The Truth About Faking

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