The Siren

“I took this off our door. My roommate was a pain about it, but if you need anything, just scribble it down.” He passed me a whiteboard that had already managed to take a beating in the first few months of school. It was such a thoughtful gesture, I nearly cried.

I watched him as he carefully took out the eggs and sugar and flour, lining up everything along the back of the counter to give us room to cook.

“Is this almond extract? This is fancy. Again, I ruined food today, so remember, you’re going to have to walk me through every step of this.”

Wordlessly, I pulled out the printed instructions and laid them beside the bowl.

“There we go,” he said, picking them up to study. He went over the multiple steps, his face looking more and more worried the closer he got to the end. He pulled himself together and peeked sheepishly at me over the top of the paper.

“Okay, Kahlen. Teach me to cook!”

7 (#ulink_ca208248-56e6-5ffd-9016-e252ea6afe51)

“Have you always lived in Florida?”

I shook my head and cracked another egg. It wasn’t one of those things I could easily explain without speech. I waved my hand in a circle and made an exasperated face.

“All over the place?”

I nodded.

“Are your parents in the army or something? I only got to spend a year with one of my best friends in high school before his dad was stationed somewhere else. I hear that’s pretty fast, though.”

I watched him, listening intently, not really confirming or denying anything about my parents and hoping he wouldn’t press any further.

“I grew up in this tiny town in Maine. Port Clyde. You ever heard of it?”

I shook my head, and he passed me the sugar he’d measured out. I took my finger and brushed the extra heap off the top into the sink.

“Oh, is that bad?” he asked.

Baking is science, I scribbled on the board.

“Huh. Okay, I will tuck that lesson away. So, yeah, Port Clyde. It’s really small and mostly known for its lobster. There’s also an artist residency there, so we get some creative types coming through town. That’s why I thought you might have heard of it. You were drawing the other day, so I didn’t know if that was something you were into or what.”

I made a so-so gesture with my hand. Even with the whiteboard, it would be hard to explain that I really liked drawing because of my sort-of sister and that I wished I was half as good at seeing the world as she was.

“My parents are there, dying for me to come home. I’m an only child, so they’re kind of lonely without me around. My mom calls me literally, like, every day. I told her she should get a puppy, but she said I was better than a dog, which is good, I guess. Am I talking too much?”

He paused, staring into my eyes, genuine worry coloring his face.

I shook my head. No, I thought, I’d listen to you talk about nearly anything. You make phone calls sound like an adventure.

“Okay. She’s also worried because I’m still undeclared. I don’t think that’s a huge deal. Not yet anyway. Do you?”

I snapped my first two fingers and thumb together quickly, the ASL sign for no. Realizing he might not understand, I shook my head as well.

“Cool. What are you studying? Is it art?”

I didn’t have another answer, so I nodded.

“You’ve got an artist vibe,” he said knowingly.

I looked down at myself, then back up at Akinli, questioning him with my eyes.

“No, really. I’m not sure what it is, but you look like you’ve made and broken a lot of things and then made them all over again. Which makes no sense, I’m sure. But trust me, it’s there.”

I started whisking the batter. I was glad he didn’t know how much I’d actually broken in my time—ships that cost millions of dollars, lives no one could put a price on—but I liked the idea that maybe, somewhere deep inside me, I was also capable of fixing things.

I passed the bowl to him, really hoping he’d participate.

“Oh, my gosh. Okay.” He took the whisk in his hand. “I got this. Okay …”

He started whisking.

As he worked, I added in a few drops of the almond extract, and after a moment he looked up at me. I tilted my head questioningly. What?

It took him a second to snap out of his stare. “Oh. Sorry. Nice teamwork there,” he said, then winced as if he thought he’d said something dumb. “Speaking of teamwork,” he added, his voice lighter, “I think you could maybe help me with something.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Hear me out. See, if you’re not talking, you spend almost every second of your life listening, taking things in, right?”

I nodded. That was all I did.

“I feel like, because of that, you’re probably very perceptive. So as an experiment, I’d like to know what you think I should be studying.”

I gawked at him.

You mean pick your major? I wrote.

“Exactly. I’ve had a few friends weigh in, but I think they were joking. Someone said musical therapy, and I’ve never so much as touched a kazoo.”

I smirked at his exasperation.

“Come on. I need some direction in my life. Give it a shot.”

I stared at this boy who I admittedly hardly knew. Yet I felt as if I’d learned so much about him, like, if anyone asked, I could outline his entire personality. He was so warm, so open, so full of simple joy. What had I done to catch his attention, to have him interested in not just my looks, but my thoughts?

I could tell he was actually eager to hear my opinion, so I focused on his question. I could imagine him as an advocate for an abused child or an aide for someone with mental illness, the only person in their whirlwind lives with the capacity to hold them down to the earth. I wrote on the whiteboard again.

“Social work?” he asked.

I applauded.

He laughed, a sound more like music than anything I made. “I’m intrigued. Okay, Kahlen, I will research this field and get back to you.” He glanced down at the cake batter, then raised the whisk and held it out to me, dripping. “Does this look right?”

I touched the whisk, then licked the batter off my finger. Akinli’s warm blue eyes held mine as sweetness spread across my tongue. It was perfect.