips a generation or two to help ensure that we're not discovered.”

“Does Mom know you're a Siren?”

“No.”

“Will she know
I'm
one?”

“I'll come up with a cover for your physical transformation, so don't worry about that.”

This is ridiculous, ludicrous,
crazy.
And yet Grandma Perkins looks so serious and so … happy. What's the harm in playing along for a bit longer? “You said the first rule is we can't tell anyone. What's the other rule?”

She takes a deep breath and squeezes my hand so hard I swear she's cutting off my circulation. “A Siren cannot fall in love.”

This is getting crazier by the minute. “Can't fall in love? Why not?”

She takes
The Siren Handbook
from my lap and flips the pages until she finds whatever she's looking for. In a reverent, almost musical voice, she reads: “‘Once a woman becomes a Siren, she cannot fall in love. Whilst she can enjoy camaraderie and liaisons with the men she encounters along the journey of life, she is forbidden to bequeath her heart. Like the Sirens of Greek mythology, Sirens of today have irresistible yet deadly allure. If a Siren allows a man to get too close to her, he shall live just a moment more in pure
ecstasy and then suffer a horrific, untimely death.'”

I peer at the book as she's reading, and, like the title, there's just a bunch of mumbo jumbo swirled on the page. It's as if a two-year-old got ahold of her mommy's calligraphy pen and went to town. I snatch the book from her and flip through the pages. “How can you read that? What language is it in?”

“The Sirens of past all had musical gifts. One sang, one played a flute, and one played a lyre,” Grandma Perkins says. “My gift is singing. When I want to use my Siren powers to their fullest, I sing.” She bends over and picks up my flute case. “I suspect your musical gift is playing the flute.”

“Contrary to what Mom says, I'm not very good. I mean, I sit in the third seat, but that's only when Macey McMullen's got a sinus infection.”

“Play your flute, and the words will come to you.”

“So if I just play a little song on my flute, I'll be able to make sense of these markings?”

“That's right.” After Grandma Perkins closes the book, she takes my hand and looks
into my eyes. “Honey, I know this is … quite incredible.”

I spring up off the bed and twist open the blinds. Gray clouds are gathering in the otherwise blue sky. Grandma Perkins's sporty little Lexus is parked in the driveway. Seems like she's always got a new car. “Are there other Sirens out there?” Maybe there's a Siren chat room. Or a Sirens Anonymous chapter around here.

“We can't be sure.” She joins me at the window and puts her hand on my shoulder.

Fat raindrops splatter rhythmically on the street. “Because we can't talk about it to anyone but each other,” I say. Of course. And it's not like anyone would believe us anyhow.

Grandma Perkins says, “It's for your own protection, honey. If the word got out, you and I would become living science experiments.”

“Or we'd be on the front page of the
National Enquirer,
along with the vampire sheep and woman who gave birth to triplet aliens,” I say with a laugh.

Grandma shrugs. “You never know. That's why it's so important that we keep it a secret.” She studies her appearance in my
mirror and smoothes her already perfect hair. Her eyes find mine in the reflection. “Now, you stay in here and learn about being a Siren. I'm going to start your birthday dinner.” She gives my shoulder a couple of pats and then turns to leave.

This is all so ridiculous. I'm not a Siren. Grandma Perkins isn't a Siren. There are no such things as Sirens. Even the dictionary says they're some kind of creature from Greek mythology. They're not ordinary girls who go to high school in the Denver suburbs.

But how can I explain how I've turned from Plain Jane to Lindsay-Lohan-eat-yourheart-out in mere minutes? Unless my life has been one big Scooby-Doo cartoon and I've been wearing a band geek disguise for sixteen years, then maybe … possibly …
perhaps
there's a grain of truth to this whole Siren thing.

“Grandma?”

She turns around. “Yes, Roxy?”

“So, if I'm a Siren—”

“You
are,”
she says softly.

I clear my throat. “So I'm a Siren and now what? I mean, what's the point?”

Her green eyes glow. “You've been
given a gift, and how you use it is up to you. This handbook will help you answer your questions. And you can always come to me, Roxy. Anytime.” She winks at me and then closes the door behind her.

Can this really be happening?

Cranking an old Black Eyed Peas CD, I dance around my room, taking every opportunity to catch glimpses of myself in the bureau mirror. I toss my hair from side to side and then bend over at my waist and flip back up. My gorgeous mane floats through the air like spun gold and then lands with every thick, luxurious hair in place. I sing along with Fergie, holding an imaginary microphone and striking Fergie-esque poses all over the floor. Wiggling hips, gyrating butt, palms pumping up in the air like a rapper, followed by a rather futile attempt at the moonwalk (just for kicks). Running back over to my bureau, I make all sorts of faces in the mirror: pouty sexy, wide-eyed
innocent, nose-up conceited, tongue-out-and-cross-eyed crazy.

Keeping time with the music, I strip down to my underwear and jump up on the bed. Higher and higher, reaching for the ceiling, knees bending up into my chest. Spread eagle, hurky, 360, back-scratcher,
Fiddler on the Roof
dancer move—any kind of jump I can think of or make up. I leap off the bed like a rock star, landing on my floral rug in a pseudosplit.

Then I pull myself up and ransack my closet, tossing clothes and shoes onto my bed and all over the floor, looking for the perfect outfit to showcase my new Siren bod. I slip on four pairs of jeans, countless tops, a bunch of skirts, and a particularly bright and pouffy gown I got for 75 percent off at Nordstrom (just in case someone had asked me to a school dance last year), modeling each outfit as if my bedroom were a runway, complete with famous designers, a celebrity-studded audience, and an onslaught of camera flashes.

In a pink tank top with a silver dragon design and black shorts, I twirl around and around, using the mirror as my focal point like I learned in ballet class when I was eight.

Is that beautiful girl really me? Dizzy, I
flop onto my bed on my back, my knees knocking together, and my C-cups rising and falling as I try to catch my breath. Staring at the ceiling, I can't help but laugh. This is
off the hook!

I run down the hall, hollering, “Grandma, I'll be right back!” and grab my bike out of the garage. I haven't ridden it in ages, but I guess it's true that once you learn how to ride a bike, you never forget. The wind whips through my fiery tresses as I pedal through the neighborhood, past all the pastel- and neutral-colored houses, up and down hills, through all the stop signs without even slowing down. I breathe in and out, the early-summer air sending warmth through my entire body.

A Jeep with three college guys stops in the middle of the street. They're totally staring at me. Not really sure what to do, I smile and wave as I ride by. The guys whistle and call out, “Hey, baby, you're so fine!” and “What's your name, gorgeous?”

My name is Roxy Zimmerman, I say to myself. Roxy Zimmerman the Siren.

I park my bike by my mother's Outback. Dodging Chase's camo backpack and his
grocery bag of last-day-of-school stuff, I almost trip on Pumpkin, who's acting all excited to see me. “Settle down, boy! It's just me.” I pat him on the head. His tail's wagging so hard I'm afraid it's going to fall off.

“Roxy, is that you?” my mom calls from the kitchen. When I turn the corner, I hear her saying, “It's just that I didn't know you were coming, Mother. But I'm glad you're here, really. What a pleasant surprise. And it smells wonderful. What are you making?”

Is Mom going to freak out when she sees me like this? And how in the world is Grandma going to explain my transformation? I mean, hel
-lo,
people don't turn from Plain Jane to Gorgeous Siren in the blink of an eye. This is real life, not Cinderella!

I hover by the entrance to the kitchen. Mom is digging in the fridge for something, her brown hair frizzed even worse than usual. “Happy birthday, Roxy!” she says cheerfully, a carton of lemonade in her hand. When her eyes land on me, her mouth drops open, revealing rows of silver fillings. Chase, who's sitting at the kitchen table, looks up from his bag of microwave popcorn, gawking at me like I'm an alien or something.