The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren by Wendy Toliver Read Free Book Online

edge of a bench to wait. But Natalie doesn’t move. She just stands there, looking around the waiting area and the nearby tables, her lips slightly parted. The boys and men are checking me out. Every single one in sight.
    Am I giving an accidental panty peep show? I cross my legs, just in case. A handful of the guys blink, clear their throats, orloosen their ties. But I can tell they’re still watching me. And so can Natalie. She shakes her head, her hair swishing side to side, and then drops her jaw. She’s doing a remarkable impression of a goldfish.
    â€œWell, no
wonder
they’re all staring at you,” she hisses. “You’re carrying your freaking flute case. God, Rox. You might as well have a neon sign over your head that says LOOK AT ME! I’M A BAND GEEK! Hel-
lo?”
She knocks on my head three times. “It’s Saturday night, it’s summertime, and we don’t have to be in band class for, like, three whole months. What are you thinking? Are you going to do a nice little recital while everyone’s waiting for a table?” She rolls her big blue eyes as if I’m the most ridiculous excuse for a human being she’s ever known. I do look rather ridiculous, I guess. And thanks to Natalie’s impassioned monologue, I’m feeling mighty ridiculous too.
    After an encore of her dramatic eye-roll, she turns on her heel and marches to the bathroom.
    As I feared, everyone’s still staring at me. A couple of college-age girls are even laughing. My cheeks blazing hot, I slump into the back of the bench, wishing I could pull aSusan Storm and become The Invisible Girl.
    But wait! If I use my Siren powers, can I get that manager over there to give us a table? I’ve already made a fool of myself in front of all these people. What have I got to lose, besides an hour and a half wait? Heart pounding wildly, I assemble my flute and raise it to my lips.
    Beautiful, mystical music wafts through the onion ring-scented air. From where I’m standing, it looks like all the men who hear my song are swaying, gazing at me with post-Thanksgiving-dinner, sitting-in-front-of-the-TV, favorite-football-team’s-winning eyes. The ladies, however, are scrunching their noses, whispering and pointing, apparently shocked to see a girl playing a flute in the waiting area of T.G.I. Friday’s. One of the college-age girls is laughing so hard she’ll probably pee her (very tight) pants, and the other just stood up and said, “I can’t believe this. What a freak!”
    Is this really going to work? When I stop playing, I still have everyone’s attention. I smile at the manager and curl my finger, gesturing him to come over, all Siren-like. But I don’t feel Siren-like at all. Maybe I
am
a freak. I’m about to run out thedoor, never to step foot in this restaurant for the rest of my life, but two seconds later the manager is right in front of me, apparently waiting for whatever I have to say. Oh my God. Here goes nothing.
    I take a deep breath and he leans in, even closer.
You can do it, Roxy.
“Excuse me, do you suppose you can seat my friend and me right away? You see, we wanted to catch a movie, and the wait’s awfully long, and …”
    He takes my hand and escorts me to the hostess. “Carrie, make sure this young woman and her party are seated at the next available table.”
    She scowls and narrows her beady eyes at me. My flight mechanism revs up as she paints an obviously fake smile on her face. “Sure, Greg. Anything you say.”
    He does a little bow and tells me, “So sorry about the inconvenience. We’re so honored you decided to dine here tonight.”
    â€œOh. Well. Thanks.” I take a deep breath and forge on. “It’s one of our favorite places.”
    As the hostess extracts two menus from behind the podium, I overhear a woman ask her friend, “Did that girl just get seated before