The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren by Wendy Toliver Page B

to promise to take me home,” I say as we cross through J.T’s front yard. “It’s my birthday, you know.”
    Crap. This flute-down-the-shirt thing isn’t exactly comfortable. Can people see it? Note to self: No hugging and no slow dancing with anybody.
    She raises her delicate eyebrow. “Deal.”
    We slip through the front door, Eminem’s music giving me an insta-headache. About twenty teenagers are jammed into the livingroom—some dancing, some lounging on the white leather couches. Everyone’s shouting, and it reeks of sweat and cologne and beer. This must’ve been what Kurt Cobain meant by “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
    â€œDo you see him?” I ask.
    Natalie shakes her head.
    We wander over to the fireplace to get a better look. By now, more and more partiers are taking notice of us, and there’s a lot of whispering going on. I strain to hear what they’re saying, but it’s too loud in here.
    â€œLet’s get a drink,” Natalie yells over the music, grabbing my hand. She yanks me past the gyrating sea of bodies to the kitchen, where one of the Proud Crowd chicks is doing a keg stand, the hem of her skirt sliding down to expose her pastel yellow panties.
    â€œFourteen … fifteen … sixteen …,” the mob chants.
    The guys promptly stop counting when they see us, and a cheerleader performs a bubbly solo from back by the dishwasher. Her voice trails off after “twenty-one.” The chick on the keg spits the tap out, a stream of beer squirting out.Every guy in the room stares at me, mouth agog.
    I snatch the tap away from the dazed keg master (who is still spraying people with beer) and pass it to Natalie. “I’m going to go outside for a sec. I just need some fresh air,” I tell her, my flute painfully poking into my thigh.
    â€œOkay, hang on.” She passes me a flimsy white plastic cup half full of lukewarm beer, half full of foam. I escape out the back door. I’m excited for Zach to see me like this, but I’m pretty nervous too. I’m not quite ready to “bump into” him. I need to collect my thoughts, psych myself up.
    There’s an old swing set by the back fence, creaking lazily in the evening breeze. I walk over to it and try to sit on the swing, but I’m not bending very well with this flute down my shirt. So I just lean against the pole and raise the beer to my lips. I take one sip and spit it out. Disgusting. Especially mixed with spearmint gum. I spit the gum out and it ricochets off the fence.
    Rustling noises are coming from behind the garage. Probably just a couple getting it on. Too bad Natalie’s not here to quench her gossip thirst. I hear a voice that sounds anawful lot like Devin’s. “I wonder if Zach’s nerdy little date is gonna make it,” he says, not very quietly.
    Oh my God. Are they talking about
me?
I tiptoe closer to the garage, trying to keep my flip-flops from click-clacking on my heels.
    â€œDude, she’s not all that bad.” Is that Zach? “There’s something … about her. About the way she’s always staring at me and pretending not to.”
    Devin says, “Shit, dude. No more beer for you. She’s a BeeGee, for Chrissake.”
    Now J.T. is talking. “I know what Zach means. Band geeks can be hot. Maybe she does that flute thing like that chick in that movie.”
    Oh, yeah. Like
that’s
original. We flutists will never live that down, thank-you-very-much,
American Pie.
    â€œShit, dude,” Zach and Devin groan in unison.
    Then Devin says, “Hell, Zachster. You’ve got Eva wrapped around your little finger. No BeeGee in the world would make me give up
that
fine booty.”
    â€œYeah,” J.T. says, laughing. “No matter how many times she did the band campflute act for your viewing pleasure.”
    Without warning, the jocks wander out from behind the garage and immediately