The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren (14 page)

The driver in front of me lays on his horn, apparently upset that the twenty cars in front of him chose not to run that red light.

It's a beautiful summer day: blue sky, clear view of Mount Evans to the southwest, and a perfect roll-the-windows-down eighty-two degrees (according to the digital readout on the rearview mirror). I listen to the
jut-jut-whoosh
of the sprinklers in the park across the street for a minute or two, and then dig my cell out of my tote.

“Natalie,” I say into the voice-activated speed dial. It rings four times before she answers.

“I've been meaning to call you,” she says by way of greeting.

“Really?” I unwrap my Pop-Tart (strawberry with frosting) and take a bite. Mom keeps these around for Chase, but I have a secret love of them.

“I wanted to thank you for all these great clothes. They're fab.”

“Oh, it's no biggie,” I mumble with my mouth full. I dropped them off last Wednesday, after going to 7-Eleven with Alex. She wasn't home, so I just let myself into the O'Brien's house (they keep a spare key on top of the back doorjamb) and left them on her bed.

“Why'd you give them to
me?”

“I knew you'd like them. They're totally
you.
Plus, I was kinda hoping they could be like a peace offering,” I admit.

When the car in front of me lurches forward, I stuff the rest of the Pop-Tart in my mouth and hit the gas. An awkward pause reigns over the phone while I chew. How did I ever let things get so bad
between us? “Natalie, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've been such a jerk.”

“Me too.”

Is she saying she's sorry too—or is she agreeing that I've been a total jerk? Oh, well. It doesn't really matter. “I'm glad we're talking again.” If my ego hadn't gotten in the way, I would've apologized for staying at the Proud Crowd party when they'd kicked her and Alex out. I would've apologized for pretending not to be friends with her. All I needed to do was tell her the truth—that I felt slimy about the way I'd treated her—and this stupid war never would've been waged.

“Me too, Rox. It just hasn't been the same without you. I mean, I know you're, like, totally in love and everything, but—”

“Yeah, about that,” I say. “I kinda wanted you to think Zach and I were in love. But in reality, he doesn't have much to say on any subject besides sports.”
Or how beautiful I look,
I think, but don't say out loud.

“Why'd you want me to think you liked him so much, if he's nothing but a big ol' yawn?” Natalie asks.

Good question.

“I guess I didn't want to admit that I was wrong …,” I say softly. And that I'd stayed back at that Proud Crowd party to be with Zach, who, after all, wasn't really worth getting in a big fight with my BFF. “But anyway, I wanted to tell you I decided to try my hand at modeling. Today's my first day. I'm doing a runway show for Jaded. You should come.”

“Omigod!
Really?”
I hold the phone away from my ear till she calms down. “I wish I could, but I can't. I don't get off till eleven.” She sighs heartily. “I can't stand working at Safeway. All I do is bag groceries, gather carts in the parking lot, and, if I'm lucky, mop up spilled pickles.”

I grin, visualizing my friend in an ultra-unfashionable navy blue pinafore. “I didn't even know you had a job, Natalie. How long have you been working there?”

“Today's my second day.”

“Well, I hope someone knocks over a jar of pickles just for you.”

She laughs. “Gee, thanks.”

When I pull into the parking lot, Natalie and I zip through our good-byes
and hang up. I know it sounds cliché, but now that Natalie and I are friends again, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest.

London McGill, Envision's runway coach, claps her hands together three times, and the models look up, giving her their full attention. In a hushed voice, she says, “Ladies, it's time. Please line up like we practiced last night.”

Since we're in the mall, there's not a “backstage” for us to hang out in until showtime. So we're stashed behind a big gray screen with
JADED
painted in graffiti-style, jade-colored letters. Someone turns on the hip-hop music, and as it booms throughout the mall, I dodge a cloud of hair spray and give myself a quick once-over in one of the full-length mirrors. My makeup and hair look amazing, and in slinky silver pants and a tight winter-white cashmere sweater, I look every inch a supermodel. But I don't feel like one.

Even though I've been practicing my runway walk, I still don't have it down. If I hadn't played my flute for Mr. Valdez, London wouldn't have placed me on
Envision's runway team. The other girls aren't exactly Gisele BÜndchen clones, but they definitely walk circles around me.

As I take my place at the end of the line, the stylist wraps a deep red loopy knit scarf around my neck. “Are you okay?” she whispers.

I flash her a smile I hope exudes confidence. “Better than ever,” I say.
Please don't puke,
I beg my stomach.
Just a few minutes and it'll all be over.

“Three, two, one,” London calls, signaling the start of the show. The first girl disappears around the screen, followed a moment later by the second girl.

The line of models is melting fast and I'm so not ready to do this. Oh no! I'm on! I graze one of the other girls as I step onto the runway, and she shoots me the evil eye. But there's no time to apologize because I'm on. Where did all these people come from? Don't they have jobs and families and other things to do? Can they see my knees shaking?

I take a deep breath and take off, not really sure what my feet are doing way down there. All I know is these heels are impossible to walk in, and it's taking every bit of effort to stay on top of them. Oh, God. I'm
going to break my ankles—I just know it!

I concentrate on what London told me when I started working with her just three days ago. Shoulders back, neck elongated, back straight, stomach in, hips rolled forward, arms dangling, legs crossing with every step, facial expression to match the theme of the show. I guess the theme of this show is edgy. Or is it casual? Or is it Colorado's answer to haute couture? I really don't know. Too bad it's not “freaking out.” Or “kill your little brother.”

Chase is in the audience, jumping up and down and making faces at me. Oh, great. I hope no one knows we're related. Mom is standing beside him, trying to get him to settle down. She flashes me an encouraging smile and gives me a thumbs-up. Note to self: Never share fashion show schedule with family.

Okay, I'm almost done. The end is in sight. Just a little further….

Oh, wait. Isn't that Amber Millan's head poking out from all those shopping bags? Eva must be around here somewhere. Ah, there she is! They're pointing at me and smiling. I hold my head up even higher when I walk past them, trying not to lose my rhythm, trying not to lose
the modicum of poise I'm desperately hanging on to. Right before I'm back behind the screen, my heel gets stuck on the hem of my pants. Oh, crap!
Tripping!
I let out a shrill scream, landing awkwardly on the side of my left shoe. Thank God, I catch myself before I fall flat on my heavily made-up face. But my heel snaps and I have to limp the last few feet. Just kill me now.

A moment later Mr. Valdez (Mr. Envision Modeling Agency of Denver himself) appears behind the screen, strutting around in burnished dark jeans and a soft green V-neck. “That was fabulous, everybody. Our best show yet.” The girls stop changing back into street clothes long enough to say thanks. He pauses in front of me. “Roxy, we have a photo shoot opportunity that you'll be perfect for. Here's the information.” He hands me a slip of paper with
HOTAIR BALLOONING IN VAIL
typed across the top and the address, date, and time scribbled underneath.

“Okay,” I say, still a bit out of it. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he says. “And don't worry about today. Some of our models are
a mess on the runway, but really shine through in print ads.”

He disappears before I have a chance to ask him to elaborate. Did he mean that I totally sucked today? Or was he just saying that doing print ads might be a more natural fit for someone like me? Nonplussed, I slide off the pointy-toed stilettos before they cause permanent damage to my feet (how some women wear high heels every day I'll never know), slip on my Skechers, and hobble out into the open.

Mom sprints over to me with Chase loafing behind her. “Oh, honey, you did such a great job! I'm so proud of you!” she exclaims, going in for a hug.

Chase mutters, “Mom forced me to come and made me promise to say something nice when you were done. So here goes.” He clears his throat. “I'm glad you didn't fall off the runway when you tripped.”

And that's precisely when Eva and Amber choose to wander over. “Hi, Roxy,” Eva says sweetly. “I didn't know you were a model.”

“Well, she just started,” Mom pipes in. “She did pretty well for her first time, don't you think?”

“I'm sure with a little more practice, she won't look like she's all constipated,” my mutant brother says.

“Oh, and I suppose you go to so many fashion shows, you're an expert?” I say, wishing I could just disappear.

“Do you girls go to school with Roxy?” Mom asks, and I'm so grateful she changes the subject before it gets any more mortifying.

Eva and Amber nod politely.

“That's nice. And what instruments do you two play?”

Oh. My. God.

“Pardon me,” a man says. “Would you mind moving over just a little?” Mom, Chase, Eva, Amber, and I shift our little Roxy Embarrassment Session over so a small group of people can carry the gray JADED screen away from the storefront. I recognize the man as Sebastian, the manager of Jaded. An idea pops into my head.

“I'm sorry, but I've got to bail,” I say. “Um, it's business.”

Mom gives me a confused look and then says, “Okay, but don't be home late. Your father and I would like to spend a little time with you before we leave for our trip.”

I dart into the store, dodging fashionistas, racks of clothes, and shiny metal mannequins as I chase Sebastian through the store. “Hey, Sebastian!” I holler, and he whips around. After a beat, a smile spreads across his clean-shaven face.

“Well, hello there. If it isn't one of my best customers! So nice to see you.” He glances behind me. “And where is that lovely grandmother of yours?”

“Out and about, as always. Hey, do you have a minute? I wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure.”

Taking Sebastian's arm, I lead him into the back hall. We head to the employee break room, where a girl about my age is checking her hair in a compact mirror. When she realizes she's not alone, she clicks her mirror shut and tosses her diet-bar wrapper into the trash-can. “I'm on my way out,” she informs her boss as she marches past us, eyeing me a bit suspiciously.

Sebastian and I venture into the empty break room. I say, “This will only take a minute.” Or less. After all, Grandma already primed him. I take out my flute.

He squints an eye, apparently thinking
I'm crazy, but nods. I play for about fifteen seconds, until his eyes widen and gloss over. “My friend Natalie O'Brien would love to work here. Please arrange that for her.” I tuck my flute back into my purse and then jot down her name and number on the back of a sales slip that someone had left on the table.

“A marvelous idea! Natalie O'Brien will be perfect,” he says, gazing at the sales slip as if it's a winning Colorado Lottery ticket.

“Oh,” I add as an afterthought, “and make sure she gets a seventy-five percent merchandise discount.” Ah, pure genius.

By the time I'm finished with my chitchat with Sebastian, it's pretty dark outside. I fold myself into the Boxster and say “Natalie” into my cell phone's voice-activated speed dial. I've been dying to tell her the good news.

“Hey girl, guess what?”

“Eva's pregnant and she and Zach are having a shotgun wedding? Only the baby isn't really Zach's—it's an alien's.”

“Ha-ha. No, seriously. You can quit your job at the grocery store. I've got something you'll like a lot better.”

“Ooooooh?”

“Yeah,” I say.
“The National Enquirer
is hiring reporters.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Actually, you've got a job at Jaded.”

“Shut up! Are you serious? I've been calling every day to see if someone happened to quit, but they've got, like, a million applications.” She pauses and then asks, “How?”

“I just talked to the store manager. I told him how perfect you'd be and he agreed.”

“Oh my God, Roxy. This is too cool! You're the greatest! You're the best! You're awesome!”

“I know, I know.”

“And did I forget to mention that you're modest?”

I laugh. We chat the whole drive home, even though she's at work. (“Not like it matters if they fire me. I've got a job at Jaded!”) It feels so good to catch up with her. She's so psyched to work at her favorite store. It's like she just got crowned Prom Princess.

“Okay, so that's twenty-one forty Harrison Avenue? Great. Thanks, Mrs. Parker.”

I close my cell phone and stare at it until a black VW bug honks at me. “I'm going, I'm going,” I mutter, stepping on the gas and shoving the phone into my purse.

When I called Zach, his mom told me he was at Eva's house. All the gang is there, she said. She acted a little surprised that I wasn't there already, and even more surprised when I told her I had no clue where Eva lived. Imagine how surprised she'd be if I told her that her son's under my Siren spell, and that's why we've been hanging out. What would she have to say about that?