“Janice, come get a load of this,” he hollers, and Ms. Bedhead moseys over to have a look. Her jaw drops open and a tinny, high-pitched screech escapes from somewhere inside her boxy body. In no time, a swarm of DMV workers are gawking at my license.
“Excuse me,” I say in a loud, demanding tone. “Can I please have my license now?”
Alex sidles up to me and whispers, “What’s going on, Rox?”
Mr. Mustache snatches the license from the DMV mob and gives it to me. Finally. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful driver’s license picture,” he says, slightly red in the face.
“You should be a model!” Ms. Bedhead gushes.
A model?
I can honestly say I’ve never, ever been told I should be a model. I’ve never even entertained the notion, not in my wildest dreams. Of course, I never dreamed that someday I’d be a Siren, either. But really, why not? I mean, why waste my summer flinging fries at Wendy’s when I could be modeling? I mean, I didn’t watch all those America’s Next Top Model episodes for nothing. Besides, it would definitely pay a lot more than fast food, and maybe I’d be able to buy myself a car. I did just get my driver’s license, after all.
On the way out to Alex’s Civic, he tosses me the keys. I try to catch them but miss, and they land on the asphalt with a clank.
“You want me to drive?” I ask, bending down to pick up the keys. “You sure?”
“Sure. You’re legal now, right?”
“Right.” Well, sort of. I just hope I never have to parallel park. I adjust the seat and stick the key in the ignition. Here goes nothin’.
“Just pull into that gas station over there. I’m running on empty.”
“Right.”
It takes me a couple of tries to align Alex’s car so the gas pump will reach. Okay, so it takes more like five or six, but who’s counting? Alex is so sweet; he doesn’t even make fun of me. He just hops out and starts filling her up, leaving me a few moments to ponder my future modeling career.
I’ve heard commercials on the radio about modeling agencies, and I’m sure there are loads of them listed on the Internet. I’ll just call a few of the more impressive-sounding ones and make appointments. But first things first. I definitely need to rev up the ol’ wardrobe. And who has more fashion sense in her pinky finger than I have in my entire body? Natalie O’Brien, my best friend. Or is she my ex-best friend? Are things ever going to be the same between us?
I guess I’ll just have to make the first move. Best friends don’t throw entire friendships out the window for something as stupid as a party. I pull out my cell and text message her. HEY GIRL. WANNA GO ON A SHOPPING SPREE?
I’m totally psyched about this. Natalie won’t be able to turn down shopping, and it’ll be a great way to get everything back to normal between us.
Two minutes later my phone beeps and the words GO ASK UR PROUD CROWD FRIENDS appear. My mouth goes dry.
I bite my lower lip and type, I’D RATHER GO W/ U but I don’t send it. Instead, I delete it and send, FINE.
But it’s not fine. How could I have been so wrong about Natalie? Besides, there’s no way I’m calling up Eva and Amber. I could always call Zach. He’s not exactly a fashionista, unless I missed the memo that Nike is the new Versace. But he is my boyfriend. Well, he’s almost my boyfriend, right? I mean, we did go on a date. And we did make out. I dial his number. “Hey, Zach.”
“Hello? Uh, who is this?”
“It’s Roxy.” Who does he think it is?
“Oh, heeeeey.”
“Hey.”
“So what’s up, beautiful?”
“Not much. Just getting ready to go shopping.”
“Ugh. I hate shopping. Well, have fun. I’m off to shoot some hoops with the guys.”
“Oh.” Okay, so I guess Zach and I aren’t hitting the mall. Now what? Isn’t he going to ask me out or something? Were we just a one-date wonder? Am I going to have to play my flute every single time I want to do something with him?
“See ya …” Oh no! He’s going to hang up!
“Er, Zach?”
“Yeah?”
“Want to … get a bite to eat a little later?” My heart is beating like crazy. What if he says no?
“Okay, sure. Pick you up at seven?”
“Great.”
“Great.”
“Okay, bye.”
Whew. Close one. For a minute there, I thought maybe he didn’t like me.
When I get home, Chase is dusting the blinds in my room. I flop onto my perfectly made bed and watch him for a few minutes. It would be a shame to have to do these tedious chores myself. Especially when Chase does such a great job. I’ve grown rather fond of having my room and bathroom so sparkly clean and always having freshly washed and pressed clothes to wear. But I did promise my parents I’d talk to him.
I whip out my flute and start playing. Once he’s under my spell, I say, “Chase, I want you to continue doing my laundry, keeping my bathroom and room so clean, and doing the dishes …” Did I forget anything? Oh, yeah. “… and feeding Pumpkin. But I need you to be very secretive. Don’t let Mom and Dad notice that you’re doing these things. And make sure you’re still doing your own chores, and next time someone invites you to a birthday party, go.”
Chase’s eyes grow big, like when he was seven and I told him the tooth fairy was really a big ugly monster that would gobble him up if his teeth weren’t up to its standards. “But … what if I’m not done with everything in time?”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Birthday parties trump doing chores, got it?”
He takes a breath and then smiles. “Got it.”
“Good.” He turns around and continues his blinds-dusting. “And I really love your new haircut, Chase. Very handsome.”
Grandma Perkins whizzes up to the front of the valet line and parks next to the curb. Honking and vulgar hand gestures follow in her wake. It’s totally embarrassing, but at least with Grandma around, I didn’t have to use my Siren powers on Dad to get him to cough up some spending money. I jump out of her Lexus while she waits for the man in the maroon valet suit to open her door. She looks me up and down and smiles that dazzling smile of hers.
Another man holds the gigantic glass doors open for us as we sashay into Denver’s most elite shopping mecca, Designer Palace. In fact, it’s so high-end that I’ve never even stepped foot inside. “I am so pleased you called me, Roxy. I can’t remember the last time the two of us went shopping together.”
“That’s because we never have,” I remind her, trying to keep my jaw hinged. This place is amazing! It’s like we’re traipsing through a royal courtyard, and the stores themselves are part of a beautiful white castle. Above our heads, the ceiling is painted like a sky, complete with wispy clouds and birds.
“Well, that’s a shame,” she says. “You’d have a much nicer wardrobe if we had.” We hop out of the way for a horse-drawn carriage. As it passes, I see two elderly women sandwiched between a mountain of shopping bags.
Despite the hustle and bustle of the shoppers, we get our fair share of rubber-neckers. Will I ever get used to all this attention? Will I ever get used to being a Siren?
Grandma Perkins waves down a guy in a reddish-brown BEAN THERE apron. “Son, would you please bring us one white-chocolate mocha and …” She holds her palm out to me, my cue to add my order.
“A French-vanilla iced latte.”
He looks at us bleary-eyed and says, “I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m off. The coffee shop’s just around the corner, by the big cherub fountain.” The guy nods to his left.
Before he can get away, Grandma Perkins starts singing, just loud enough for him to hear. “We’ll be in Nordstrom, in the juniors department. You can bring our drinks to us there.”
He turns around, gives us a big goofy smile, and literally sprints back to the Bean There shop.
“Ah, that’s more like it.” Grandma Perkins straightens a button on her tailored linen jacket and winks at me.
For a scary moment she looks like she’s going to pinch my cheeks. Instead, she threads her arm through mine and steers me toward Nordstrom. There’s a huge mob of people at the other end of the mall. Cameras are flashing, and reggae music is blaring.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Let’s go see.”
Come to find out, it’s the grand opening of Jaded. Natalie’s always lamenting about never getting to go to L.A. or New York, because, up until now, those were the only two American cities deemed cool enough for Jaded. Eva’s parents take her to New York to do Christmas shopping, and when she returns with a shopping bag full of Jaded clothes, Natalie’s green with envy. She’d pay a hundred bucks for the shopping bag alone.
A twentysomething dressed like Gwen Stefani breezes past us, and when I see the bag she’s toting, I get what Natalie’s talking about. It’s a big iridescent jade-colored circle, kind of like a hatbox, and the handles are silver chains. IS SHE OR ISN’T SHE? is printed on one side in graffiti-style lettering, and JADED on the other.
When Grandma and I get closer, I see that the music isn’t coming from a CD as I had assumed. It’s live. Am I imagining things, or is that Astra 8 It? Alex loves that band! I dig out my cell phone, taking care that my flute doesn’t fall out of my purse, and text-message him: ASTRA 8 IT IS AT DESIGNER PALACE. COME NOW!!!
Then I send: JADED IN DENVER! GRAND OPENING AT FASHION PALACE. COME NOW!!! to Natalie.
Before I have a chance to put my phone away, it beeps and there’s a message from Alex: I’M AT WORK. CAN’T GET OFF.
SAY U HAVE A STOMACHACHE OR SOMETHING. U CAN’T MISS THIS! I type back.
NO CAN DO he text-messages me. UNDERSTAFFED. THANKS, THO. I’m disappointed, but I knew deep down that Mr. Work Ethic wouldn’t ditch his job for this.
Grandma Perkins and I dance to the next song, having such a great time together. I glance at my cell, just in case another text message sneaked through unnoticed. Nope. God, Natalie is being so lame. I can’t believe she’d let our tiny little misunderstanding get in the way of something as big as this. I mean, this is huge. You know, like the Broncos winning the Super Bowl!
Suddenly, a Hugh Grant look-alike taps me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, miss. I couldn’t help noticing that you have a great look. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Philip Stanford, a talent scout for Envision Modeling Agency of Denver.” He holds out a shiny gold business card.
Grandma Perkins snatches the card, studying it for a few seconds. “She does have a great look, doesn’t she?” she says, pressing the card into my outstretched palm.
“You must be the proud mother,” Philip says, beaming at her.
Grandma chuckles demurely. “You’re a charmer, that’s for sure. I’m her grandmother.”
The talent scout clears his throat and then grins at me. “You won the genetic jackpot, young lady.” Ha! If he only knew…. “Have you ever thought about being a model?” he asks.
I look at Grandma, but she’s busy digging for something in her purse, pretending not to be listening. “Not until very recently,” I admit.
“That’s great news. Well, dear, you simply must call the agency and arrange an interview. The number is on the card”—he taps the business card that I’m holding in the air like a total nerd—“I’m sure we could book you more work than you’d ever believe possible. And what is your name, dear?”
“Roxy Zimmerman.”
“Well, Roxy Zimmerman,” he says, “I’ll let you in on some fabulous news. Envision has been selected to represent Jaded on a local level. Even an international fashion company like Jaded recognizes the quality of our talent, you see. In fact, we’re doing a runway show for Jaded right here next weekend,” he says, pointing at the floor beneath his shiny wingtips. “There will be live TV coverage by Fox 31 News and the Style Network. Rumor has it, Seventeen magazine will be here as well.” He pauses to smile at me and I’m gaping. Oops.
“Well, sorry to ramble on,” he says, more to Grandma Perkins than to me, “but as you can tell, it’s going to be a big to-do and we’re all very excited to be a part of it. Now, Roxy,” he says, turning his attention back to me. “Give us a call. I look forward to seeing you.” And with that, he disappears into the throng.
Grandma finishes dabbing on a bit of lipstick and smacks her lips together. “So, you want to be a model?” she asks, raising one of her delicate eyebrows.
“Might be fun.” I smile, imagining my gorgeous Siren face on the cover of Seventeen.
“Well, I think that’s a fine idea.” She leans in to whisper in my ear, “And with your Siren powers, the sky’s the limit. New York, L.A., Paris, Milan …” Then she stands tall again, winks at me, and says, “Now, let’s go into this store and see what all the fuss is about, shall we?”
Ten
Right as we walk through the jade green doors, a man with spiky hair jumps in front of us. “Welcome to Jaded. My name is Sebastian, and I’m the store manager. How can I help you two lovelies?” he says, doing an energetic little bow.
I giggle, still on a high from being “discovered.” “We’re just looking.”
Grandma makes a huffing noise. “We most certainly are not ‘just looking.’ I’m taking my granddaughter shopping, and we’re going to buy her an entire wardrobe. As you can plainly see,” she says, gesturing at my faded Roxy tank and shabby jeans, “she’s in dire need of an intervention.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’ll get a dressing room ready for you and we’ll get started.”
Racks of clothes line the jade-colored walls, and in the center of the store is a posh lounge area, where a group of middle school girls have made themselves comfortable. There are black chairs and couches with metal frames on a multi-colored-striped rug. In the middle of the lounge area sits a sleek glass coffee table displaying neat stacks of fashion mags. The dressing rooms are really cool too. They have frosted glass doors so when someone’s trying on clothes, you can see her silhouette.
Grandma watches Sebastian stride toward the dressing rooms and then whispers in my ear, “Pick out anything you want, honey. I’ll just sing a little song for that handsome Sebastian fellow and get it gratis.” She takes my hand in hers. “This is going to be so much fun!”
An hour later Grandma and I exit the store through its jade-colored doors, an oversize shopping bag in each of our hands. My closet will be bursting at the seams with my new Jaded wardrobe. Aha! Eat your heart out, Eva and Amber. There’s a new fashionista at Franklin High. “I could definitely get into this shopping thing, Grandma. What a rush!”
She laughs her musical, fluttery laugh as we muscle our way through the crowd that’s still gathered around Designer Palace’s newest addition. “Sebastian told me they’ve got numerous styles only available in Paris, so I asked him to have those shipped to your house.”
“Really?” I glide past the group of Goth chicks hanging out by the stage where the band was playing earlier. “Wow, that’s cool.” Natalie would be in seventh heaven. Too bad she’s not here. I check my phone one more time, but there’s still no response from her.
“All this shopping has made me awfully thirsty,” Grandma says. “Oh! I forgot about that boy bringing us our coffee drinks. He was taking them to Nordstrom, wasn’t he?”
“The juniors section,” I remind her. “But he wouldn’t still be there …” As the words lift off my tongue, I realize that he’s definitely going to be there. After all, he’s under Grandma Perkins’s Siren spell. Poor guy. “Well, the drinks will be all gross by now. We’ll have to get new ones.”
Grandma Perkins waves down a carriage, which immediately stops right in front of us. We clamber in and ride across the mall to Nordstrom. As we’re walking in, my cell phone rings. Oh, wow! It’s Zach. It’s really him! “Hi, Zach,” I say, a little too loudly. Grandma Perkins stops prattling on about her new trendy outfits (she saw how c
ute Jaded clothes looked on me and had to get a few outfits for herself) and raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“You said you wanted to get something to eat. Do you still want to?” Zach asks over the phone.
“Sure!”
“Pick you up at seven.”
I hang up and take my not-so-iced latte from the barista who’s snoring beside a mannequin display. Grandma Perkins slips a fifty-dollar bill in his pocket without waking him up.
“We have one more item of business while we’re here,” she says. We pitch our cups in a little trash can behind a cash register, and then she leads me to the accessories department. “You simply must get rid of that atrocious excuse for a handbag.” She flashes her dazzling smile at the distinguished-looking man behind the purse counter and he nods.
“May I be of assistance, ladies?”
She swipes my satchel off my shoulder and holds it up between her thumb and first finger like it’s a dead skunk. “My granddaughter needs a new handbag, as you can plainly see. Something big enough for this,” she says, pulling out my flute.
He blinks a few times and then fumbles with his nautical-themed tie. Once he’s convinced that it’s acceptably straight, he bends down and selects a purse out of the too-expensive-to-have-out-in-the-open case. It has a really fun, funky print of large starlike flowers in red, brown, turquoise, and cream, with skinny leather straps. “It’s an Emilio Pucci tote, made in Italy. We just got this one in two days ago, and I’m certain it’ll be all the rage with my young, fashion-forward customers.” He hands it to me and then examines his fingernails.
“It’s soft. Is it … velvet?”
The man shakes his head. “Believe it or not, it’s corduroy. Isn’t it fabulous? Each tote is distinctly unique. No two are alike. Just like no two women are alike,” he says, gesturing to Grandma and me.
When I flip over the price tag, I just about faint. It’s almost a thousand dollars!
“If you like it, it’s yours,” Grandma Perkins says, winking at me. “Now be a dear and give this to the valet.” She hands me the claim ticket. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren Page 8