I wish I’d worn something a little less … flowery. This bright pink sundress with little white roses seemed like a good idea a couple of hours ago. After all, it is upbeat and attention-grabbing. But now that I’m here, I’m kicking myself. (Natalie wouldn’t have let me leave the house in this thing.) Besides, my new Pucci tote clashes big-time. Ugh.
After following Mr. Valdez into a small square office, I take a seat on the Über modern couch. There are several leather portfolios fanned out on the coffee table. One of the walls is made entirely of glass, overlooking a runway in a large empty room.
“That’s where our models learn to walk the runway. Our coach, London McGill, previously worked in New York for Ford Models. If we decide to sign you, you’ll be required to pass an extensive test before we’ll place you on Envision’s runway team.” He makes himself comfy in his black leather chair and then steeples his fingers on the glossy desktop. Next to his Mac is a nameplate that reads: ANTONIO VALDEZ, AGENCY EXECUTIVE AND FOUNDER.
“Roxanne, was it?”
I look up and show him what I hope is my most dazzling smile. “Roxy.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Roxy. Philip never disappoints. Now, let’s get down to business. Let’s see your portfolio.”
I fix him with a blank stare.
“You do have a portfolio, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Do you have a head shot?”
I shake my head.
His forehead crinkles ever so slightly, disproving my assumption that he’s a walking Botox ad. “Have you ever done any modeling, Roxy?”
“Uh, nooo.” I’m totally unprepared for this. It’s like I’m at a band concert when I don’t know any of the music and I have to do a solo!
He slides open a drawer in his filing cabinet and extracts a lavender piece of paper. “Here’s a list of photographers whom we work with. Arrange a photo shoot with one of them and then bring your pictures here so we can see what you’ve got.”
“How long will that take?” I ask, taking the paper from him.
“Most are booked out four to six weeks. But you must have a portfolio of sorts before we can send you out. A nice head shot at the very minimum. I’m sorry, but there are no exceptions. No matter how beautiful you are.”
Four to six weeks? He’s gotta be kidding me! The summer will practically be over by then. And if the Jaded fashion show is this weekend, I’ve got to get cranking. I don’t even have a recent photo of myself, let alone a professional head shot. But wait …
“Actually, I do have a head shot.” I reach into my tote and grab my flute. I start playing, filling the room with beautiful music. I’m a Siren, and I’m not going to let a little thing like a head shot keep me from starting my modeling career. When Mr. Valdez is unmistakably under my spell, I put the flute away and hand him my driver’s license. “Here it is. Amazing, isn’t it?”
Driving home from my interview, I spot Alex sitting on the stairs in front of his tan stucco house, yo-yoing. He’s wearing a pair of long shorts and an Auto Spa T-shirt, a bag of Skittles in his hand.
I pull over to the curb and break.
He stands up and jogs over. “I never thought I’d see the day you were driving this. What, did your dad get a new one or something?”
“Nah. He just lets me buzz around in it ’cause I get good grades and all.” I know I said I’d stop lying but it’s not like I can say, “I’m a Siren and I used my powers on my own father.”
“Wow.” He whistles, running his finger over the hood. “You know, I get pretty decent grades too. Are your parents interested in adopting a trombone player with a 3.8 GPA?” He holds up his bag of candy. “Want some?”
I nod, and he pours some Skittles into my palm. I pop a green one and a purple one into my mouth.
“Maybe if I were your adopted brother, I’d get to see you more often,” he says. “You know, for meals and pillow fights and whatnot.”
“I’ll be sure to ask them if they’re in the market for another mouth to feed.”
Alex pours the remaining candies into his mouth, then balls up the empty Skittles bag, tosses it high in the air, and catches it behind his back.
“Impressive.”
He grins, his smile slightly lopsided. “Thanks. One of my better talents.”
“So, what’re you up to today?” I ask, sliding my sunglasses on top of my head.
He shoves his hands in his front pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels, nodding at the lawn. “Just giving this baby a good mowin’ job.”
“I’m sure if I mention to Dad that you mow lawns, he’ll adopt you in a flash.”
“Yeah, well, if I hadn’t waited till we needed a machete just to get to the front door, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. But when I saw the UPS guy’s mug on the carton of milk this morning, I knew I had to dust off the ol’ mower, push up my sleeves, and get dirty.”
“I’m sure the UPS guy will be mighty grateful when his knight on shiny mower comes to rescue him.”
Alex smiles. “So, enough about me. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing nearly as exciting as cutting grass. But I’m just getting back from an interview. I’m going to be a model,” I say, a tad more enthusiastically than I’d intended.
“Cool! Just think—I get to say ‘I knew her when’ when you’re gracing the pages of the Victoria’s Secret catalog in a pair of sweats with PINK written all over the butt.” I stare at him until his cheeks turn red and he says, “Yeah, I’ve been known to flip through a catalog or two. It’s kinda hard not to when my mom and sisters get them in the mail every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday.” He scratches his shoulder. “Not that I keep track.”
“I don’t think you’ll see me in the Victoria’s Secret catalog any time soon. But I do get to be in a fashion show at Designer Palace on Saturday.”
“Really? Saturday, eh? Well, I’d love to come cheer you on—”
For a brief moment I visualize Alex McCoy standing beside the runway, holding up one of those big Styrofoam hands that reads ROXY’S #1! and trying to get the whole mall to partake in the wave.
“—but I’ll be at the PAD. Benjamin says hi, by the way. And so do Rosie and Eleanor. They wanted to know where you were last weekend.”
“Oh, yeah? Um, well, I kinda spaced it. Sorry. Probably all the excitement of it being … the day after my birthday.” Smooth, Roxy, real smooth.
He looks at me kind of funny for an instant and then shrugs. “It’s not the same without you. Rosie and Eleanor were fighting over who got to walk the big white poodle again, and I don’t do nearly as good a job refereeing as you do.”
“Well, I’ll have to check my schedule. Now that I’ve started modeling, I’ll probably be pretty busy on Saturdays.” Truth is, even though I’m excited to get my modeling career going, I’m going to miss volunteering. I’m going to miss the old people, the poor orphan dogs, and … hanging out with Alex. “You know what?” I say. “I’m totally craving a Slurpee. Wanna come with? My treat.”
“Sure!” Alex hops into the passenger seat and fastens his seat belt. We cruise through the neighborhood in silence. A little boy’s basketball escapes and bounces into the middle of the road. I stop and he runs after it.
After the boy is safely back to his driveway, I say, “Hey, Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“So … I haven’t seen Natalie in a while. How’s she doing?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible.
He shrugs. “Same ol’.”
“My grandma got me all these cool clothes from Paris and they just arrived yesterday. I want to give a bunch to her because I know she’ll love them, especially to wear when school starts and everything.”
“Yeah, she’d really like that,” Alex agrees.
“But, well, if you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly talking these days,” I say as I turn onto Mountain Boulevard.
Alex shrugs. “Yeah, I noticed. Actually, everyone noticed. You two used to be inse
parable.”
I decelerate and then stop as a yellow light turns red. “Do you think you could take them to her? The clothes, I mean. I could give them to you and you could …”
He just shakes his head.
“I’ve already tried to apologize, Alex.” The light turns green and I slip the stick shift into first. But I pop the clutch and the car lurches forward, sputters, and dies. Someone in a black Escalade lays on the horn, and I feel the sweat beading on my forehead. Finally, I get the Porsche restarted and hit the gas.
“You should try again,” Alex says as the Escalade driver whizzes around us, giving me the finger. “Don’t give up.”
I sigh. “Well, here we are. Seven-Eleven.”
We’re over at the Slurpee machine and I’m teaching Alex how to make the perfect Slurpee (the poor boy didn’t realize you’re supposed to put the lid on before filling up), when Eva and Amber walk in, both sporting tennis skirts. Wonderful.
“Hey, look, it’s Roxy!” Amber says to Eva.
“So it is,” Eva says, heading straight for us. “Hiya, Roxy. What’re you up to?”
Hmm. Very interesting. So Eva’s decided to be nice to me now? That’s cool, I guess. A girl can never have too many friends, right?
“What she really wants to ask is, ‘Are you and Zach still together?’” Amber says, practically jogging to catch up with her long-legged friend.
Eva rolls her eyes and flips her long blond hair behind her shoulder. “Whatever I’m so over Zach it’s not even funny. Now be a sweetie and get me a sugar-free Red Bull.” She pushes Amber in the direction of the energy drink section and then turns her dark blue eyes on me.
“So, are you still dating what’s-his-face? We haven’t seen you with him lately. Oh, or are you with this guy now?” She lifts her chin to indicate Alex, who has red Slurpee dribbling down his arm and splattering all over the floor.
When Alex realizes that Eva and I are staring at him, he chuckles nervously. “I, um, thought I was supposed to overfill it ’cause of the shrinkage factor. Isn’t that what you said to do, Rox?”
I clear my throat and take a few steps away from the sticky puddle. “Alex is just a friend.”
Eva nods and then snatches the silver can that Amber just brought her. “I said sugarfree,” Eva snaps, passing the can right back to Amber. Amber skedaddles to make the exchange. Eva eyeballs my Slurpee. “How do you drink those things and say so thin?”
Before I can think of an answer, she says, “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you. But we’ve gotta run now. We’ve got a court reserved at the club.”
I watch the two girls pay for their drinks and parade out to Eva’s baby blue Mustang while a twentysomething guy in a striped shirt mops up Alex’s mess.
Alex holds a Slurpee cup up for me to inspect. “Look, I think I have the hang of it,” he says, smiling.
“Good job,” I say, and I pay the cashier.
Back in my dad’s Boxster, Alex is staring down at his Slurpee, wiggling the straw up and down and making an obnoxious squeaky sound. “Something bothering you?” I ask, slipping on my sunglasses. “I mean, besides the fact that I have a cooler car than you?” I hit him on his arm playfully.
“Do I embarrass you?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
I take a long swig of my drink, buying time. And getting a major brain freeze in the process. “Alex, there’s no use crying over spilled Slurpee. Unless,” I add as an afterthought, “it’s the last bit of cherry left in the whole machine.”
“I’m being serious, Rox.”
“What do you want me to say?” I put the Boxster in reverse and back out of the parking spot.
“Just be honest.”
I take another sip, even though I’m still suffering from a brain freeze. Does he really want me to say he’s sometimes a bit of an embarrassment? I can’t tell him that!
Alex plunks his drink in the cup holder and crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay, so here’s the deal,” he says. “I’m going to be completely honest with you. If you can handle it, that is.”
“Bring it.” I shift into third gear, relieved not to be on the spot any longer.
“You and Zach Parker might look good together, but you’re not good together.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not right for each other. You’re totally different people.”
I snort. “Like he’s a popular jock and I’m a nerdy band girl?”
Alex slaps the dash. “God, Roxy. Not even. What I mean is, Zach Parker doesn’t deserve you. I think you’re great. You’re real.” He scratches his nose and then rests his elbow on the top of the door. “At least, you used to be real.”
I bite my inner cheek, willing myself not to snap. I can’t believe Alex McCoy, Mr. Nice Guy, just said something so mean! Thank God for my sunglasses, ’cause I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. “I’m still real,” I say, my voice cracking.
“Oh? Then tell me this. Will things be the same at school? Will we still hang out? Or are you going to ignore me, now that you’re in with the V.I.Peeps?”
As soon as the words “Of course we’ll still hang out,” and “Everything’s going to be the same” come rushing out of my mouth, I realize I’m full of crap. And I hate myself for it. I can’t stand lying to Alex. “Listen,” I say, scrounging up the guts to lay it on the line. “To be honest, I think you might be right. About me and Zach, I mean. It’s not really … what I expected. I mean, I still think he’s cute. But now that I know him better …”
I look over at Alex and catch a glimmer of a smile. “Oh, don’t look so smug, you jerk!”
“So are you going to break up with him?” he asks as I pull into his driveway.
“I don’t know, Alex. What would you do if you were me?”
“Dump him and go out with me.”
Is he serious? Nah, he can’t be. But what if … ?
Twelve
While I’m stopped at the traffic light in front of Designer Palace on Saturday afternoon, I make a decision. I’m going to make up with Natalie, no matter what it takes.
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 th
ey’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.
The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren Page 10
