The Truth About Faking

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