Truth or Dare (4 page)

I didn't know how to dress for Herb 'n' Renewal, so I just wore jeans and my Camp Sunflower Hill tee. (Aunt
Shelby wore a baggy blue dress with a purple fringed shawl, but she didn't tell me to change my outfit, so I guessed she was okay with it.) We walked about a half mile to her store, which I'd imagined would be another version of her cottage: messy, a little smelly, and creaky.

But I was wrong. Herb 'n' Renewal gleamed. That's the only word for it. It was a small shop, but it had floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with jars of oils, powders, dried leaves, and capsules, all labeled and lined up in alphabetical order. The floor was spotless white, and all the surfaces—the counters, the stepladders, even the ceiling fan—were painted shiny green.

“Nice, huh?” Aunt Shelby asked proudly. “It's doing gangbusters too. Next I'm thinking of opening a sister shop called Herb 'n' Legend. That'll be more about crystals and incense you smell to enhance your whatever. Anyhow, I need investors, so I've brought it up with your dad. But between you and me, buttercup, he doesn't seem into it.”

“Really?” I said politely.

“Yeah. I hate to say it, but your dad is too much of a linear thinker.”

She took off her shawl and draped it over the back of a chair. Almost immediately a wind chime tinkled, and a mom-aged woman came in to buy some kind of tea with a spooky-sounding name. Then an older woman bought
vitamins and foot lotion. Five minutes later, a blond woman in a fancy pink tennis outfit entered the store.

“Still no luck,” the woman told Aunt Shelby, then burst into tears.

“Oh, Tara,” Aunt Shelby said in a soothing voice. “It'll happen. I know it will.”

“But I really thought this was the month!” Tara cried.

“I know you did. You just have to keep up our approach.” She handed Tara a tissue and turned to me. “Tara, this is my niece, Amalia.”

“Lia,” I corrected her.

Aunt Shelby squeezed my shoulder. “Lia's staying with me this summer. Her mom died in a car accident. My big sister.”

“Oh, how awful,” Tara said, dabbing her eyes with the tissue.

“It truly was. The other driver should
rot.
” Aunt Shelby sighed. “Anyway, I'm showing Lia the ropes here. Hope you don't mind.”

Tara shook her head, obviously not interested in me at all. “The thing is, Shelby, I did exactly what you said—”

They talked about herbs, adjusting amounts, maybe subtracting one, adding another. Aunt Shelby took some powder out of a jar, weighed it on a shiny silver scale, and
the woman paid. Then they hugged, and Tara left, tinkling wind chimes on the way out.

“Poor thing,” Aunt Shelby said. “She wants a baby so badly, but it's just not happening for her.”

I stared at my aunt. “You're giving her medicine?”

“Not
medicine.
” Aunt Shelby smiled.

“What's in those jars, then?”

“Natural botanicals. Licorice root, false unicorn root—”

“FALSE UNICORN ROOT?”

“That's just its name, Lia. It's also called helonias, blazing star, and fairy wand. Native Americans have been using it for years.”

“And you're telling her that if she takes that”—I waved at the jars—“
stuff,
she'll get pregnant? How do you know what to tell her to take? Or how much? I mean, you're not Native American.
Or
a doctor.”

She turned on her computer. “Lia, you sound just like your dad.”

“Well, he's my father.” I started to feel sweaty, even though the grass-green ceiling fan was swishing overhead. “Why
shouldn't
I sound like him?”

“Listen, buttercup,” Aunt Shelby said, sighing. “I do a lot of reading, especially about women's health issues. I
attend seminars and webinars. I keep up with these things, okay? And of course I trust my intuition.”

“But what if you're wrong? I mean, that woman believes you.”

“You think I was
lying
to her?” Aunt Shelby's eyes were big. She seemed shocked that I would be challenging her.

I couldn't look at her face. “No. Not lying, but—”

“But what, then?”

I shook my head.

“Let me tell you something, Lia. These are genuine treatments. Centuries of wisdom handed down from various cultures. The Mesoamericans, the Native Americans, the ancient Chinese—”

“Can I go to the beach now?” I blurted.

She blinked. “Sure. If that's what you'd rather do, absolutely.” She reached into a bag and handed me a key. “Let yourself into the house, change into your suit, and be sure to lock up. The beach is down the road in the other direction. Oh, and if you take a towel, hang it on the porch when you get back.”

“Okay, thanks.” I slipped the key in my jeans pocket.

If the wind chimes tinkled on my way out, I didn't hear them.

BUT I DIDN'T GO BACK to Aunt Shelby's to change. It wasn't like I was desperately longing to put on a bathing suit; all of mine were plain, boring one-pieces from last summer, and I looked like a third grader in them, anyway. Plus, I was so mad and confused that I just felt like walking straight to the beach. And to keep walking once I got there.

Why did I ever want to come here?
I scolded myself.
Aunt Shelby is nuts. And if she isn't nuts, she's just a big fake. What business does she have telling Tara how to have
a baby? If Tara wants to have a baby and she can't get pregnant for some reason, she should talk to a doctor, or to an actual herbologist-type person. Not to my aunt, who used to sell real estate and keep miniature pigs.

Maybe I should have just gone to camp,
I thought as I stepped onto the beach. I tugged off my sneakers, stuffing my socks into my pockets. Then I rolled up my jeans so they looked like capris.
I can't possibly talk to Aunt Shelby about my nonexistent period. She'll probably just give me false unicorn root. What a name. As opposed to real unicorn root, hahaha. I should tell Marley about that when I see her in September. Maybe if we wave a “fairy wand” we'll stop being Least Developed!

Oh, and the way Aunt Shelby told Tara about my mom. Talking about the Accident as if it were gossip, or some kind of girl-talk chitchat. Talking about it in front of
me
, as if it didn't even matter what I was feeling—

“Hey, watch it!”

Just then I realized I'd stepped on a beach towel—and almost on the girl lying on it. She was seriously tan, with long, streaky blond hair, and she was wearing a neon orange bikini, the sort I'd never wear for five minutes, even in a private dressing room. But she looked great in it, as great as Jules would have, probably: Her chest filled out the top part without spilling over, her waist was small,
and her stomach was flat. I guessed she was about as old as Nate, fourteen or fifteen, although it's not like I knew a bunch of teen girls to compare her to.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

She glared at me. “Watch where you're walking, okay?” She turned to a darker-haired girl in a pink bikini who had earbuds on and was lying on a towel beside her. “I am
so sick
of tourist season, and it's only June,” Orange Bikini announced.

“I'm not a tourist,” I protested.

“You're not? You
look
like one.”

I could feel myself blushing.

“You're all red,” said Pink Bikini in an accusing sort of voice. “Want some sunscreen?”

I didn't know what else to do, so I took the tube and began smearing my arms. “Thanks,” I said.

Suddenly something smacked my back. I spun around. A Frisbee.

“Hey, sorry,” a guy called. He started walking toward us, the most gorgeous male human I'd ever seen in my entire life. Dark, wavy hair, golden skin, a smooth, muscled chest above navy blue beach trunks. I smeared the sunscreen on my face, because I knew I was blushing again.

“Tanner, watch where you're throwing that thing,” Orange Bikini scolded him. “You hit this girl just now.”

The way she said it, it was like “little girl.”

“I'm okay,” I said quickly.

“You sure?” Tanner said.

My heart boinged. You know, like in a cartoon, when someone's heart springs out of their chest? Because compared to this Tanner person, the boy I liked at school—Graydon Hatcher—resembled a toddler.

And Tanner was looking
right at me
. “Don't mean to scare away tourists,” he said, grinning.

“I'm not a tourist.” Now I was starting to get annoyed. “My aunt lives here.”

“In Benchley?” Pink Bikini said. “Who's your aunt?”

“Shelby Heywood. She owns that shop in town, Herb 'n' Renewal . . . ?”

“Shelby's your aunt?” Tanner said. “Cool.”

“You know her?”

He laughed. “Yeah, right. Not me.”

“Then how do you—”

“Tanner, take that Frisbee away,” Orange Bikini ordered. “We're not your target practice.”

“Later,” he said. He ran off to join some other kids playing volleyball.

Pink Bikini shaded her eyes at me. “Not to rush you or anything, but are you done with that sunscreen?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

“No prob,” she said, as she and Orange Bikini stuck earbuds back in their ears and stretched out lazily on their towels.

♥  ♥  ♥

For the next week or two, Aunt Shelby and I didn't mention our fight, and as long as we didn't talk about the fake expert stuff, everything was fine between us. Sometimes it was even better than fine, like when she put on her ancient CDs and taught me to eighties-dance to Cyndi Lauper, Janet Jackson, and Madonna. Or when she took me out for “real Maine ice cream” one night and we traded cones halfway through, then both got seconds. Or when she showed me old photo albums of Mom and her as little kids and told me stories about how they made snow forts and caught frogs and shared chicken pox.

But every morning she ate a frozen waffle and fed the cats, then strolled to her store without inviting me to “hang out.” And as soon as she was gone, I grabbed my book and ran to the beach to collect shells and sea glass.

Also, I have to admit, I was hoping for a Tanner sighting.

I knew it was stupid. I knew that even if I saw him, it wouldn't mean anything. He was about Nate's age, I guessed—in other words, about two years too old for me. Plus, he was probably a dope, the kind of guy who never read books.
Tanner.
What kind of name was that? It was more like a boast:
Dude, I'm tanner than you. Than you'll
ever
be.

But I still wanted to spot him on the beach, with his stupid Frisbee. Don't ask why.

Also, I was wondering how he knew Aunt Shelby.

One day a couple of weeks later, in the middle of July, Aunt Shelby handed me two envelopes. They had both been sent to my home address, and Dad had forwarded them to Aunt Shelby.

The first one was from Abi.

Dear Lia,

I'm really, really mad at you for just running off like that in the parking lot without an explanation!!! None of us knew what to think! But then your dad told my mom that you wanted to stay with your aunt this summer. (My mom knows your aunt from when they were kids. You knew that, right?) Well, I hope you're having a fun time, because we are!!! I think I'm in <3 with a jr lifeguard named Nick! Also, we're playing this amazing game called Truth or Dare, which we'll do with you when we get home.

WRITE BACK OR I WILL STAY MAD.

xoxox,

Abi

PS. I got my pd about a week after Mak. U R NEXT (or Marley).

The other letter was from Marley. Although it wasn't really a letter—it was a drawing she made of a turtle. No explanation (
Today in art camp we did drawings of turtles
!), no note
(Dear Lia, How's your summer going?
), just the turtle drawing. It was a really nice picture, though. I decided to put it on a shelf in my room so I could look at it.

That evening Aunt Shelby made lasagna for dinner. She said it had a mystery ingredient and dared me to guess what it was. I told her I had no idea.

“C'mon, guess,” she said.

“I'm drawing a blank. Garlic?”

“Of
course
it has garlic. Guess again.”

“Oregano? Basil?”

“Cinnamon,” she said triumphantly.

“Huh,” I said. “Doesn't cinnamon usually go in desserts?”

“Well, the Aztecs used it in all sorts of things,” she said, as if that were even a sane answer.

We both ate the lasagna. I thought I could taste the
cinnamon now that she'd mentioned it, but maybe it was just my imagination.

Finally, after about five minutes of me being unable to come up with conversation, Aunt Shelby said, “So, Lia. You got some mail today?”