Sirenz

Woodbury, Minnesota

Copyright Information

Sirenz
© 2011 by Charlotte Bennardo and Natalie Zaman.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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First e-book edition © 2011

E-book ISBN: 9780738729688

Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover images: pedestal © iStockphoto.com/James Martin;
feathers © iStockphoto.com/Saoly, Katarzyna Krawiec,
;
shoe
© iStockphoto.com/CarlssonInc. Photography;
label © iStockphoto.com/Nilgun Bostanci

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A Mismatched Pair

G
od, you're wearing those clunky things again? How stupid, wearing five-inch wedge heels on cracked and frozen New York City sidewalks. What if you break an ankle?

“Great shoes,” I said, faking a beauty queen smile at Meg.

“I think I paid five dollars for them. They're from the seventies,” she said absentmindedly.

No kidding. You should have left them there.

“Feet cold?” I wiggled my toasty toes in my crystal-studded Ugg boots.
My
feet were warm,
and
they looked good.

She shrugged.

Poor toesies.

Last spring, when I scored a spot in the coveted Fourth Year Live-In, a program our alternative school offers to twelfth grade students who “show promise, initiative, and vision in their chosen field of study,” I was psyched. It's a sweet deal that includes the perk of on-campus housing, just like college—no parents, no curfew, and Manhattan living for nine months! Only top students are offered the opportunity. I knew I had to have a roommate, but I figured, how awful could that be?

Then I got paired with Meg Wiley.

We couldn't be more mismatched—black hair, black clothes,
old
clothes, not to mention voodoo, hoodoo, or whatever else she was into. The Academically Independent High School of New York had saddled me with a vampire out of a 1940s horror movie, and an argumentative one, too. She always had some smart-ass remark about my love of cashmere or my Starbucks addiction. As if she had no habits to complain about.

I looked at her now, clomping along the sidewalk in those outrageous wood-soled Kabuki shoes and completely black ensemble, and shuddered. On my tall and fair-skinned body, that much black would make me look like the walking dead. At least I knew my skinny jeans, ballet flats, and Victoria's Secret PJs were safe; Meg could never squeeze her curvy frame into my pink sweaters even if she wanted to, plus she only wore clothes that made her look like she was in a perpetual state of mourning. I shrugged it off.

The wind blasted us as we turned the corner of Fifth and Broadway. We bent into it, clutching our sleeves and wiping our tearing eyes. It made the holiday lights look blurry. Good thing my mascara was water resistant. Who knew who we'd meet? Lots of celebrities came to these sales. Not that Meg cared; she hated the rich and the “ostentatious.”

We'd learned a lot about each other during weeks of petty bickering this fall, but I thought it was time for some sort of truce, since we had to live together for the rest of the year. There was no switching roommates at Live-In; any irreconcilable differences were resolved via removal from the program, and I was not about to let Vampirella stand between me and independence. So, as a peace offering, I called her at home over winter break and invited her out shopping. It was either that or put up with my family for the entire time, which was too depressing to consider. Meg actually agreed—with great reluctance—to come with me to an after-Christmas sample sale. One-of-a-kind creations at undreamed-of prices! Even if she wasn't interested in a designer bag, something might catch her eye.

And anyway, since she'd gotten into the Live-In program, we had to have something in common. I was determined to find out what that was. So I would be the bigger person and make the first move; we'd do a little shopping, get to know each other better, and who knew—by the end of the night we'd be swapping style tips over a couple of hot lattes. Maybe I could get her to lighten up a bit. Literally.

I tugged on Meg's coat sleeve to get her attention. “What time is it?” I asked.

She drew an ancient-looking pocket watch out of her purse. “About ten thirty.”

“We have some time to kill before the sale starts,” I said, my teeth chattering.

As Meg snapped the watch shut, her foot caught on the uneven sidewalk. But she quickly recovered.

See,
bad shoes! Maybe you'll find a decent pair at the sale.

“So let's do something first, then eat, then go,” Meg suggested casually, as if she didn't almost kiss the sidewalk. I suppressed a smirk behind my pink pashmina scarf. It would be too cruel to ask how her feet were holding up.

“Wait!” She held up a hand, stopping short in front of a little shop. An orange neon sign cast a strange glow against her face:
TAROT
. “I want a reading.”

“Okay.” I shrugged. If that's what she wanted to do, I could be magnanimous as long as I was going to be warm and they kept me out of it. Who really believed that stuff anyway?

A silver bell tinkled brightly as we rushed inside. The shop was cozy and redolent with the spicy aroma of cinnamon incense—
the joy of Cinnabons without the temptation
. My stomach grumbled. The walls were lined with bookcases and cluttered with hanging stone and brass sculptures of pentagrams, angelic goddesses, and leafy-faced men. Colorful glass globes and wind chimes dangled from the ceiling, while the center of the store was crammed with displays of pouches, stones in baskets, and other hocus-pocus tchotchkes.

A woman walked out from the back room. “Hi,” she said.

She'd avoided the stereotypical fortune-teller look. No jangly earrings, India-print skirts, or head scarves. I breathed a sigh of relief. She looked like an average New Yorker—great jeans, vintage cream Irish cable knit sweater, and sexy, black-heeled, not-too-high boots. I didn't think she'd be giving Meg the “you'll-meet-a-stranger” B.S.

“Hi,” Meg said matter-of-factly. “Can I get a reading?”

“Come on back. I'm Katharine.”
A nice normal name
. I relaxed a little more. No bizarre madame, no Hollyweirdness.

We sat at a round table covered with a celestial-print cloth. Katharine took a deck of cards from a stone box carved with a skull. I looked around. Were there a lot of skulls around here, or was I just … ? No, there were a lot of skulls.

Katharine caught me staring and grinned. “I love cemetery art.”

Meg nodded. “It's intense.”

“Uh, yuh,” I said.

“Think of a question as you shuffle the cards,” said Katharine, handing them to Meg. “Put them on the table when you feel it's right.”

Meg's face lit up, an expression I never liked and one she always wore when talking about weird stuff. She shuffled the cards for several minutes, then gingerly placed them on the table in front of Katharine, who laid them out in a five-pointed star pattern. I dug through my Coach bag and searched for pen and paper to list the outfits I wanted to find, the shoes to go with them, and things I had to do that weekend. I didn't want to listen to this even if I could hear it.

“You're at a turning point. The Wheel of Fortune indicates that a
change of events is going to alter your current situation,” Katharine murmured. I peeked over as she pointed to the first card and flicked a glance my way. “If you've been having a tough time, say, in a relationship with a friend, things are going to improve.”

She lifted the second card and held it up—a picture of a man who appeared distraught at three overturned cups. “In the past, it seems that you didn't get what you wanted or expected.”

Meg's eyes widened, and drawn in against my common sense, I scooched over so that I could see better.

Katharine smiled and shook her head. “Look at the picture. There are still two perfectly good cups behind him and he's ignoring them. Your situation has a lot of good in it, but you're just not seeing it. This one,” and she pointed to a card that pictured a single man fighting with a staff on a hill, “tells me that you have a challenge coming up. Nothing you can't handle. If you take the higher ground, you'll prevail.”

Sooo mystical,
I pooh-poohed.
That could be applied to anyone
. I tuned the conversation out and went back to my lists. Finally, Meg stood up to leave.

“Nice meeting you.” I thrust my hand into Katharine's, quickly shook it, and tried to hurry Meg along before she asked yet another question, or worse, put me on the spot to get a reading too. As genial as Katharine was, all this psychic stuff was a tad too creepy for me.

“At least she didn't say you'd meet a handsome stranger and fall deeply in love,” I quipped after Meg paid and we left the store. “I would have thrown up.”

Meg's forehead creased. I could almost hear the wheels spinning inside her head.

“Don't worry about anything she said, Meg. I'll bet every fortune-teller—”

“Katharine isn't a fortune-teller, Shar. She's a
psychic
.”

“And you know this for sure just because she told you?”

“I'm in for a big challenge. I—”

“Oh please! Your only challenge is going to be to find something that's not black!”

“You're so skeptical!” Meg huffed. “Don't you believe in anything other than what you see?”

“Right now I'm so hungry the only thing I want to believe is that I'll find food before I faint. How about pizza?”

Meg brightened. “I know a great place.”

A block or two down the street, she steered us toward a grimy-looking storefront hung with garish holiday garlands that had seen better days. I could barely make out the red, green, and gold through the tarnish. I was about to protest when she dragged me in. It looked roachy; the floors were gritty and it reeked of garlic. But the instant we walked through the door, I was glad she hadn't given me a chance to say no. Standing at the counter, ordering a slice with extra peppers was … a god.

At least he looked like it from his profile. A rippling cascade of smooth dark locks tumbled to his shoulders, just brushing the collar of his perfectly distressed leather jacket. What kind of jeans was he wearing? It didn't matter; they fit his lean but obviously muscular legs. Now if he would only turn around, so I could see all of his face.

“Bad-ass jacket,” Meg murmured under her breath.

“Sweet jeans,” I whispered. We exchanged glances.
Yummo!
But there was only one of him.
I didn't know if Meg was into sharing, but I wasn't.

Sweet Jeans turned around and I heard Meg catch her breath. His front was even better than his backside. A fringe of hair somewhere between black and dark chocolate dipped above his large, cerulean eyes, which were smudged with a bit of dark liner. He caught me staring and grinned. There was a hint of stubble on his chin that made the eyeliner
so
work for him. Normally I wasn't into makeup on guys, even rock stars, but for him I would totally make an exception.

“Hello ladies,” he said, looking from me to Meg.

“Hey,” Meg breathed. She always knew what to say and how to say it, even if it was a one-line hello. Meanwhile, I couldn't untie the knot from my tongue. Sweet Jeans too
k his pizza and made his way over to a counter that ran along the window. Both of us watched him as he leaned his studly body over the narrow ledge. The soft glow of Christmas lights reflected in his hair.

I've been a good girl, Santa …

“What can I getchya?” I barely heard the voice behind the counter. “Girls?”

A shrill whistle made me jump. I turned my attention back to the pizza. A squat older man in a smudgy apron cocked his eye at me knowingly.

“Are you here for pizza, sweetheart,” he asked, jerking his head in Sweet Jeans' direction, “or dessert—'cause he ain't on the menu.”

“One plain slice and a Diet Coke,” I answered primly, trying not to blush.

“And your friend there?” he asked, plopping a cheesy wedge onto a paper plate. I glanced at Meg, who looked like she'd forgotten about being hungry. I nudged her in the ribs. Hard.

“Ow!” She glared at me.

I inclined my head toward the counter.

“Oh. Oh! Uh, a mushroom slice and … a Diet Coke.”

Meg never did diet anything. That was another one of her lectures—that I'd probably already preserved myself for eternity from ingesting all those artificial sugars and additives.

She was definitely distracted.

Pizza Man shook his head and slid a plate and a cup in her direction.

“Follow me,” she ordered, quickly grabbing her food.

“Where?” I whispered.

She grinned. “To make a new friend.” And she started moving toward the window counter.

“No! Wait!” I whispered as loudly as I could. I needed to run to the bathroom and check my makeup, but I had serious doubts about the restrooms in this place. They were probably unisex and I do
not
use man bathrooms. Too late. Meg had already positioned herself on one side of Sweet Jeans. I had no choice but to join them, as is.

“How did you manage to get passes to that?” I heard Meg say as I settled myself on the only other empty seat, which was on his other side. Bad-boy sandwich.
Delicioso! Who would get the first bite?