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.
“Doesn’t Roxy look lovely?” Grandma Perkins trills, beaming.
Launching out of his chair, he pushes through Mom to get a closer look. “Holy shit,” Chase says, his cheeks chipmunked with all the popcorn.
Mom shoots him a glare that would make 50 Cent pee his pants.
“Those makeover artists in Palisades Square sure know their stuff,” Grandma says, her green eyes twinkling. “I hope you don’t mind, Merrilee, but I got Roxy out of school today and took her to the salon for her birthday gift. You only turn sixteen once!” She grabs a crocheted hot pad out of the drawer and heads over to the oven.
“But … but …” My mom licks her lips, apparently fumbling for words. “She looks like an entirely different person.”
Grandma closes the oven and sets the timer. When she turns back around, she’s smiling confidently. “It’s about time someone brought out Roxy’s best features, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yo, Chase! Where are you, dude?” Porter, one of Chase’s soccer buddies, tramps in and stops dead in his tracks. He’s looking at me as if I’m a steaming hot Big Mac with extra pickles.
I twirl around like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Mom says, “Roxy, you … you … are so beautiful.” She hasn’t taken her eyes off me since she first saw me as a Siren. And is that lemonade permanently glued to her hand or what?
I feel like dancing (well, I sort of am dancing). I feel like singing. I feel like knocking on Zach Parker’s door and saying, “Look at me now!” And he’d take one look at me and say—
“She’s freakin’ hot!” Porter exclaims.
“Dude, she’s my sister,” Chase pushes his friend out the door. “That’s just sick.”
Dad has to work late tonight, as usual. When he stumbles over the threshold with a turquoise gift box, he takes one look at me and sticks his right hand out. “Hi, I’m Stan, Roxy’s Dad.”
“Dad, it’s me,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
The gift drops and crashes on the tile floor, right next to his size-twelve Sears specials. “Oh, yeah. Right, honey. I, uh, just, uh, thought you were a new friend … of yours. It’s just been … a really long day. Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. I know I look a little different than I did this morning.” Poor guy. I’ve always felt sorry for engineer types. They’re great with numbers and techie gizmos, but put them face-to-face with another human being and they can’t string a coherent sentence together to save their lives. They can’t dress worth a damn either, but that’s another rant. My dad’s only saving grace is his car. He drives a red Porsche Boxster. It’s pretty old, but it’s still one of the coolest cars in the neighborhood.
Dad loosens his überugly tie and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck. “Did you have your hair done?”
“Something like that.”
I grab his hand and take him into the dining room, where everybody’s waiting. We all sit in our usual spots, and Grandma Perkins heaps food onto our plates. Baked chicken with lemon sauce, spinach salad, and almond couscous.
We don’t talk all that much, but there’s a lot of staring going on. I don’t blame my family for wanting to look at me all night. I can hardly tear my emerald green eyes off my reflection in the window.
Dad, Mom, and Grandma Perkins sing “Happy Birthday,” which sounds like a trio of Adam Sandler, Roseanne Barr, and Céline Dion. (Chase thinks he’s too cool to sing.) I close my eyes and make a wish. This year, it’s a no-brainer. I wish I really am a Siren.
Four
To be completely honest, I’d rather stare at my gorgeous self in the mirror than at the squiggles inside this so-called Siren Handbook. But I may as well get some questions answered. Plus, I admit I’m curious. What does this strange little book have to say about the new me?
I take out my flute and stick it together. I lift it to my lips and blow slowly. My bedroom fills with the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. It’s sort of new agey, like Enya, but way cooler. Actually, it sounds like the rain outside. Soothing and mesmerizing. Smooth as liquid. Sweet as a kiss. At least, how I’d imagine a kiss.
I rub my hand over the cover of the book and in lavish script, the title The Enchiridion of the Seirenes appears like magic. Like something out of a Harry Potter book. Not that I’ve read one, but Chase is totally into them. Last year I had to chaperone him and two of his snotty-nosed minions at the bookstore for this big “Ode to Harry Potter” bash. They even dressed in black robes and round glasses. And he thinks I’m a geek!
Ah, well. Now I have my own magical book to read. I open it and start at the first page.
Long ago, when legends were born, many a ship entered the Tyrrhenian Sea and drew near the infamous Anthemoessa Island, which was encircled by a wall of jagged black rocks. Beautiful, mesmerizing music wafted o’er the still waters and silent winds, enveloping the mariners like a soft mist. As they rowed even closer still, the sweet, melancholy, girlish voices of the Sirens took possession of their hearts and souls. Willing ears were promised that after a brief visit to the enchanting island, they would continue their journey not only charmed, but bearing wisdom that only the gods possessed.
Alas, the men could not resist. They threw themselves into the deep waters and swam through the dark swell, their sights set on the mysterious Sirens who leaned over the crag, beckoning them closer still. The creatures they saw had angelic faces framed with long, silken locks, eyes as green as emeralds, and lips yearning for the kiss of true love.
Their encounter with the Sirens, the enchanting yet deadly sea nymphs, was so heavenly, the men entered the wo
rld of the dead with joyous hearts.
Wow. Talk about bizarre. What are Sirens, some sort of femme fatales?
There’s a picture of a Siren on the facing page. I run my fingertip across it. Her hair floats around her head like the waves in the ocean. She’s curvy, but not fat, and completely nude. The Siren sits on a rock, her bottom half covered in feathers. I’m about to turn the page, but something catches my attention. Something about the eyes. Though the picture is black-and-white, her eyes are a piercing green. I look even closer, holding the book up to my face. The eyes are shimmery, luminous, and breathtakingly beautiful. Two pools of emerald green water, gazing back at me.
A tap on the door startles me, and I slam the book closed, launching little sparkly dust particles into the air. I shove it behind my pillow and paint a bored-yet-innocent expression on my face.
“It’s just me, Roxy,” my grandmother says, peeping in. “Your father said he’d clean up, so I’m going to go home now.”
“Grandma?” I sit up.
She comes in, closing the door behind her. “Yes, dear?”
“Is this for real? Are we truly Sirens?”
“Yes, Roxy.”
“I’ve been reading this book you gave me, but it’s just all this legend stuff. What does it have to do with twenty-first century me?”
“Do you have any specific questions?”
“What kind of powers do I have?” Actually, I’ve been wondering this ever since Grandma mentioned Siren powers, but I didn’t want to come off all power-hungry. As if transforming into a total hottie in a matter of minutes wasn’t enough.
“Your power comes in two parts, just like the dictionary definition,” Grandma Perkins says. “Beauty and music. And, like our ancestors, our power only works on men. Your physical attractiveness will get you far on its own. It’s no mystery that good-looking people have certain advantages over plain people.” She lowers her voice before continuing. “But if you play your flute, the sky’s the limit. If a man has something you desire—a job, money, a summer home in Greece—all you have to do is play a few notes and he’ll bend over backward to make your every dream come true.”
“All I have to do is play my flute and men will do anything I want them to?”
“Yes.” She pauses a moment and then says, “Or rather, they’ll do anything they can do. For example, you can’t make a man without any artistic talent paint a beautiful portrait of you. But you can ask a male artist to paint a portrait of you free of charge, and it will be to the very best of his ability. While you can’t make a man grow taller,” she says, pointing to the ceiling, “you can get a short man to wear lifts in his shoes without a single complaint. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I close The Siren Handbook and place it safely in my drawer. “So I’ll need to take my flute with me whenever I want to use my Siren powers?”
“If I were you, I’d have it with me at all times. One never knows when it will come in handy.”
When I wake up the next morning, I reach over to my nightstand to grab my glasses, like I’ve done every morning since the fourth grade. But they’re not there. Where did I leave them? Oh, right. The bathroom. And then I remember why they’re in the bathroom. That’s where Grandma Perkins held me prisoner while I transformed into a Siren.
Am I still a Siren, or was it all a really bizarre dream?
I sit up straight and blink once, twice. When I look at myself in the bureau mirror across the room, I just about scream in delight. Not a hair out of place. I look like Jennifer Aniston on a good hair day!
There’s a knock on my door. “Honey, are you awake yet?” Mom asks, cracking it open. She comes in and perches on the edge of my bed. She’s wearing a turquoise top and navy tennis skirt, her varicose-veiny legs stuffed into the whitest tennis shoes I’ve seen outside the shoe department. She leans over and rakes her fingers through my hair.
“What’s up, Mom?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t ask questions about my new appearance.
“I’ve got to leave for tennis now, but would you like to practice driving a little later on? Say, six o’clock? We could go on I-25 if you want.” Monday’s the big day. The day I get my driver’s license. I haven’t really driven very much with my learner’s permit, so I admit I’m a little nervous about taking the test.
“Actually, I’m going out with Natalie tonight.”
“Oh.” She picks at a piece of lint on my comforter. “Well, okay. I’m sure you’ll do fine on your test, anyhow.”
“Yeah.” How ever am I going to keep my being a Siren a secret from my own mother? And how did Grandma keep it a secret from her all these years? “Hey, Mom? I’ve always been curious, what exactly happened between you and Grandma? If you don’t mind my asking …”
She brushes an imaginary wrinkle out of her skirt and then sits down on my bed. She sits there for what seems like a week, apparently sifting through her thoughts. “One day when I was about your age,” she says, finally, “I asked her about my father. I had accepted that he wasn’t ever going to be part of my life, but I still wanted to know at least something about him.” She stares off into space for a minute and then says, “I figured it would help me know myself better.”
“Can’t you hire someone to find him?” I ask. “Or look him up on MySpace or Google him or something?”
She shakes her head. “Mother wouldn’t tell me anything about him, not even his name. I begged her to show me a photo of him, but she said she didn’t have any. The more I tried to get her to talk about my father and what happened between them, the more she closed herself off. She’d be anywhere but home, with anyone but me. And I guess I took it personally.” Mom stands up and smooths the comforter where she’d been sitting. “But enough about that. What’s in the past is in the past.”
Wow. Grandma Perkins is so not normal. And I’m not just talking about the Siren thing. What, does she want everybody to think my mother was an immaculate conception or something? What could be so bad that she’d keep it from her one and only daughter? One-night stand? Sperm donor? Nowadays, hardly anything is considered scandalous.
As Mom walks out, I can’t help feeling sorry for her. It would suck to know absolutely zilch about your father. Sure, there are times my dad annoys me—he annoys the whole family sometimes—but I love the guy and can’t imagine my life without him.
Once I hear Mom plodding down the stairs, I lock the door. Then I slide open my underwear drawer and unearth The Siren Handbook. Flopping back onto my bed, I run my hand over the leather cover. I turn each gold-rimmed page until I find where I left off. But before I can read another word, there’s another knock on my door. I hide The Siren Handbook under the covers even though the door’s locked. “WHAT?”
“What are you doing in there?” Chase yells. “Making out with your teddy bear again?”
I groan. “You wish.” The kid learned everything he knows about sex by watching South Park.
Giggling. Oh, great. There’s more than one prepubescent pervert outside my door. “What are you doing, really?” Chase asks, jiggling the doorknob. “Why’s the door locked?”
“To keep the scary monsters out.”
“Open up already. Porter told everyone you’re cute now and no one believes him, so he said he’d prove it and now everyone’s waiting to see if he was telling the truth.”
Wonderful. “How much?”
After a pause, Chase asks, “What do you mean?”
“How much money is riding on this bet?”
“Fifty bucks.”
Whoa. That’s a bunch, considering a twelve-year-old’s allowance is about ten bucks a week.
“Okay, I’ll come out in a little bit. But not until you all go in the basement like good little mutants and play Xbox so I can get dressed in peace.”
Without a hint of grace, I roll out of bed. Then I carry The Siren Handbook over to my dresser, pull out a drawer, and hide it safely under all my underwear. I smile at my reflection in the bureau mirror, marv
eling my superwhite teeth. I can’t wait to go out with Natalie tonight, now that I’m a Siren.
But I’m getting some bad vibes just about now. I mean, it’s one thing to justify my new image to my family, but to my best friend?
Five
Thank God, it’s 6:00 and Natalie will be here any minute. Chase’s group of friends has multiplied like dandelions in a windstorm, and they’ve been trailing my every move. Each time I slipped into my bedroom to read more of The Siren Handbook, I’d find random twelve-year-olds stashed in my closet or under my bed.
I look out the window. Aha, there she is, Miss Promptness in the yellow Sportage. After grabbing the Old Navy satchel I found at the outlet last summer, I tug my jean jacket out of the overstuffed coat closet. “Don’t be out too late, honey,” Mom says as she kisses my forehead.
Chase’s prepubescent posse begs me not to leave. I’ve had it. This is just too weird.
Even Pumpkin has taken to following me around—his tail waggin’ and tongue hangin’. I swear, it’s like I’m one of those doggie cookies Mom buys at the bakery and Chase’s friends steal from the cookie jar, believing (for some unknown reason) that they’re actually for people. Chase swears they taste like shortbread, but I’m not about to taste-test a doggie treat.
Anyway, if I were a walking, talking doggie cookie treat, it would make sense that the pipsqueaks and dog can’t leave me alone. But I’m not. I’m something much more bizarre. I’m a Siren.
The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren Page 3