The Truth About Faking

there holding his hand, whispering something funny in his ear and making him laugh. I picture him kissing my cheek, maybe that spot right beside my ear, and for a moment I melt.
    “You okay?” Jason’s watching me, and I almost blush.
    “Of course. I was just thinking about… something.”
    He doesn’t pursue it.
    The luau’s a sophomore-sponsored dance, so last year our class did all the planning and decorations. Reagan Smith and her little party-planning crew are all discussing whose version’s better—ours or theirs. Reagan notes that last year, when she was in charge, we had a cochin de lait. I mentally note at least this year we have a limbo pole. She intentionally left that off last year’s luau agenda.
    Jason pulls me to the dance floor when a slow song starts. “Girls worry about the dumbest stuff,” he breathes as we sway back and forth.
    “Reagan’s just afraid someone’ll think this party’s better than hers was,” I say, resting my hands on his shoulders. “And she’s working on prom now, so she’s nuts.”
    “Prom.” He exhales and makes a face.
    I shake my head. “Don’t worry. Our prom’s pretty low-pressure, and finding a date’s not hard. I mean, there’s always somebody in need. Reagan just makes everything a bigger deal than it is.”
    I glance over Jason’s shoulder at Trent, and imagine us at prom. Him in a tux, me holding his arm, wearing that white goddess dress…
    “You all seem close,” he says, catching my eye again.
    I smile. “Well, except for you and Trent and a few other people, we’ve all gone to school together since kindergarten.”
    “That must be weird.”
    I look around the room at all the familiar faces. I wave at Shelly who’s watching us dance, and I try to imagine being in a room with total strangers.
    “I don’t know. It can be nice. You know. Knowing everybody and what to expect.”
    We sway for a few seconds in silence. I notice Jason’s hands resting gently on my waist and glance up again at his dark brown eyes. They’re sort of deep like he’s thinking about something.
    “So, preacher’s kid,” he says. “You all wild and shit?”
    “No,” I frown. “And Dad’s cool, but he would not like all the cussing.”
    “So you’re not all wild and stuff ?”
    “That’s a total stereotype. And stereotypes are how stupid people make sense of the world.”
    He laughs a little. “That something your dad says?”
    “My mom.”
    “Yeah, about your mom…” I can feel Jason’s fingers playing with the ends of my hair. The tiny pulls gave me little chills, so I slide it away.
    “What’s she like?” he says.
    “I thought you weren’t interested.”
    “I’m not, but… it seems like you were mad about her before. Or something.”
    I look at him for a second and then shake my head. “I shouldn’t have said that before. Mom’s great.”
    “So there’s not a line of guys waiting for her?”
    “No,” I confess. “Just one.”
    “One meaning your dad?”
    “One meaning her student Ricky.”
    Jason frowns. “Who’s Ricky?”
    I fiddle with the side of his collar, not meeting his eyes. “Her massage therapy student. He’s always at our house.”
    “Your mom teaches massage therapy?”
    I nod. “She coaches a senior from the college in Glennville every year. And she teaches yoga and prescribes herbal remedies. Stuff like that.”
    “We had a lot of that in New Mexico.”
    “I’m sure.” I glance up at Jason’s hair. It really is a pretty color, and for a moment, I imagine sliding my fingers through it. Just to see how it feels, of course.
    “So you think this Ricky guy’s after your mom?”
    “Yes.” I answer without hesitation. Then I pause. I’ve never told anyone how I feel about Ricky and my mom. I can’t believe I’m telling my fake boyfriend.
    “That’s weird. What does your dad think?”
    “Nothing,” I shake my head. “I mean, nothing’s going on. Ricky’s just her student.”
    We’re quiet a second.
    “It just gets old sometimes,” I say softly.
    “I bet. It’s like he’s threatening your family or something.”
    “But he’s not. Mom would never do anything like that.”
    Jason studies my face and our eyes meet. I didn’t expect him to understand how I felt, or that it might matter to me. But I realize the song’s over, and I lead us off the dance floor.
    “She wouldn’t,” I say again. But for a moment all I can think of is Shelly’s seemingly perfect parents, and how shocked we