The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren Read Online Free PDF Page B

and breathtakingly beautiful. Two pools of emerald green water, gazing back at me.
    A tap on the door startles me, and I slam the book closed, launching little sparkly dust particles into the air. I shove it behind my pillow and paint a bored-yet-innocent expression on my face.
    â€œIt’s just me, Roxy,” my grandmother says, peeping in. “Your father said he’d clean up, so I’m going to go home now.”
    â€œGrandma?” I sit up.
    She comes in, closing the door behind her. “Yes, dear?”
    â€œIs this for real? Are we truly Sirens?”
    â€œYes, Roxy.”
    â€œI’ve been reading this book you gave me, but it’s just all this legend stuff. What does it have to do with twenty-first century me?”
    â€œDo you have any specific questions?”
    â€œWhat kind of powers do I have?” Actually, I’ve been wondering this ever since Grandma mentioned Siren powers, but I didn’t want to come off all power-hungry. As if transforming into a total hottie in a matter of minutes wasn’t enough.

    â€œYour power comes in two parts, just like the dictionary definition,” Grandma Perkins says. “Beauty and music. And, like our ancestors, our power only works on men. Your physical attractiveness will get you far on its own. It’s no mystery that good-looking people have certain advantages over plain people.” She lowers her voice before continuing. “But if you play your flute, the sky’s the limit. If a man has something you desire—a job, money, a summer home in Greece—all you have to do is play a few notes and he’ll bend over backward to make your every dream come true.”
    â€œAll I have to do is play my flute and men will do anything I want them to?”
    â€œYes.” She pauses a moment and then says, “Or rather, they’ll do anything they
can
do. For example, you can’t make a man without any artistic talent paint a beautiful portrait of you. But you
can
ask a male artist to paint a portrait of you free of charge, and it will be to the very best of his ability. While you can’t make a man grow taller,” she says, pointing to the ceiling, “you
can
get a short man to wear lifts in his shoes without a single complaint. Do you see what I mean?”

    â€œYeah, I think so.” I close
The Siren Handbook
and place it safely in my drawer. “So I’ll need to take my flute with me whenever I want to use my Siren powers?”
    â€œIf I were you, I’d have it with me at all times. One never knows when it will come in handy.”
    When I wake up the next morning, I reach over to my nightstand to grab my glasses, like I’ve done every morning since the fourth grade. But they’re not there. Where did I leave them? Oh, right. The bathroom. And then I remember
why
they’re in the bathroom. That’s where Grandma Perkins held me prisoner while I transformed into a Siren.
    Am I still a Siren, or was it all a really bizarre dream?
    I sit up straight and blink once, twice. When I look at myself in the bureau mirror across the room, I just about scream in delight. Not a hair out of place. I look like Jennifer Aniston on a good hair day!
    There’s a knock on my door. “Honey, are you awake yet?” Mom asks, cracking it open. She comes in and perches on the edge of my bed. She’s wearing a turquoisetop and navy tennis skirt, her varicose-veiny legs stuffed into the whitest tennis shoes I’ve seen outside the shoe department. She leans over and rakes her fingers through my hair.
    â€œWhat’s up, Mom?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t ask questions about my new appearance.
    â€œI’ve got to leave for tennis now, but would you like to practice driving a little later on? Say, six o’clock? We could go on I-25 if you want.” Monday’s the big day. The day I get my driver’s license. I haven’t really driven very much with my