Truth or Dare (3 page)

“What's wrong with my job?” he'd reply, winking at me.

“Nothing. Except isn't what you do all day holding up lenses to people's eyes? And asking them, over and over, ‘Better? Or worse?' ”

“That's how we fit lenses,” he'd say patiently.

“Yes, but to spend your precious time on this planet dividing experience into ‘better or worse,' ” she'd answer. “I
mean, really, Kevin. Don't you want to scream sometimes?”

Nate and I would just look at each other and shrug. We didn't have any idea what she was going on about. Had she picked on Dad like this in front of Mom? I couldn't remember. But I did remember Mom and Aunt Shelby constantly arguing—usually behind closed doors, so the rest of us couldn't listen. And sometimes their arguments got so bad they didn't speak to each other for weeks.

Since the Accident, though, Aunt Shelby was around all the time; at least, it felt that way. As soon as she would arrive in her rusty old pickup truck, wearing big billowy dresses covered with cat fur, Val would clear out. We wouldn't see Val, or the rest of the Mom Squad, for the entire weekend. And right away the kitchen would turn into a crazy, messy Shelby-lab, with pots boiling sour-smelling leaves and the blender mixing juices from vegetables I'd never heard of.

“You should try some of this soup, Kevin,” Aunt Shelby would urge him. “It'll help your stress level. The ancient Inca—”

“My stress level doesn't need help from the ancient Inca,” he'd mutter.

“But it's therapeutic. You think Western doctors are the only ones who know how to treat stress?”

“No, Shelby,” Dad would say, smiling stiffly. “I don't.
And if I'm stressed, maybe it's because you keep forcing me to eat things.”

She never tried to get Nate and me to take any of that stuff, which was a good thing. We'd become so spoiled with Val's cooking that if something didn't taste chocolaty or cheesy, we weren't interested.

And the truth was, we were doing okay without our aunt's smelly soups. By “okay,” I'm not saying we weren't sad about Mom, because we were. I mean, we were
incredibly
sad. But Nate had his baseball team, and I had my friends, plus the constant hugs and attention of the Mom Squad. And whenever I felt jittery or lonesome at home, I'd pick up a book, or I'd sort through my collections. And time would pass—sometimes too much time—while I organized tiny things by color or size.

But especially at night, in the minutes before I drifted off to sleep, I'd feel a kind of dull ache in my chest, a missing-Mom ache. When I got that ache, I couldn't distract myself with marbles or books. Or with anything else, for that matter. And more and more, especially lately, there were things I wished I could discuss with her—not with Dad, or Val, or anybody else.

For example, friend stuff. Did Mom have a group of best friends when she was in seventh grade? What were
they like? Did they all go off together to sleepaway camp, or split up for the summer, like we just did? Did she feel behind them in big, important ways—like developing boobs and getting her period? How did she survive any of it—the way girls checked one another out and competed about “symptoms,” the way boys commented on who was “fat” and who was pretty?

Also: Did she have a crush? Was he like mine—a secret from her friends? And if she did have a crush, did he ever find out about it? Did anything happen with him? Could she give me any details? (But only if hearing the details wouldn't be too weird.)

Every time Aunt Shelby visited, she said we needed “special time” for “girl talk.” But I'd never wanted this “special time,” not with her. She was so strange and even a little bit witchy, I thought, with her loose dresses, her long, skinny braids, and her funny-smelling potions. Plus, she didn't care what she said, even if it hurt people's feelings.

But now, for some crazy reason, the thought of “special time” with her seemed like something I could handle. And anyway, I told myself, staying with Aunt Shelby let me hide out from camp.

Up in Maine, away from Maplebrook.

Away from everything. Everybody.

Including—no, especially—my best friends.

DAD DROVE ME UP TO Aunt Shelby's that weekend. It was an especially hot day, even for that boiling June, and by the time we arrived in Benchley, Maine, we were both sweaty and limp. Aunt Shelby's beach house had a small, rickety porch, where she was sitting in a rocking chair with a cat on her lap. As soon as we drove up the sandy driveway, she let out a shriek and the cat went flying.

“Lia! My little niecelet!” She threw her arms around me. “I wasn't sure you'd actually materialize!”

“But I did,” I said, inhaling my aunt's personal smell,
kind of a cross between dried lavender and sardines. For an entire minute she wouldn't stop hugging me. Some hair that got loose from one of her braids got into my mouth, and I didn't want to be rude by spitting it out. But finally I brushed it away with my free hand.

“Oh, we're going to have so much fun!” she squealed. All of a sudden she was making me dance a ridiculous tango. “Girls just wanna have fu-unn,” she sang.

I giggled, even though we probably looked slightly insane. Over her shoulder I could see Dad, who was either squinting in the sunshine or trying not to wince.

“Oh, wait!” Aunt Shelby suddenly cried. She pulled away from me. “Where are my manners? I made some banana bread. And there's iced tea!”

“None for me, thanks,” Dad said.

“Aw, c'mon,” she said in a teasing voice. “It's just plain old boring Snapple. I didn't sneak anything else in there, I promise.”

“I'm sure you didn't. And I appreciate it, Shelby. But it's getting late, and I promised Nate I'd be home before dark, so . . .”

“Understood. No worries, Kevin.”

Something passed between them, and I had the feeling once again that Dad didn't
like
her. Well, it wouldn't be
too surprising, I decided, the way she was always criticizing his job and where he lived. And with her soups and everything, she was definitely pushy—but she was Mom's little sister, after all. And you had to admit she was really nice to let me stay with her all summer. Especially considering that we'd asked her about it only two days before I got there.

Dad opened the trunk and took out my two duffel bags still marked
LIA ROLLINS, CAMP SUNFLOWER HILL
in black Sharpie. They looked awkward sitting there on the porch, basically announcing that camp had been a mistake. A gray cat—not the same one who'd jumped off Aunt Shelby's lap—tiptoed over and began to sniff them.

“Well, kiddo,” Dad said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Be a good houseguest. Help your aunt with chores. And don't run with the wolves.”

“Wait. What?” I said.

“He's joking,” Aunt Shelby said, grinning. “There are no wolves on the beach. Unless you count teen boys.”

Dad acted as if he didn't hear her. Instead he looked straight into my eyes. “I expect to hear from you once in a while, Lee-lee.”

“Oh, you will,” Aunt Shelby said brightly. “Cell service is spotty up here, but she can borrow my phone anytime.”

He looked at her and nodded. Then he smiled at me. “Have fun,” he said quietly. “That's your job this summer, okay?”

“Dad?” I swallowed. “Thanks.”

“Thank your aunt, not me.”

He kissed my forehead, got into the car, waved once, and drove off.

♥  ♥  ♥

Aunt Shelby's cottage was a mess, but in a good way, kind of how a kid's room would be if no one made her clean. Her living room was tiny, just a wicker love seat and an overstuffed chair that had been shredded by cats, a small kidney-shaped table piled high with books, and a few dusty plants. On the ceiling were strung-up kites—a butterfly, a dragon, a pterodactyl, a red-tailed hawk. Her kitchen was a smaller version of the crazy lab she always made at our house, with a zillion glass jars on the windowsill and two pots simmering on the stove. An expandable wooden table was pushed to the wall, along with three chairs painted red, one of which had a seat that was held together with silver duct tape. In the middle of the table was a mason jar filled with grapefruit-size peonies that shed pink petals on the checkerboard linoleum.

On the other side of the living room were two narrow bedrooms, hers (iron bed with gauzy quilts and a zillion
faded pillows, dresses tossed on the window seat and on the floor) and mine (futon to sleep on, three wobbly bookshelves stuffed with books and boxes, an exercise bike that she used for a scarf rack). Even though all the windows were open, the air smelled like old soup; and even though the floors were bare, when you walked shoeless, your toes were tickled by sand and cat fur.

It wasn't perfect. But it was a zillion times better than being at camp.

“Lia, you need to meet my babies,” Aunt Shelby declared. “Only problem is getting them to introduce themselves.” Somehow she managed to scoop up six cats: Pashmina, Stinkbug, Escobar, Brunhilda, Archie, and Doomhammer.

“They're all so cute,” I said, stroking the smallest one, Doomhammer. “I've always wanted a cat, but Mom was allergic.”

“Jessie? No, she wasn't.” Aunt Shelby snorted. “That's what she
said
. She just didn't
like
them.” She picked up the one named Escobar and nuzzled his orange-striped head. “How could anyone not like
you?
” she crooned.

I wondered if that was true—that my mom had made up a story about cat allergies. But why would Aunt Shelby lie about that? “Why do you have so many?” I asked, to change the subject.

“You think this is a lot? I used to have more, actually. My friends at Benchley Rescues keep giving me these beauties to foster, and I end up keeping them. I guess I'm too nurturing for my own good.”

She dropped Escobar, as if she'd just remembered something. “Oh, and also there's Demon Spawn. She's mostly outdoors, so she isn't officially a family member. But she stops by every few days for some kibble. What are your plans, exactly?”

“Me?”

“For the summer.”

“Oh.” I hadn't thought about
plans.
“Well, I was hoping to spend time on the beach. I'd like to get some more shells, and I wanted to start collecting sea glass. And I'm reading this book—”

“Oh yeah? Anything good?”

Before I'd left, Dad had given me the complete HiberNation trilogy about this future society where girls go underground until they're grown-ups. I started to explain the plot of Book One, which is all about this girl named Bree who pretends to be asleep while secretly organizing a girl revolt. It was the best book ever, even if it didn't get made into a movie.

Before I could finish describing the plot, Aunt Shelby
cut me off. “Wow, that sounds really exciting. But I was wondering if you'd mind hanging out a bit in the shop. Just mornings.”

“The shop?”

“Herb 'n' Renewal. I sell homeopathic treatments—herbs, teas, you name it. You knew I had my own business, didn't you?”

“Sure, I knew about the shop,” I said. But the truth was, I knew only a few vague details. Most of what I'd heard from Mom and Dad was how my aunt “dabbled”—dropped out of college, drifted around Europe, then returned to the States to write her memoirs, raise miniature pigs, sell real estate.

I rubbed Archie's cheek. “What would I do in the shop?”

“Oh, learn things, hopefully. Keep your old aunt company, mostly.”

“Sure,” I said. After all, hanging out with Aunt Shelby was the whole point of the summer, wasn't it? “But you aren't
old.
”

“Say that again,” she replied, and she laughed, sounding almost just like my mom.

YOU MIGHT THINK THAT WITH all her simmering pots in the kitchen, Aunt Shelby liked to cook. But she didn't, at least most of the time. That night we ordered sausage pizza for supper, and the next morning we had frozen waffles for breakfast. I poured maple syrup on mine; Aunt Shelby smothered hers in pineapple salsa and sipped wildflower strawberry mango tea with two gobs of honey.