The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren

by Wendy Toliver

  The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren

  How NOT to Spend Your Senior Year

  BY CAMERON DOKEY

  Royally Jacked

  BY NIKI BURNHAM

  Ripped at the Seams

  BY NANCY KRULIK

  Spin Control

  BY NIKI BURNHAM

  Cupidity

  BY CAROLINE GOODE

  South Beach Sizzle

  BY SUZANNE WEYN AND DIANA GONZALEZ

  She’s Got the Beat

  BY NANCY KRULIK

  30 Guys in 30 Days

  BY MICOL OSTOW

  Animal Attraction

  BY JAMIE PONTI

  A Novel Idea

  BY AIMEE FRIEDMAN

  Scary Beautiful

  BY NIKI BURNHAM

  Getting to Third Date

  BY KELLY MCCLYMER

  Dancing Queen

  BY ERIN DOWNING

  Major Crush

  BY JENNIFER ECHOLS

  Do-Over

  BY NIKI BURNHAM

  Love Undercover

  BY JO EDWARDS

  Prom Crashers

  BY ERIN DOWNING

  Gettin’ Lucky

  BY MICOL OSTOW

  The Boys Next Door

  BY JENNIFER ECHOLS

  In the Stars

  BY STACIA DEUTSCH AND RHODY COHON

  Crush du Jour

  BY MICOL OSTOW

  Available from Simon Pulse

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2007 by Wendy Toliver

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Ann Zeak

  The text of this book was set in Garamond 3.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Simon Pulse edition December 2007

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Control Number 2007933816

  ISBN-13: 978-1-416-9-506-5-3

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4424-0-7480

  For Lynn Gray: my mom, my inspiration, my hero

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to my editor, Michelle Nagler, for her enthusiasm and patience, and to Caroline Abbey for championing my book from the get-go. I’m so lucky and honored to work with the amazing people of Simon Pulse. I want to thank my fabulous agents, Christina Hogrebe and Annelise Robey, who not only believe in me, but make me believe in myself. Big hugs to my CPs: Aryn, Nadine, Jennifer, Denise, Kaylie, and the Eden Writers’ Circle. Thanks to Drienie and Kwana for always being “on call”; and Marley, an angel on Earth. A shout-out to my parents and my sister and brother for their infinite love and support. Last but never forgotten are my three sons, Miller, Collin, and Dawson, whose bright blue eyes and mud-splattered faces remind me of what really counts; and Matt, who stole my heart and will never let go.

  One

  I want to kiss Zach Parker. Just once. Is that too much to ask?

  I pretend like I’m getting a kink out of my neck so I can sneak a quick peek at him. His Denver Broncos cap is shadowing his eyes, but they’re this baby blue color and they’re simply heavenly. He’s got wavy, sandy hair that almost reaches his shoulders, and on the rare occasions that he’s not wearing a cap or a football helmet, it’s always falling into his eyes. He’s tan already, and I doubt he’s ever had to buy a tube of Clearasil in his life. Some girls think he looks like David Beckham, but I think he’s even cuter. Oh! He glances at me and I swear our gazes lock for a split second of heart-stopping ecstasy (on my end, anyhow). I whip back around and look straight ahead, accidentally making eye contact with the teacher. Wonderful.

  “I take it you’re finished with your quiz, Roxy?” Mr. Hickenbaum asks, stalking over to my second-row desk.

  “Um, no. Not quite yet.”

  “Then maybe you should keep your eyes on your own paper and stop looking at Zach’s.”

  Oh my God. The entire English class swivels in their seats to stare at me. Eva “the Diva” Nelson and her trusty, busty sidekick, Amber, laugh in the way only cheerleaders with freakishly large lung capacity can.

  I wish I could say, “If I were to cheat on a quiz, which I most certainly did not, I wouldn’t rely on a jock for my answers.” But I’m not that brave. And I’d have to be stupid to talk smack about jocks, since Zach, J.T., and Devin are all sitting in the back row. Even if they’re juniors and this is a class for sophomores.

  Eva raises her hand and I sink into my chair. “Mr. Hickenbaum, it’s obvious Roxy wasn’t trying to cheat off Zach’s paper.” My ears perk up. Can it be? Is the Proud Crowd Queen finally being halfway nice to a band geek (or a BeeGee, as we’re fondly referred to at Franklin) like moi? “She was just trying to get his attention. You know, to see if he has a date to J.T.’s party tomorrow night. Right, Roxy?”

  The classroom explodes into laughter and I’m sure my face is as red as a cherry. This can’t be happening. Please, God, make this all be a terrible nightmare. You know, one of the ones where you go to school and everything seems normal till you look down and realize you’re wearing nothing but your little brother’s Sponge-Bob SquarePants slippers?

  Mr. H marches back to the front of the room in his Dr. Scholl’s, whips around, and fixes Eva with an icy glare. “Thank you for enlightening us, Miss Nelson.” Then he turns his back to us and writes, HAVE A NICE SUMMER BREAK on the blackboard in big yellow squeaky letters.

  I hear a few hopeful gasps as I gnaw on my pen cap. It would be my luck to have him cancel a quiz that I’m acing.

  “Don’t forget to recycle your quiz on the way out.” Mr. H crosses his arms over his Michelin Man chest and smiles benevolently as his students grab their backpacks and file out.

  When I get to my locker, my best friend, Natalie, is already there. She sweeps her brown flippy hair off her face and stuffs her flute case into her Eastpak. She’s wearing her new last-day-of-school outfit—a short, flirty skirt and an embroidered tank. If teachers ever gave quizzes on the latest issue of Lucky, she’d get straight As.

  Natalie could almost qualify for a legit Proud Crowd member. I mean, she passes on two very important requisites. One, she’s got a closet full of cute-slash-expensive clothes. Two, she’s demented enough to think she’s a chub, never mind she weighs a hundred and ten pounds even in her chunky Steve Maddens. But like me, Natalie’s a BeeGee, and that little detail is a mega deal breaker.

  Eva and Amber saunter by, side by side. I swear, those two are joined at the hip. And they must share a brain, too, since each only has half. “Cute bebe shirt,” Eva the Diva drawls in passing.

  Natalie’s chest puffs up just a hair. “Thanks!”

  Amber stops to examine the tank top. “I had one like that when I was in junior high.”

  And just like that, my friend’s face crumbles like the last Cinnamon Twist in the Taco Bell bag. After the queen and princess of the Proud Crowd float
away on their strappy sandals, Natalie whispers, “It’s vintage. But Amber wouldn’t know that, now would she?”

  I shake my head as if I know the difference between a shirt that’s vintage and one somebody dug out of a fifty-cent box at a garage sale. “So, we still on for tomorrow night, then?”

  “You betcha. Can’t wait, birthday girl!” She gives me a little kiss on my cheek. “Well, I’d better get going. Dad’s picking me up any minute now.” She slings her purple backpack over her shoulder and scurries down the hall.

  Natalie’s dad lives in Colorado Springs, and she visits him every other Friday. So we’re not really celebrating my Sweet Sixteen till tomorrow. Natalie and I are going to T.G.I. Friday’s and then to the movies. Her treat, it being my birthday and everything. We really want to see that new Orlando Bloom movie. You know, the one where there’s a glimpse of his naked butt? Anyway, it’s not like my plans are super-exciting, but hey. I’m looking forward to it.

  Having a birthday dinner with my family, like I’m doing tonight, is as exciting as watching nail polish dry. Clear nail polish. Maybe I should look on the bright side, though. Could this be the year my birthday wish will come true? Maybe I’ll finally get my first kiss. Well, my first real kiss. You know, with a guy, on the mouth … maybe with a little tongue? With Zach Parker, perhaps?

  Somewhere in the hallway, I hear Zach’s voice. I’ve had a crush on him for so long, my ears are fine-tuned to his voice’s frequency. I blow my bangs out of my eyes and suck my stomach in, a routine that’s become more of an instinct than a conscious effort. Just as Zach and the other jocks strut around the corner, Alex McCoy sidles up to me and lays his big trombone case next to my Skechers.

  Alex sits behind me in band, tooting his trombone, his face pink and jolly. Come to think of it, he sits behind me in every class we have together, and his face is pink and jolly whether he’s blowing into his trombone or not. Alex and I live in the same neighborhood, and since I don’t have my license yet, he drives me to school. Which is cool of him, but I wish I could be carpooling with Zach instead. But, like I’ve already said, Zach’s a jock. And not only does he play football, baseball, and soccer, but he’s the crown jewel of the Proud Crowd: a two-time Homecoming attendant and the reigning Prom Prince. Sure, people might say he’s out of my league, but a girl has to set her expectations high.

  “Hey, Rox. You about ready?” Alex asks, but I ignore him so I can hear what the jocks are saying. “Oh, here’s your yearbook back,” he continues. “Sorry it took me so long to sign it.”

  I snatch my yearbook from him and jam it into my backpack, ears tuned to the jocks’ convo.

  “No, dude. She’s spent way too long in the fake baker. Totally not my type,” Devin says. I don’t really know much about Devin, except that he’s one of Franklin’s best athletes.

  Then Zach says, “How about Lindsay Lohan? Man, she’s hot. Definitely my type.”

  Lindsay Lohan? I’m assuming he means circa Mean Girls and not Rehab Girl. But anyway, I look nothing like the beautiful movie-slash-pop star. For one, I have frizzy red hair. I have microscopic boobs and eyes the color of mud. That is, if you can tell through these thick glasses I have to wear. My nose is covered with blackheads, and I swear my right leg’s longer than my left.

  The world’s best makeup, hair, and wardrobe team couldn’t make me half as beautiful as Lindsay Lohan. My only hope would be Photoshop, where I could merge a photo of me with one of her and then airbrush to no end. But that’s beside the point. Fact is, Zach Parker would rather be with someone beautiful and famous than someone … well, someone like me.

  “Need any help with that?” Alex asks, nodding at the pile of school crap that I’ve stopped stuffing into my backpack.

  “Hurry up, J.T.,” Devin calls over his shoulder. I sneak a peek at Zach’s butt as he and Devin strut down the hall. Man, all those sports are definitely paying off.

  J.T. bumps my arm when he’s getting a football out of his locker. “Sorry,” he mutters under his breath. J.T. is the jock I know the best, probably ’cause his locker’s next to mine. Lots of girls think he’s all that, but I find the whole unibrow thing a bit creepy. I’m convinced that J.T. stands for “Just Trim it.”

  “It’s okay.” I stoop down to pick up my backpack, and Alex grabs our instrument cases.

  J.T.’s looking at me all weird. Then he grins and asks, “So, are you coming to my party tomorrow night?”

  Am I hearing things? Did J.T. just ask me to a Proud Crowd party? Me? “Er, no …”

  “Why not? I’m getting a keg and everything.”

  “Okay, maybe.” Or maybe not. Sure, a jock just invited me to his party and maybe I should be stoked. Natalie would be so into it, she’d make a special trip to the mall to buy the perfect outfit. But I have a feeling this invite is nothin’ but bad news. And even if it isn’t an evil get-the-BeeGee-here-so-we-can-make-her-life-a-living-hell plan, I don’t want to be anyone’s charity case. Not even Zach Parker’s.

  “Cool.” J.T. tosses his football high up into the air and catches it.

  I slam my empty locker. “Cool.”

  Alex mutters, “Cool,” even though he’s not even in the conversation.

  J.T. jogs off, yelling to the other jocks, “Hey, Zach! You’ve got a date for the party!” and all the other kids in the hall turn and stare at me, mouths agog.

  Just kill me now.

  I duck into the passenger seat of Alex’s gray Civic. It smells like cinnamon apples, courtesy of the red paper tree dangling from his gearshift. Ever since Alex got this car, he’s had a red tree in here. He must’ve bought a mondo box at Costco or something.

  I click on my seat belt. Instead of starting the engine, Alex just looks at me. His light brown eyes are wide open, making him look kinda cute, in a puppy dog way. Natalie’s always saying Alex has a Zac Efron thing going on, and though their hair and eye colorings are totally different (Alex is blond-and-brown, not brown-and-blue), maybe she’s onto something. “You okay?” he asks, offering me some Skittles.

  I pop a purple one into my mouth and shrug my left shoulder. “Fine. No biggie.” I’m just now noticing that he’s wearing a yellow bowling shirt and army-green cargo shorts. I might not be a fashionista like the Proud Crowd chicks or Natalie, but even I know his getup registers a negative score on the style meter.

  We haven’t said a word the entire drive, which is kinda weird because Alex always has something to say. “Is something wrong?” I ask, once we’re at my house. “You’re acting like the Paxil poster child.”

  “Do you have a thing for Zach Parker?” he asks out of the blue.

  I shrug casually, but I feel my face heat up like an atomic fireball. “Not really. Well, sort of. I mean, I don’t really know him all that well.”

  I replay the scene at my locker in my mind, like I’ve been doing ever since it happened. God, I just can’t believe J.T. said that. You know, about me being Zach’s date. First Eva, then J.T. I swear, humiliation is like quicksand. The more I try to get out of it, the deeper I sink. Deeper and deeper—oh, God. Is that a zit on my chin? Seriously, all this stress is doing nothing to help my complexion issues.

  “I thought Natalie liked him.”

  “Every chick at Franklin likes him,” I say, adding a silent “Duh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, Alex? Can I ask you something … personal?”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “We’re friends, right?”

  “Yeeees. But that’s really not that personal, Rox.”

  “No! That’s not the question. I’m just making sure you’ll be completely honest with me. Because friends are completely honest with one another. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I just want … a guy’s view.” Oh, great. It is a zit. Right in the middle of my chinny-chin-chin.

  He squirms in his seat and fiddles with the air freshener. “All right. I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “Cool, thanks.” I take a deep breath. “On a scale from o
ne to ten, one being mirror-shattering hideous and ten being … oh, let’s say someone like Lindsay Lohan … what am I?”

  “I don’t know, Rox.” He stares at the dash. “I don’t really feel comfortable ranking people like that. It’s not like I can just assign a number. It’s just—”

  “I get it.” I fumble with the door handle.

  He reaches out and touches my shoulder. “I … Okay. Here goes.” Now his face is more green than red. “A nine.”

  I open the door and jump out. “A nine? As in just one away from a perfect ten?” I frown at him and cross my arms over my A-cups.

  “You’re a ten when you’re smiling.” A tiny grin flicks across his lips.

  “I’m no nine, Alex. You’re just trying to be nice. I told you to be honest.” I slam the door and head for my house, my glasses slipping down my nose with every stomp. I hear Alex get out of the car, but I don’t stop.

  “Rox!”

  “Good-bye, Alex. Thanks for the ride.”

  I’m so sure. I ask Alex to be truthful and he has to be all nice and everything. If a girl asks for honesty, she wants it to be at least somewhat believable. If he’d told me I was a five, for example, I might have believed him. But a nine? Ha! Only in a parallel universe where frizzy hair and zits are the stuff of supermodels.

  I run inside and toss my backpack and flute case on my bed. The house is a virtual graveyard, like it always is when I get home from school. It’s actually pretty nice ’cause I get to have a little time to myself.

  The doorbell chimes. Pumpkin, Mom’s beloved Pomeranian, scampers down the hall to the front door, yipping enthusiastically. I follow behind, wondering if it’s Alex. Maybe I should invite him in for a snack or something. I mean, it’s kind of ridiculous for me to get all mad just because he was being nice. That’s just Alex, Mr. Nice Guy.

  Really, he’s one of the sweetest guys I know. He’s such a great friend, but sometimes I wonder if … well, what if he was being honest about me being a nine? In his eyes, I mean.

  There’s a cheery knock on the door as it’s opening. “Yoo-hoo, birthday girl!” An elegant, manicured hand emerges and pats Pumpkin on the head three times. He immediately shuts his yapper and bows his foxlike head, making way for Grandma Perkins.