The Truth About Faking (3 page)

Shelly just confirmed he’s interested, or was. Tomorrow I’ll get Mom to braid my hair, I’ve got the dress, and I’ll be wearing my best “ask me to the luau” face when I see him after second period.

Once I get past the wrecked Denali.

Two

I plan out my speech as I walk to the kitchen. It wasn’t my fault, after all. There’s no reason why I should be grounded or anything. I wasn’t texting while driving or doing something dangerous like that.

My mom’s massage-therapy student Ricky greets me when I get there, and I frown. Problem number two.

Since Mom graduated from the college in Glennville, every semester they send her a senior to help get hands-on training before graduation. Only this time she got the same student twice in a row.

“
What’s up, kiddo?” Ricky asks.

“
Not much,” I say, grabbing an orange from the bowl. “What’s Mom doing?”

“
Dispensing herbal wisdom,” he says like he’s reading a textbook.

Mom’s in her office-slash-yoga room with Mrs. Bender of all people, and I can hear her saying
L-Glutamine
and
colonic massage.

My nose wrinkles. “Gross. What’re they talking about?”

“
I don’t want to know,” he grins.

I drop into a chair and lean my head on my hand as I watch him dump white powder into the blender followed by a banana, thick orange syrup and ice. Ricky’s super-hot in a
Men’s Health
cover-boy kind of way. He’s 23, and he likes wearing clothes that show off his well-toned body. He’s also got a majorly obvious crush on my mom. He follows her around, hanging on her every word, and it’s so inappropriate. Especially since he didn’t graduate in December.

“
What are you making?” I ask.

“
Whey protein shake,” he says. Then he walks over to me and slides the band out of my hair, raking his fingers through it. “Gorgeous. And you’ve never put anything in it?”

“
You’ve met my dad, right?” I like reminding him of my dad, who happens to have the same platinum-blonde hair as me and clear blue eyes.

“
Yes, but with your mom’s coloring… It’ll probably turn after you have babies.”

“
Don’t be gross,” I frown, pulling my hair back in the band again. Massage therapists are so earthy.

Just then Mom walks into the room escorting Mrs. Bender to the door. She’s using what I refer to as her honey voice—soothing and sweet, it makes you feel all relaxed and sleepy. And ready to go home.

Mom’s super-hot herself, in a dark and beautiful kind of way. The first time I saw that cartoon movie
Pocahontas
, I thought it was about my mom. She looks just like that Disney princess—tall and slim with long, silky brown hair and angular features. Except Mom has green eyes and she can’t sing worth a flip.

“
Well, I don’t know,” Mrs. Bender says. “I’ve had great BMs since I started taking your remedy.”

My eyes widen, and Ricky snort-coughs.

“
I’m so glad,” Mom says, still using The Voice. “And try to cut back on the caffeine if you can. I know it’s hard, but it’ll help.”

“
All right,” Mrs. Bender agrees. “Bye, Jackie.”

Mom does a little wave and then closes the door, turning back to the kitchen. The instant we hear the door catch, Ricky and I die laughing.

“
Sorry,” Mom says, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs facing me. Ricky hits the blender and it makes a loud, whirring noise. “Lois doesn’t get the whole
Ew
factor of irritable bowel syndrome.”

“
No doubt,” I agree.

I watch Mom twist her dark hair into a bun and then push it behind her shoulder. “I’ve got a small headache,” she says. “I think I took too much glucosamine this morning. Or maybe I’m dehydrated.”

Ricky immediately puts his spoon in his mouth and walks over behind her. I watch as he sweeps her hair aside and starts rubbing her neck. She closes her eyes, and I cringe. Massage is their specialty, after all. I just wish she wouldn’t let Ricky touch her like that. Small-town gossip can be brutal, and they’re custom-built for the rumor mill. It makes my stomach hurt.

“
You should tell chicken-head to lay off the KFC if she’s having IBS,” Ricky says. Then he winks at me. I press my lips together and look back at Mom.

“
I’m the one needing a neck rub,” I say. “I was just rear-ended.”

Mom’s eyes fly open and she jumps up. “What happened?” She starts feeling the muscles around the back of my neck and shoulders, watching my face for signs of pain. “Are you okay?”

“
I guess. This guy hit me from behind and then I rammed Mr. Bender.”

“
Do you have a headache?” She places her cool palm on my forehead. “I can make you some chamomile tea. Or maybe eucalyptus…”

“
I’ll be okay.”

“
You feel a little tight.” She stands and rubs my neck again gently. “You should go see Alan tomorrow.”

“
I really think I’m okay,” I say again. I’m not into chiropractors.

“
And the Denali?” She frowns. “Should I even look?”

“
It drives fine,” I tell her. “But the back doors are jammed shut.”

Her hands slide from my shoulders, and she walks to the back door to look out at it. I watch as she bites her lip and glances up at the clock. “It’s already after six…”

“
I can drive you around,” Ricky says. “Or cover your appointments while it gets fixed.”

So
not surprising.

Mom walks back to me. “Did you at least get a number, honey?”

“
Yeah, and Pete was there and everything.”

“
Let me see it,” she says. I hand her the card. “I’ll give them a call tonight and see how soon we can get it in the shop.”

Ricky pours his shake into a travel mug and picks up his bag as Dad strolls in from his study. Dad’s the exact opposite of Ricky—tall and skinny, wire-rimmed glasses and his nose stuck in a book. I see he’s holding his favorite,
Issues in the Presbyterian Church
.

“
Dr. Andrews,” Ricky says as they pass in the doorway. He always straightens up when Dad’s around. I give him credit for that at least.

“
Ricky.” Dad nods, glancing at him.

“
See you tomorrow, Jackie,” Ricky calls to my mom as he leaves.

She follows him out. “If you could take Mrs. Simmons at eight, I’ll let you know about my other clients…”

Dad stops at the table and lowers his book.

“
Hey, biker chick,” he grins. “How’s life on the road?”

“
Sick of the bugs in my teeth.”

It’s our running gag, and it never bothers me when Dad makes jokes about my name. He’s a reverend, but Dad’s cool and we get along.

Mom comes back inside. “Harley was in a wreck,” she says.

“
What?” Dad frowns and walks over to me. He lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. “You feel nauseated? Dizzy?”

“
I was a little dizzy at first, but I’m okay now,” I say, gently moving my chin away. “They never see us bikers, you know.”

“
Let me check it out,” he says, heading for the door.

“
You can’t really see it…” Mom follows him out, and I’m alone. I pick up Dad’s book to see what issue he’s studying. It’s organized like an encyclopedia, with large headings followed by blocks of text, but I only see a big
H
before they return. I drop the book and slide back into my seat.

“
They’ll probably just replace the doors,” Dad’s saying. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Mom walks back to me. “I could give you a little valerian root if you’re feeling tense,” she says, concern lingering in her voice.

“
I’m fine, Mom!” The words come out too sharp, and I wish I could take them back. I just hate being fussed over like a baby.

“
Okay,” she smiles, moving away.

“
I mean… I’m okay,” I say in a softer tone, looking down. Lately Mom and I keep having these communication
fails
, and it’s so frustrating to me. Then she always retreats to Dad or Ricky, ignoring what happened. Or ignoring me.

“
Bikers are tough,” Dad grins, seeming oblivious. He picks up his book again, and Mom slips her arms around his waist. I watch him give one a squeeze.

“
So. What should we do about dinner?” She breathes, resting her chin on his back.

Dad slides his hand down her arm and threads their fingers. “Maybe Harley’ll run out and grab us something. Whatcha think, chick?” He glances at me, and I get the hint. He’s trying to get rid of me.

It’s unexpected that my parents are still so… affectionate. You’d think by now they’d be over it, and they’re such opposites—Mom the earth-goddess, and Dad the gangly nerd. But sometimes I’ll catch her looking at him like he’s a chocolate-dipped strawberry and she’s just come off a wheat-grass cleanse.

I grab Dad’s keys. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I call as if anybody’s listening.

I have no idea where I’ll pick up dinner. I just know to make myself scarce for about a half hour and come back with something. Dad’s Prius lights up and I look around. Without really thinking, I drive straight to KFC.

My eyes fly open before my alarm even goes off. My heart’s beating faster than normal. Operation Luau-day has finally arrived. I throw back the covers and stride to the bathroom to wash my face. Then I start the hunt for Mom. I need her to do a French braid across the top of my head before Shelly arrives to drive us to school.

I find her in her giant office saluting the sun. Mom’s office is a big space with her massage table behind a screen at one end. The whole room is dimly lit, and on hooks in the corner hang robes and towels. Another table holds candles, oils, and a trickly little wall-fountain. There’s weird space music coming from two speakers hidden in the corners, and the whole place smells faintly of sandalwood. Magazines and papers are scattered on her desk along with little packets of different herbal mixtures. On the shelf above are boxes of lotions and bath products she always gets in the mail to try. Apparently all the Earth businesses have learned Mom’s sort of the green guru of Shadow Falls. She’s just about to head into downward-facing dog, but I stop her.

“
Hey, Mom?”

“
Hi, hon,” she inhales, and sweeps her arms over her head. “How’s the neck?”

“
A little stiff.”

“
Sure you won’t see Alan?”

“
I’ll be okay,” I say. “But I need you to stop that and braid my hair for me.”

“
What?” She releases a long exhale and lowers her arms again.

“
My hair? Would you make a braid across the top of my head like this?” I motion in a headband way across the top of my head, and she smiles.

She steps over and cuts the music off, then I sit at her feet while she pulls out a brush and starts parting my hair. She’s really good with things like braids and crafts and stuff like that, and I like having her help me. It gives us an opportunity to chat alone for once. In a good way.

“
So Ricky’s taking your clients this morning?” I ask.

“
Yep, and I’ve got some of the ladies coming here.” Then she laughs. “They were all more than willing to have Ricky cover for me if I needed him to.”

“
He’s a rock star all right,” I say.

“
He’s a sweet boy.”

Ricky might have the hots for my mom, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Last night when I got back with dinner, her shirt was inside out. Her hair was swept high in a pony tail, and around the temples it looked a little damp. She was elbow-deep in dish water singing a Peter Frampton tune off-key, and my dad was back in his study reading his book about issues in the church. He looked undisturbed, but something had happened while I was gone. I can always tell by the way they grin at each other when they think I’m not looking. It’s reassuring, but at the same time, I don’t want to picture what or where.

“
Is it ever weird that he has a crush on you?” I ask, scratching polish off the skin beside my freshly manicured nail.

“
What?” She frowns.

“
Ricky? Mr. Hot for Teacher?”

“
I don’t know what you mean,” she says, sliding a tiny row of my hair back from my face.

“
C’mon, Mom,” I groan. “It’s so totally obvious.”

She stops braiding for a second. “Harley. Ricky does
not
have a crush on me.”

“
If you say so,” I sing-song.

“
I know so. And I’m disappointed. You’re being very stereotypical.”

“
I’m just saying how it looks.” My head’s resting on her lap, and I can smell the fresh eucalyptus lotion she uses after her bath. It reminds me of being outside in the springtime.

“
Well, looks can be deceiving.” She continues braiding, so I try another way.

“
Don’t you ever worry that people might… talk?”

I hear the frown in her voice. “Has someone said something to you?”

“
No. I’m just thinking. Like what about Mrs. Perkins?”

Mrs. Perkins is the wife of one of the elders at our church, and I’m pretty sure she hates my mom, un-Christlike or not. The rumor is her husband applied for the pastor’s job back when my dad was hired, and she never got over it. Then she met my mom and nearly lost her religion.

She openly states that massage therapy is unseemly work for the wife of a pastor.
Unseemly
, she likes to say. Mom just dismisses Mrs. Perkins’s not-so-subtle insults as jealousy and ignorance, but I know that woman bugs the crap out of Mom.

“
Harley.” Mom’s voice is firm. “You know I have no control over the students who’re assigned to me. Are you saying I should give up my job because occasionally one of them might be… better-looking than the others? Is that fair?”