The Truth About Faking

morning, and Mom’s sitting in her office drinking tea. I go straight in and drop to my knees beside her, wrapping my arms around her waist and hugging close to her. She sets her mug down and drapes her arms across my back. Then she leans forward and I feel her kiss my head.
    “What’s this all about?” she asks.
    “I love you very much,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”
    “What?”
    “You were right. I really didn’t understand anything.”
    She’s quiet a minute and then she starts rubbing my back.
    “It’s okay,” she says. She slides her cool palm over my forehead and smoothes it over my hair. “I hope at least you’ve seen how destructive it is to make snap decisions about people. To set your mind on things being on way or the other and then locking people into roles and stereotypes.”
    I sit up and nod. “Right. Stereotypes.”
    I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about me at this point, but then her eyes meet mine. “I love you, Harley. And I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said.”
    “Which part?”
    “About me not telling you things.” Her eyes move around my face before returning to mine. Then she smiles. “You’re a young woman now, and I should include you more.”
    “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m learning to trust you.”
    I lay my head on her lap again and let her stroke my cheek. I think about what Jason said that night when I told him about Ricky and my mom. That I might be proud of her before it’s all over. I’m not quite ready for that to be the case, but it’s possible.
    “Mom?” I hesitate before continuing.
    “Yes?”
    “The church, Dad, is against who Ricky is.” And Trent , I think. “So how’d you… I mean, what did you say to him?”
    She’s quiet a minute, her hand still on my head. Then I hear her sigh.
    “God can do amazing things,” she says. “It’s not our job to put Him in a box and decide what He can do or with whom. It’s our job to encourage and pray and love.”
    I sit up and look at her. I don’t know what to say, but I feel like I understand what she means. “So you didn’t say anything to him?”
    “You know,” she becomes thoughtful. “Jesus met people where they were. He didn’t make them come to him.”
    “He got called names for it, too.”
    “It’s true,” she smiles and tucks a piece of hair back into my messy braid. “But it’s the best way to live your life. It’s a cliché now, but the philosophy was around long before the T-shirt.”
    “Right.” I nod, ready to say it with her.
    “You have to be the change you want to see in the world,” she says.
    I snort and then giggle.
    “What?”
    “Gandhi,” I say.
    “So?”
    “I was expecting ‘What Would Jesus Do’ or something.”
    “Oh.” Her face relaxes and she smiles. “Well, of course. That goes without saying.”
    I look at her a moment. I don’t want to fight, but I know I have to get things straight with her. I have to finish telling her how I feel, even though I’m way less angry about it all now.
    “It felt like you chose him over me,” I say. “Like as soon as Ricky showed up, he was all you were interested in.”
    She’s quiet a moment, and then she looks down at her hands. “You’re right,” she says. “I did get distracted by Ricky’s problems. And I’m sorry.”
    I can’t believe it. I’ve been so angry, but that’s all I ever wanted her to say. I put my head down on her lap again. I’m not really crying or anything, but my eyes are wet.
    “Oh, Harley,” she sighs. “You mean more to me than anything. You just… you didn’t need me as much then.”
    I take a deep breath and think about her words. “I was just so worried.”
    She smoothes my hair back. “I know. And I’m so sorry for making you worry. I really am.” Then she smiles and lifts my chin. “Forgive me?”
    I meet her eyes and my frustration releases. I nod, and I feel like smiling now, too. I am proud of her.
    “So last night,” her voice lightens. “Was the do-over date any better than the first one?”
    She starts pulling out my leftover braid, and my hair falls in crimped waves around my shoulders.
    “It was… different.” I wonder if my promise to Trent includes not telling my mom. It probably does, but I wish she could know how similar our situations are.
    “Well, he’s very cute at least. And a sharp dresser.”
    “Yeah, but it’s not going to happen.”
    “No?” she frowns.
    “I just… well… I really like Jason. A lot.” I