The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren

by Wendy Toliver

  As much as I love her, I’m in no mood to have my cheeks squeezed by this lady who looks more like she’s my mother than my grandmother. Agewise, anyway. She hogged all the Beauty and Talent genes, leaving Mom and me with the Good Personality leftovers. And we don’t even have those when we’re PMSing.

  Grandma doesn’t come over very much. For one thing, she and Mom don’t get along all that great. I guess it’s ’cause they’re so different from each other. But the main reason I never see Grandma is she’s never, ever home. She’s always off doing something glam. Like going to some dude’s condo in Hawaii, for example. Or cruising the Caribbean on another guy’s yacht. Last month she hooked up with a trio of French men who gave her a private tour of Western Europe. So, anyway, we’re together so rarely, she sometimes forgets I’m not a little girl anymore, like she’s in a time warp or something.

  Come to think of it, I bet she gives me another freaking Barbie doll for my birthday. Can you imagine? A Barbie for a sixteen-year-old! I never got into Barbie, even when I was six. But Grandma Perkins made sure I’d never have to endure a shortage of proportionally unrealistic plastic dolls.

  Grandma Perkins shuttles her grocery sack to the kitchen and returns clutching her big sparkly handbag. She raises her hand to my face, and I wince. For the first time ever, she doesn’t pinch me. She brushes a piece of hair off my cheek and smiles.

  Her smile can make men fall to their knees. It still amazes me that she hasn’t landed a husband. She got pregnant with Mom when she was twenty, but she never married the guy. Men fall all over themselves to date my grandma, but she rarely goes out with the same one twice. Now that’s what I call picky.

  Or maybe it’s just the lifestyle she grew accustomed to when she was a jazz singer. If you’ve never heard of Gertrude Isabel Perkins, don’t sweat it. She was famous back in the Stone Age. Ah, well. Who am I to judge? If anyone is retreating into spinsterhood with grace and aplomb, it’s Grandma Perkins.

  She checks her watch, a diamond Cartier that a lovesick businessman gave her “just because.” She frowns slightly and takes my arm. “You were born at exactly two fifty-four, sixteen years ago.” Interesting. So she does know I’m sixteen. Mom must’ve clued her in.

  She then asks, “Does your watch say ‘two fifty’?”

  I glance down at my polka-dot pink watch, the one I got on clearance at Target. “Yeah. Why?”

  Grandma Perkins puffs out her cheeks and shakes her head. Her shoulder-length, light blond hair floats around her face like she’s in a Pantene commercial. “Only four minutes, and then we’ll know. Come with me.” She drags me into the bathroom, locks the door, and sits me down on the toilet seat.

  I try to stand up, but she’s pressing down on my shoulders with unbelievable strength. “What are you doing?” I ask. She’s studying my face like she’s never seen me before. Oh no! Don’t tell me she’s got dementia or Alzheimer’s or something. “What’s gotten into you, Grandma? Are you taking some new kind of meds?”

  She loosens her hold a bit and offers me a small smile. “How do you feel, dear? Do you feel light-headed or anything?”

  “No, why? Do you? You’re acting totally weird …” Oh my God, is she having a stroke? A heart attack? Is she dying? I’ve got to get to a phone. I’ve got to call Mom or 911 or Dr. Phil or somebody. I bolt up off the toilet seat and try to get past her, but she blocks the door with her five-foot-nine, model-svelte frame.

  “Just two more minutes. Give it just two more minutes,” she says, her voice a touch raspy.

  I perch on the edge of the tub. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m freaking. Is she hiding out from her latest boy toy or something? It wouldn’t be the first time. Or maybe she’s some sort of gangster or a cat burglar. I mean, how she lives such a glitzy lifestyle is a major mystery. It’s not like she has a job or anything. Could the cops be on their way? Or the FBI? Or that dude from America’s Most Wanted?

  She reaches out and grabs my upper arms. “It’s time.”

  My heart is beating so hard against my rib cage, I swear it’s gonna shoot right out of my body. Suddenly I feel tingly. Like when my foot’s asleep and the blood is rushing back in. Only it’s all over my body. I can’t help smiling. I can’t help giggling. “Ha-ha-ha!” My voice sounds so distant and tinny in my own ears, like I’m in Eisenhower Tunnel. “Ha-ha!” There goes that weird laugh again. And what’s that smell? It smells like the beach, like ocean water in here.

  Oh, God. I can’t see. Everything’s so … blurry. Blink, blink, blink. It’s not helping! I take off my glasses and examine the lenses. They’re a little scratched up, but they’re clean. Well, as clean as they ever are. What’s going on? After rubbing my eyes, I scan the bathroom. Weird. Everything is clear. I can see without my glasses!

  Huh?

  Grandma Perkins’s beautiful lips curl into a smile and she takes a step back. Tears glisten in her emerald green eyes as she gazes at me. Quietly, she says, “Take a look in the mirror, Roxy.”

  Still feeling rather punchy, I do as I’m told.

  Oh. My. God.

  Two

  I gawk at my reflection. My fiery red hair is now a shiny, sleek, gorgeous mane. I take a few steps back, shake it upside down, and flip up again. Not a hair out of place. Where has my frizzy, crooked-banged, 24÷7 bed-head hair gone?

  And it’s not just my hair. I jump up on the counter to get closer to the mirror. My eyes are as green as Grandma’s and my skin is so dewy and flawless, I look like I just stepped out of a Neutrogena ad. My lashes are lush and curly, and my nose is blackhead-free. Oh! And that zit on my chin has mysteriously disappeared. I smile and see that my teeth are dazzlingly white.

  I’m having a hard time breathing, like when I wore that corset for Halloween last year. When I look down, I see why. My bra (a glorified training bra) is all but busting at the seams. Holy cleavage! I can’t help but give my round, perky C-cups a quick squeeze. Wow.

  “Grandma?” My voice wavers. “What’s going on? Did you give me some kind of hallucinogen?”

  “Of course not, honey. And to be frank, your references to drugs are making me a bit nervous. Remember, just say no to drugs.”

  I study my reflection in the mirror. This is all so bizarre. “So if I’m not hallucinating, what’s the deal?”

  “You’re going through The Change. It’s your time.”

  The Change? Before I can explain to her that I’ve already gone through puberty (thank-you-very-much), she drags me away from the mirror and whisks me down the hall. “We mustn’t dawdle,” she says. “Your parents and brother will be home soon, and we have so much to talk about.”

  A nanosecond later we’re in my bedroom with the door locked and the blinds closed. She digs in her handbag and produces a wrapped gift. Aha. The perfect size for one of those collectors’ edition Barbies. She lowers herself gracefully onto my bed. “Take a load off, honey,” she says, patting the daisy-patterned bedspread. “This is a day you’ll never forget.”

  I raise a now-elegant eyebrow, stealing a peek at myself in my bureau mirror. Still gorgeous. What the hell’s going on?

  She hands the gift to me. “What I’m about to tell you is going to change your life forever. Open it, Roxy.”

  I pluck off the violet bow and stick it on my head (old habits die hard). Then I tear the pale green paper to find an ancient, leather-covered book. “Oh, I get it. The Barbie’s inside, huh?” This must be the way they package the really expensive Barbies. Maybe Grandma got me this one in Rome or something.

  Grandma’s left eyebrow rises. “Oh, honey. I know you’re disappointed that it’s not a doll. But you’re not a little girl anymore.” She pats my knee. “Most people grow out of the Barbie stage by now.”

  Not a Barbie? Who is this woman sitting on my bed?

  I run my fingers over the cover of the book. I try to read the title, but it’s written in some strange, curlicue language. The pages are thick, with shiny bronze edges that might have been gold at one
time. “A Bible?” I guess. “A scrapbook?”

  She laughs—a beautiful, fluttery sound. “No, no. It’s The Enchiridion of the Seirenes. But I just call it The Siren Handbook because that’s what it is.”

  “The what?”

  “Roxy, you are a Siren.”

  “Come again?” I take the bow off my head, ripping out a few of my hairs. A few of my beautiful, shiny, straight, golden-red hairs.

  “We’re both Sirens.”

  “You can’t be serious.” I snort-laugh, sprawling out on my pillows. Did she get bitten by a rabid raccoon on the way here? A diseased prairie dog or a mosquito, perhaps? Or … is she telling the truth? After all, something very bizarre is happening here. Something I can’t explain.

  “Yes, honey. I’m serious.”

  “A Siren? You mean one of those mermaid things? If I jump in the water, will I grow a big fish tail?” I ask jokingly.

  “Actually, the original Sirens had the upper bodies of beautiful maidens and the lower halves of birds. Through the ages, the image has evolved, and now Sirens are oftentimes depicted as mermaids. But we’ve evolved even further, and as you can plainly see”—she gestures up and down her pink-and-black Chanel suit—“we don’t have any fish or bird body parts. Just beautiful woman parts.”

  It takes every ounce of self-control not to slap my forehead. What am I supposed to say, “Oh, that’s cool. ’Cause I’m allergic to feathers, and scales don’t do anything for my complexion”?

  “So let’s just pretend that we’re having a completely sane conversation,” I say when I finally find my voice. “I guess my next line would be something to the effect of ‘Cool! I’ve always wanted to be an imaginary creature thought up by some dude in a toga.’?”

  Sirens are imaginary, right? They aren’t real. And I most definitely am not one. Feathers and scales aside.

  She marches over to the bookshelf and slides out my Webster’s. “Maybe this will help.” Pacing around my room, she flicks through the pages and reads the definition out loud: “‘Any of a group of female and partly human creatures in Greek mythology that lured mariners to destruction by their enchanting music.’” She shakes her head. “Here’s another one. ‘A woman who makes bewitchingly beautiful music; a temptingly beautiful woman.’” She taps her finger on the page. “Yes, yes.”

  As this is sinking into my mind, she sits down on my bed and gazes at me all mushy. Like how I’d imagine she looks at the puppies at the pet store. Or the lobsters in the tank at fancy restaurants. “My granddaughter is a Siren.”

  Oh, God. She’s the portrait of sincerity. Grandma Perkins truly believes I’m a Siren. I swallow, contemplating what to say next. I guess I’ll just go with the flow. Test the waters, so to speak. At least it’ll make her happy. And maybe, when she comes back to the real world, we can just pretend like none of this happened.

  “You didn’t know until today?” I ask. “That I’m a Siren or whatever?”

  Her green eyes twinkle. “I had my suspicions. You have so much beauty on the inside, you just needed for the outside to catch up.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, lifting the leather-bound book onto my lap. “If I’d known I had even a chance of becoming knock out gorgeous, it would’ve saved me a lot of pain growing up. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been called Pepperoni Face? Peppermint Patty? Band Geek of the Week?” I can go on and on….

  “I couldn’t tell you, dear. It’s one of the two rules. We cannot tell a soul. If we do, we lose our Siren powers. Of course, if you someday have a daughter or granddaughter who becomes a Siren, you can mentor her, as I’m doing for you.” She rocks back and forth gently, a wistful look in her eyes. “My mother told me I was a Siren on my sixteenth birthday.”

  I never knew my great-grandmother, but I’ve seen pictures. She was one of the most elegant, beautiful women I’ve ever seen—sorta like Nicole Kidman but not as pasty. “So your mom was a Siren, then you … and now me? What about Mom?”

  She leans in so close I can smell her minty breath. “The Sea Nymph gene is passed down from mother to daughter, but occasionally it skips a generation or two to help ensure that we’re not discovered.”

  “Does Mom know you’re a Siren?”

  “No.”

  “Will she know I’m one?”

  “I’ll come up with a cover for your physical transformation, so don’t worry about that.”

  This is ridiculous, ludicrous, crazy. And yet Grandma Perkins looks so serious and so … happy. What’s the harm in playing along for a bit longer? “You said the first rule is we can’t tell anyone. What’s the other rule?”

  She takes a deep breath and squeezes my hand so hard I swear she’s cutting off my circulation. “A Siren cannot fall in love.”

  This is getting crazier by the minute. “Can’t fall in love? Why not?”

  She takes The Siren Handbook from my lap and flips the pages until she finds whatever she’s looking for. In a reverent, almost musical voice, she reads: “‘Once a woman becomes a Siren, she cannot fall in love. Whilst she can enjoy camaraderie and liaisons with the men she encounters along the journey of life, she is forbidden to bequeath her heart. Like the Sirens of Greek mythology, Sirens of today have irresistible yet deadly allure. If a Siren allows a man to get too close to her, he shall live just a moment more in pure ecstasy and then suffer a horrific, untimely death.’”

  I peer at the book as she’s reading, and, like the title, there’s just a bunch of mumbo jumbo swirled on the page. It’s as if a two-year-old got ahold of her mommy’s calligraphy pen and went to town. I snatch the book from her and flip through the pages. “How can you read that? What language is it in?”

  “The Sirens of past all had musical gifts. One sang, one played a flute, and one played a lyre,” Grandma Perkins says. “My gift is singing. When I want to use my Siren powers to their fullest, I sing.” She bends over and picks up my flute case. “I suspect your musical gift is playing the flute.”

  “Contrary to what Mom says, I’m not very good. I mean, I sit in the third seat, but that’s only when Macey McMullen’s got a sinus infection.”

  “Play your flute, and the words will come to you.”

  “So if I just play a little song on my flute, I’ll be able to make sense of these markings?”

  “That’s right.” After Grandma Perkins closes the book, she takes my hand and looks into my eyes. “Honey, I know this is … quite incredible.”

  I spring up off the bed and twist open the blinds. Gray clouds are gathering in the otherwise blue sky. Grandma Perkins’s sporty little Lexus is parked in the driveway. Seems like she’s always got a new car. “Are there other Sirens out there?” Maybe there’s a Siren chat room. Or a Sirens Anonymous chapter around here.

  “We can’t be sure.” She joins me at the window and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  Fat raindrops splatter rhythmically on the street. “Because we can’t talk about it to anyone but each other,” I say. Of course. And it’s not like anyone would believe us anyhow.

  Grandma Perkins says, “It’s for your own protection, honey. If the word got out, you and I would become living science experiments.”

  “Or we’d be on the front page of the National Enquirer, along with the vampire sheep and woman who gave birth to triplet aliens,” I say with a laugh.

  Grandma shrugs. “You never know. That’s why it’s so important that we keep it a secret.” She studies her appearance in my mirror and smoothes her already perfect hair. Her eyes find mine in the reflection. “Now, you stay in here and learn about being a Siren. I’m going to start your birthday dinner.” She gives my shoulder a couple of pats and then turns to leave.

  This is all so ridiculous. I’m not a Siren. Grandma Perkins isn’t a Siren. There are no such things as Sirens. Even the dictionary says they’re some kind of creature from Greek mythology. They’re not ordinary girls who go to high school in the Denver suburbs.

  But how can I explain how I’ve
turned from Plain Jane to Lindsay-Lohan-eat-yourheart-out in mere minutes? Unless my life has been one big Scooby-Doo cartoon and I’ve been wearing a band geek disguise for sixteen years, then maybe … possibly … perhaps there’s a grain of truth to this whole Siren thing.

  “Grandma?”

  She turns around. “Yes, Roxy?”

  “So, if I’m a Siren—”

  “You are,” she says softly.

  I clear my throat. “So I’m a Siren and now what? I mean, what’s the point?”

  Her green eyes glow. “You’ve been given a gift, and how you use it is up to you. This handbook will help you answer your questions. And you can always come to me, Roxy. Anytime.” She winks at me and then closes the door behind her.

  Can this really be happening?

  Three

  Cranking an old Black Eyed Peas CD, I dance around my room, taking every opportunity to catch glimpses of myself in the bureau mirror. I toss my hair from side to side and then bend over at my waist and flip back up. My gorgeous mane floats through the air like spun gold and then lands with every thick, luxurious hair in place. I sing along with Fergie, holding an imaginary microphone and striking Fergie-esque poses all over the floor. Wiggling hips, gyrating butt, palms pumping up in the air like a rapper, followed by a rather futile attempt at the moonwalk (just for kicks). Running back over to my bureau, I make all sorts of faces in the mirror: pouty sexy, wide-eyed innocent, nose-up conceited, tongue-out-and-cross-eyed crazy.

  Keeping time with the music, I strip down to my underwear and jump up on the bed. Higher and higher, reaching for the ceiling, knees bending up into my chest. Spread eagle, hurky, 360, back-scratcher, Fiddler on the Roof dancer move—any kind of jump I can think of or make up. I leap off the bed like a rock star, landing on my floral rug in a pseudosplit.

  Then I pull myself up and ransack my closet, tossing clothes and shoes onto my bed and all over the floor, looking for the perfect outfit to showcase my new Siren bod. I slip on four pairs of jeans, countless tops, a bunch of skirts, and a particularly bright and pouffy gown I got for 75 percent off at Nordstrom (just in case someone had asked me to a school dance last year), modeling each outfit as if my bedroom were a runway, complete with famous designers, a celebrity-studded audience, and an onslaught of camera flashes.