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 i
s. 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.
I step inside the fluorescent-lit room. The doctor and nurses look up at me, shocked. Before they have a chance to ask me who I am and what I think I’m doing, I blow a series of half-hearted puffs into my flute. Then I say, “Tell me what’s happening.”
“She can’t be in here, doctor,” a nurse mutters.
The doctor turns his attention back to his patient, pressing his stethoscope to Alex’s chest. As he starts listing all the horrific injuries, my stomach lurches. Oh. My. God. Poor Alex.
I take a deep breath, the stench of blood and alcohol mixing in my nostrils. “Is he going to … die?”
The doctor looks up at me and smiles. For an instant I assume he’s going to tell me that Alex is fine. That he’ll be good as new in a week or two. So when the words “It doesn’t look good” tear through my ears and crash into my brain, I shake my head in disbelief. The more I shake it, the blurrier my vision gets. I feel hands on my shoulders, steering me out of the room and into the darkness.
Seventeen
As her lover took his final breaths, the young Siren took the sailor’s head in her palms and lamented, “Dear lover, I must confess that I am a Siren and I alone have brought this fate upon you.”
The next morn, the sailor lay lifeless and cold, his handsome face moist from the tears of Thelxiepia, now a plain maiden.
“I came as soon as I could get here, honey,” Grandma Perkins’s voice rings from somewhere far away. I lift my eyelids and her suntanned face comes slowly into focus. “Let’s get you something to eat, to get your strength back up.”
I don’t think I can eat a single morsel of food, especially hospital cafeteria food, but I take her hand and amble down the long, brightly lit hallway. I sit down in the closest booth while Grandma grabs a tray.
Patricia McCoy is in the cafeteria, chugging coffee like she has the inside scoop on an impending coffee bean shortage. Running over to her, I give her a hug and kiss her tear-stained cheek. I can’t think of anything to say. What do you say to the mother of your murder victim? Her eyes are puffy from crying, her hair haywire, and her clothes wrinkled. Her ashen face tells me that the doctor’s words still hold true. That it doesn’t look good.
She hugs me, her entire body convulsing into sobs. In a tiny, distant voice, she says, “They asked me if he’s a donor.”
Oh, God. “I’m sure they ask that whenever anyone goes into surgery, Patricia. It’s probably protocol, that’s all.” My voice sounds strangely calm.
“Maybe he’ll wake up soon.” She tells me which ICU room he’s in. I flag down my grandmother and tell her I’ll be right back.
The longer I walk, the farther the hall seems to stretch. I pass room numbers 1172, 1174, 1176, and finally stop in front of room number 1178. I’ve run out of gas. I can’t go on.
The door opens, revealing a curvaceous nurse in turquoise and pink swirled scrubs. There’s a pen stuck behind her ear and a plastic clipboard tucked under her arm. “Are you one of Alex’s sisters?”
I nod, just in case they won’t let a non-relative in, and she steps out of my way. “He’s in an induced coma,” she says. “Go ahead and talk to him, though. It never hurts.”
Oh my God! No! “He’s in a coma?”
“An induced coma, dear. Didn’t your mom tell you?”
Mom? Oh, right. Patricia. “You mean you induced a coma? You put him in a coma? On purpose?”
“Yes. It’s actually a fairly common practice. Your brother would be in a lot of pain otherwise. Plus he’s on a ventilator, and putting him in a coma keeps him from pulling out the tubes. It’s for his own good, really.”
But you have no idea what’s happening, I want to yell. You have no idea that I’m a Siren and I told him I love him and he’s going to die, and putting him in a freaking coma just makes it that much worse. Because, because ₀ well, he looks like he’s dead already!
She leaves, quietly closing the door behind her.
My breath catches in my throat. I inch over to the bed. His skin looks puffy and dull, and judging by all the little bandages and bruises on his arms, he’s been a virtual pincushion. I bend over and kiss him softly on the forehead, and then brush my lips across his cold, clammy cheek. “Dear God, what have I done?” I whisper.
The only response I get is the humming of the medical machines.
I take his hand and stare at his closed eyelids. “This is all my fault, Alex. All my fault.” I wipe a wayward tear before it drips down onto his swollen face.
I rise and wander over to the window. Dark clouds clump in the sky, creating ominous shadows on the street. The cars look so tiny from up here, the trees like sprigs of broccoli. Even the mountains appear small and insignificant.
“You see, Alex, I messed up. I shouldn’t have let myself fall in love with you. If I’d listened to my grandma, and if I’d taken The Siren Handbook seri
ously, you wouldn’t be here.”
I return to his bedside, sit down in the chair, and scoot it as close to Alex as it’ll go. Smoothing his hair, I ask, “Why am I so stupid?” I wait, in case he feels like answering, but of course, he’s just lying there in his coma.
A moment later his little finger twitches. Is it just my imagination, or did his left eyelid just flutter? I know I should call the nurse, get someone in here. But I’m glued to the chair. I want to be here when he wakes up. I want to be the first person he sees.
“Please wake up, Alex. Please be okay.”
Nothing.
“I have something to tell you. Something very important. I don’t know if you’re going to believe me, and I don’t blame you if you think I’ve gone off the deep end. But I have to let you know.” I take a deep breath and watch his face for any sign of life. But he’s a statue. “You’re always telling me to be honest with you, Alex, and now I’m going to. It’s the least I can do.”
I have to swallow several times before I can speak another word. Leaning closer, I whisper into his ear, “I am a Siren. I’m a Siren and I can make men do anything I want. That’s how I got Zach Parker to date me. Not that I’m proud of that. But it’s true. I used my Siren powers to become a model. I even got my dad to relinquish the keys to his beloved Boxster with my Siren powers. You know what? I never even took my driver’s test. I used my Siren powers on the driving instructor, and he passed me for just driving around the parking lot a couple of times.
“You see, everything I’ve gotten, everything I’ve achieved this summer, I owe to being a Siren. And one of the rules about being a Siren is you can’t fall in love. I broke that rule, Alex. I broke it horribly. The car wreck wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”
Every muscle in my body aches, and my head pounds wickedly. I feel like I’ve eaten a whole stack of saltines with no water to wash them down. But at least I’m alive.
The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren Page 14