The Truth About Faking

buzzes, and he picks it up quickly. I watch as he glances at the text and for a half-second, he smiles and looks happier than he has all night.
    It immediately disappears when he turns back to me. “’Night, Harley,” he says.
    I blink and then get out frowning. What was that ? Clearly there’s someone out there he wanted to hear from tonight. Someone whose lips he might’ve been more excited about kissing.
    I walk slowly to the house thinking how this would just make Jason’s day. This whole night would. That was the worst first date in the history of all first dates. I open the front door as tears are stinging in my eyes, but I stop when I hear voices in the living room. It sounds like my parents, so I wait and listen.
    “It just doesn’t look good, Jackie,” My dad says.
    “I know,” Mom says quieter. “But I said he could talk to me whenever he needed to, and I guess he needed to.”
    “At ten o’clock at night?”
    “He’s dealing with a lot right now.”
    Finally! My dad’s in on it. He’ll put a stop to all this Ricky nonsense. I open the door and walk inside. My parents stop talking and look at me.
    “How was your date, honey?” Mom smiles.
    I decide to skip the gory details and just go to bed. Let them finish getting rid of Ricky.
    “It was okay,” I say.
    “He looked like a very nice young man.”
    I shrug and keep walking. Too nice if you ask me. “’Night, guys.”
    I go to my room and close the door, hoping that by tomorrow Ricky will be gone and I can figure out what went so wrong with my Mr. Right.

Eleven
     
     
    The future is never how you think it’ll be. After church, Trent is waiting for me, and he even holds my hand as we walk to the back doors.
    “I was thinking maybe Friday we could do something again,” he says. I look up at his lavender-blue eyes completely confused.
    “Really?” I can’t believe it, but he does seem happier.
    Boys can be so confusing sometimes. Maybe I misunderstood the whole evening. Maybe he was upset about something that had nothing to do with me at all. Maybe that text was from his mom offering to get him his own car. Or saying she’d never search his room again.
    “Yeah,” he says. “Mom has her appointment, but—”
    “That’s okay.” I do a little laugh. “I’ll be happy to drive this time. Mom’s SUV is back.”
    “Oh, you don’t have to drive, I just—”
    “I don’t mind. Really. Let me check with my parents, but I’m sure it’ll be okay. I can pick you up at your house.”
    “Um, okay. Like after seven?”
    “Sure,” I say, smiling. 
    He holds the door open and says goodbye before trotting off toward his car. I start in the opposite direction toward my mom, but I notice there’s a new addition to the group of ladies typically chatting on the lawn after church. Trent’s mom has joined them, and she’s standing right beside Mrs. Perkins.
    “If it were me, I might feel it’s a bit too… familiar ,” Mrs. Perkins is saying. Then she clears her throat and emphasizes her words. “Especially since you’re giving him hands-on instruction?”
    Mom’s eyes narrow, and she seems angry. “Ricky graduates in four weeks. We’ve reached the point where he doesn’t need direct instruction from me anymore.”
    I frown. Mrs. Perkins has never seemed interested in Mom’s students before. I glance at Ms. Jackson and remember her attempts at starting gossip. I also remember how annoyed she was by Mom and Ricky at the game. Now she appears too cozy with Mom’s nemesis.
    “He seems very taken with you,” Ms. Jackson’s smaller voice says. “All he talks about at my appointments is how good you are. As a teacher.”
    I feel my heart beating faster as Mrs. Perkins raises her eyebrows. But Mom simply sighs and shakes her head.
    “He was probably just a little nervous. He was having trouble mastering healing touches, and he did say he wasn’t comfortable with end-feel…” She exhales and mutters. “This can’t be interesting to you.”
    “Oh, you’re wrong,” Mrs. Perkins smiles her evil-witch smile. “I find this very interesting.”
    Mom glances at her, not smiling back. “I’m sure you do.”
    “And how does Dr. Andrews feel about you working with Ricky on, what is it? End-touching?” Mrs. Perkins’ eyes are sparkling. She actually looks giddy. I feel nauseated.
    “That’s not the correct phraseology,” Mom says, her annoyance apparent. “It’s end-feel, and it refers to the joints and range of