by Barbara Dee
Before they drove back to Maplebrook, they pulled me aside.
“So how’s it going up here?” Dad asked quietly.
“Okay,” I said.
Nate poked me. “She’s not making you eat toenail fungus?”
“Oh, we eat it all the time,” I answered. “Fungus fondue. Fungus upside-down cake. Fungus à la mode.”
My brother grinned. “Fungus pizza. Deep-fried fungus with fungus gravy.”
“Fungus sorbet. General Tso’s toenail fungus.”
“All right, you two,” Dad said, smiling a little. “But seriously, Lee-lee, if you want to come home—”
For a second I thought about it. But none of my friends would be home for weeks, and Maine wasn’t terrible. I loved all the cats. Aunt Shelby was Aunt Shelby—but sometimes she could be fun. And there were times when her eyes lit up and her voice crackled in the middle of a sentence; that’s when she reminded me of Mom.
“No, I’m fine,” I insisted. “Really, Dad.”
Another weekend Aunt Shelby took me on a seal-sighting boat, which I loved. We also went bicycling a couple of times with her “man friend,” Todd, and picked blueberries along the side of the road.
During the week I mostly read Book Two of HiberNation and hung out with the cats, or I walked on the beach and collected shells and sea glass. I thought I saw Tanner once or twice from a distance, and I definitely saw Orange Bikini a few times. But she pretended not to recognize me when I said hello to her at the snack bar, so I decided she was a snot. And anyway, she was in high school.
A few times a youngish red-haired woman wearing a UMass tee started a conversation with me as I searched for seashells. She told me her name was Yazmin and that she was studying marine biology in college. But she didn’t want to talk about the beach, or the seals, or the shells, or even the sea glass I’d slipped into my jeans pocket. Instead she asked me about my book, my friends at home, who I was hanging out with in Benchley.
I thought it was a little odd but not creepy. Even so, I tried to keep away from her as much as I could. There weren’t a whole lot of other people on the beach, so the ones who showed up every day, like Yazmin, were hard to avoid.
It was an okay summer, really. But I was lonely, and also a teeny bit bored.
Although three major things happened. The first was that Aunt Shelby took me bra shopping. Or to be precise: She tricked me into going, since she knew exactly how I felt on that subject.
One Sunday morning in early August she announced that she “needed blueberry pancakes”—not any kind, but the specific ones they made at the Hummingbird Café two towns over, in Wheatly. And she insisted I needed some too, even though I’d already had waffles for breakfast.
We drove there in the pickup truck. Just as we were pulling into the small parking lot behind the Hummingbird Café, a woman with a small gray dog came running over to us, waving. Her hair was puffy in an eighties sort of way, and she wore a leopard-print top with a too-deep V-neck.
“Perfect timing,” she told Aunt Shelby. “I was just taking Mothball out to do his business.”
“No rush. This is Lia.” Aunt Shelby turned to me, smiling. “Lia, this is Winnie, my friend who owns the bra store.”
“I sell intimates, not just bras,” Winnie corrected her. “Panties, shapewear, slips, camis, hosiery—”
A truck roared by, and now she was shouting.
“—and I’m having my big August sale now, so everything is forty percent off. So that’s perfect timing too!”
She was beaming at me. So was Aunt Shelby.
I stared at them both.
“Wait,” I said. “I thought—”
“And afterward we can go have pancakes.” Aunt Shelby patted my knee. “Winnie isn’t usually open on Sundays. She’s doing it as a special favor. Isn’t that sweet of her?”
I refused to answer.
We waited for Mothball to finish his “business,” and then Winnie led us around the corner to her store. I was furious at my aunt for tricking me like this, but at least we’d be the only customers, I told myself. At least my humiliation would be semiprivate.
“All right, then, chickpea,” Winnie said, waving me over to a three-way mirror. “Don’t look so scared. I don’t bite. Tape measure time!”
“Can I please use the bathroom first?” I begged.
“Sixty seconds,” Aunt Shelby replied, pointing to her watch. “Hurry.”
I don’t know how long I was in there, but I took longer than sixty seconds, on purpose. When I came out, I could hear Shelby saying the words “cell phone” and “imbecile.” As soon as they noticed me, they flashed big fake grins.
“And here she is, Princess Lia,” Winnie exclaimed.
“You mean Leia, if that’s a Star Wars reference,” I muttered.
“Oh? It’s spelled different?” Before I could answer, Winnie wound the tape measure around my chest. “Because I’m hopeless at spelling. Fortunately, in my line of work, I need just a few—stand still, chickpea—letters: A, B, C, D. Although one day last month a new customer walked in, and I swear, Shel, she was a size G. I had to place an extra-special order.” Winnie scribbled something on a Post-it. “You’re like a skinny little bird, aren’t you, Lia?”
“She eats like a horse,” Aunt Shelby said, as if I weren’t standing right there.
“And I do eat like a bird, and just look at me!” Winnie giggled. “Why don’t you take the fitting room, Lia, and get yourself undressed. I’ll be just a mo.”
“Mo?” I said innocently. “What’s a mo?”
Aunt Shelby gave me a warning eyebrow.
I went into the fitting room, a small curtained closet that smelled like leftover perfume. Why was it suddenly so important to Aunt Shelby that I get a bra? Had something happened this summer? I mean, to me?
I took off all my clothes, examining myself in the full-length mirror.
The answer was: No.
I was still as flat as a board. No waist. No hips. I was a straight line from my head to my toes. You could use me as a yardstick. Or a flagpole.
Also, I was still completely hairless on my legs. Under my navel. Under my arms. I guess you could call me bald, except for my head.
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 pu
sh 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.
Something to Talk About
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 embarrass
ed 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.