Crush du Jour (16 page)

About the Author

Micol Ostow has always had a healthy appetite. At two years old she proclaimed a particular affinity for chocolate cake that persists to this day. She could cook up a fancy, multicourse meal if she wanted to, but since she lives in a Manhattan studio she mostly subsists on Doritos and gummy bears. Visit her at
http://www.micolostow.com
.

LOL at this sneak peek of
The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren
By Wendy Toliver
A new Romantic Comedy from Simon Pulse

“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 birth
day 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 drop-dead gorgeous 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?