Truth or Dare (6 page)

As long as I was taking inventory, I checked for symptoms. No zits on my face. No oil in my hair. No bloat in my belly. No cramps.

And mood swings? Irritability?

Nah.

I was still The Nice One. Nice to everyone, all the time. Even though my aunt made me want to kick something. Especially right at this mo.

Suddenly, the curtain swished.

I yelped.

But it was just Mothball, who sniffed my ankles (which probably smelled like cats), and ran out.

I put my shorts back on.

“All set there, Princess Lia?” Winnie called.

I wrapped my T-shirt around my chest. “Yep.”

“Then open up,” Winnie said cheerfully. “I've brought you some beautiful bras in all different styles, to give us an idea of what you're looking for.”

“I'm not looking for anything.” I opened the curtain just enough for her to shove an armload at me. Maybe twenty-five bras on these doll-size plastic hangers.

Whoa. They expected me to try on
all
of these?

Obviously, I wouldn't. There was just no way! And besides, most of these bras I could reject right away. For having rhinestones, fancy lace, polka dots, tropical flowers, padding.

Padding!
I couldn't believe it. Aunt Shelby had said
booblessness was “no big deal.” We were “late bloomers.” It was all “genetics.” So I totally did
not
get why she'd give me bras to fake looking
bigger.

Plus, she was supposed to be all Natural Botanicals, Centuries of Wisdom, blah, blah, blah. So did she think in ancient Peru, Inca women put on fake boobholders every morning? What did they pad their bras with—dandelion fluff? Herbs and spices?

Also, some of these padded bras had underwire. Like to push your boobs upward. Correction: to push the
padding
upward, toward your chin.

Mom
never
would have bought me bras with chin cushions. She was all into sports bras for jogging. She cared about health and fitness, not about fake upward-pointing boobs and rhinestones. And if she were here with me right now, helping me find a bra that made any
sense—

“What do you think, muffin? Aren't they pretty?” Winnie cooed.

“Mm-hmm,” I said.

“Let me know if you need any help trying on.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Well, if I subtract all the rejects, that leaves me five I should probably try on, just to get out of here,
I told myself. I grabbed one of the five finalists—a plain pink unpadded one with a little bow in the center, the sort of thing I would
have liked if I was six years old and playing Underwear Dress-up.

I put my arms through the straps. Then I tried to fasten it in the back.

It didn't work.

Wait. Seriously?

I took a deep breath and tried again.

And again.

Nope. Still couldn't do it.

I craned my neck to look behind myself in the mirror, but even with this backward view, I still couldn't get both hooks to catch on both of the hook thingies. If they caught on
one
of the hook thingies, it was the
wrong
one. Once I got Hook A to catch on Hook Thingy A, but it came out just as I started working on Hook B. No matter how many times I tried, it was like I was playing with a sadistic crane machine at an arcade, the kind that took your quarter and refused to give you a prize.

“Need some help in there?” Winnie asked sweetly.

“No, I'm good,” I said, giving up.

“You know, niecelet, Winnie's a bra expert,” Aunt Shelby said. “Women come from up and down the coast for her expertise.”

“Oh, Shelby,” Winnie said. “
You're
the one they come to see!”

“Well, sometimes.”

“Always!
You're
the expert! Lia, did you realize your aunt was a famous women's health guru?”

I grabbed another bra, a blue one. This one was considerate enough to attach in the front, but the straps were so loose they were flopping off my shoulders. There had to be a way to make them tighter, right? I tugged and tugged, but I couldn't figure it out.
Why was this bra stuff so ridiculously complicated? And what is the point of wearing training bras if they don't train you how put these stupid things on?

“How's it going in there?” Aunt Shelby called.

“Great,” I said.

“Want any help?”

“No!”

“Okay, chickpea, so we're waiting for the fashion show,” Winnie said.

What? No way!
I threw on my T-shirt, grabbed the five finalists, and yanked open the curtain. “Sorry, but I've already decided on these. If it's okay to get five.”

Aunt Shelby beamed at me. “Of course it's okay!”

“And at forty percent off, they're a steal,” Winnie told my aunt.

I watched my aunt take out her purse and pay, even though I knew I'd never wear any of them, just stuff them into a drawer or something. And not only because they
were impossible to put on, but on principle—the principle being, You should be honest with your niece and not trick her into buying personal stuff she didn't need and didn't want.

Also, you shouldn't embarrass her in front of strangers and their schnauzers.

Also, you shouldn't promise her blueberry pancakes and totally forget about them after shopping.

THE SECOND THING THAT HAPPENED was: one rainy afternoon, Demon Spawn showed up at the beach house with a bloody gash on her cheek. She was still not quite used to me, so to clean her face, I basically had to trap her in the corner of the kitchen and fling some cold water at her while she hissed at me. Aunt Shelby had taken her cell phone with her to the shop, which meant I didn't have any way to call her. So finally I grabbed my raincoat and hurried over to Herb 'n' Renewal.

When I got there, Aunt Shelby was leaning on her
counter, drinking tea with a customer in a blue hoodie. A youngish, red-haired woman who smiled at me as she looked up from her mug. My insides dropped when I realized it was Yazmin, the person who'd been asking those nosy questions on the beach.

“You know each other?” I squeaked, dripping rain on Aunt Shelby's clean white floor.

Yazmin glanced at my aunt, whose smile was too wide.

I waited for an answer.

“It's a very small town,” Aunt Shelby finally said, with just a little bit too much cheeriness.

Yazmin zipped up her hoodie. “Well, you guys, gotta run, so . . . ,” she said. “Nice to see you again, Lia.”

I watched her flee the store. Then I turned to Aunt Shelby.

“To what do I owe the honor of your presence?” she asked, pretending to clean the counter with a sponge.

“Demon Spawn was in a catfight, probably,” I said. “You should take her to the vet. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” She didn't look at me.

“Has that woman—Yazmin, if that's her real name—been spying on me? At the beach?”

Aunt Shelby continued the pretend cleaning. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I see her all the time. She's been asking me all
these questions. She never seems to have anything else to do. And she said she was studying marine biology, but she never talks about it. Ever.”

Aunt Shelby stopped cleaning. She took a breath. She sipped her tea. Then she rested her elbows on the counter and said, “All right, buttercup. You want the truth?”

I nodded.

“Then here it is. Yazmin came to me for a summer job, so I asked her to keep an eye on you. Not spy.”

“What's the difference?”

“Oh, a big one, Lia. You were by yourself on the beach all day long. You don't have a cell phone, right? So you couldn't even call me in an emergency! I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I'm not a baby!”

“Right. And that's exactly
why
I wanted her to keep an eye on you.”

“Huh? That doesn't make any—”

“Sweetheart, there are
teenage boys
on the beach. Haven't you noticed?”

My face burned. “Of course I've noticed! You think I wouldn't even—”

“And I don't trust teenage boys.”

“You don't trust
me
.”

“Lia, it's not about you.” She sighed. “I owe it to your mom—”

“To hire a
spy?
”

“I wish you'd stop using that word.”

“Why? Because it's true?”

The conversation went on like this, around and around, like a no-fun Ferris wheel. It finally ended when the shop closed for the day and Aunt Shelby drove Demon Spawn three towns over to the all-night animal hospital.

The next morning, when I got up, she'd already left for work.

♥  ♥  ♥

The third thing that happened: A couple of nights after the Spy Incident, Aunt Shelby announced that she'd invited one of her “good friends” over for dinner. (“Don't worry, it's not Yazmin,” she said. “I'm not worried,” I muttered, because I was still mad at my aunt.) But my stomach was squirming anyway: Had she invited Winnie and her schnauzer? Were we going to discuss my boobless situation over lasagna? Debate the topic “Padding: Good or Incredibly Fake and Evil?”

Or even worse: Were they going to make me runway-model the five bras for them, so they could
offer comments
? (“Better? Or worse?”) If so, I'd rather the “good friend”
was Yazmin. The worst she'd do was get me to discuss my social life.

That night I wore one of Nate's old Maplebrook High School tees. He'd outgrown it, so I'd swiped it; on me it was enormous, which meant my chest wouldn't be available for Winnie's commentary.

Aunt Shelby frowned as I set the table. I guessed she thought I looked grungy in Nate's tee, and I knew I did, but she didn't say anything, and I didn't care. So what if I embarrassed her, I told myself. After the spying business, she deserved it.

At six fifteen there was a knock on the door.

“Would you get that, Lia?” Aunt Shelby called from the kitchen. I opened the door.

It was a smiling blond woman in a sleeveless blue dress. She had one of those mom-ponytails like the kind Val had, and she was holding a gloppy homemade-looking pie that was probably blueberry.

Just behind her, wearing a plaid shirt over a faded tee, was Tanner.

My heart boinged.

“Come in, come in,” Aunt Shelby squealed behind me. “This is my darling niece, Lia. Lia, I want you to meet my good friend Caroline Clayborne, and I think you've already met her son, Tanner.”

Tanner smiled. His teeth were very white, or maybe they just looked that way compared to his ridiculously tan skin. And his features were perfectly lined up, everything straight and parallel, like his face was drawn on graph paper.

“We've met?” he asked me, looking confused but still smiling.

My face burst into blushes. “Like, a few weeks ago. At the beginning of summer, I think. You threw your Frisbee at me. By mistake.”

“I did? Well, sorry.”

“You already apologized.”

“Oh. Then sorry I apologized
again.
”

Mrs. Clayborne and Aunt Shelby laughed, the way grown-ups laugh when they don't have anything to say. Then Mrs. Clayborne and her pie followed Aunt Shelby into the kitchen.

Leaving me in the living room with Tanner and four-sixths of the cats.

“Wow,” he said, seating himself on the shredded chair. “Your aunt sure has a lot of cats.”

“She fosters for Benchley Rescues. That's not all of them; there are two more. Escobar and Pashmina are hiding somewhere.” I pretended to look under the love seat. While I was down there, I wiped my sweaty forehead with the hem of Nate's T-shirt.

TANNER WAS HERE FOR DINNER. WE WERE ALONE TOGETHER IN THE LIVING ROOM.

Finally I had to get up for air. “Nope, they're not under there,” I said brightly.

He smiled again. “I hate cats.”

“Really? I love them. I always wanted one, but my mom—”

As soon as I said the word “mom,” I froze. I should never have brought her up. She wasn't just something to talk about.

“Allergies?” Tanner asked.

“Uh-huh. To cat fur.” Which was probably a lie Mom had told me.

“So is Logan,” Tanner said, nodding. “Her face blows up. I mean swells, not
kabooms
.”

“Who's Logan?”

“Hey, I'll show you.” He took his phone out of his pocket, scrolled thorough some stuff, then handed it to me. “That's her on the beach,” he said proudly.

I stared at the photo. It was Orange Bikini. You could see her chest sticking out the top of her bra.
Cleavage,
which always sounded to me like the name of a disease.
Sorry to tell you this, madam, but you're suffering from a severe case of cleavage. Fortunately, we have antibiotics
.