The Truth About Faking

across the top of my head like this?” I motion in a headband way across the top of my head, and she smiles.
    She steps over and cuts the music off, then I sit at her feet while she pulls out a brush and starts parting my hair. She’s really good with things like braids and crafts and stuff like that, and I like having her help me. It gives us an opportunity to chat alone for once. In a good way.
    “So Ricky’s taking your clients this morning?” I ask.
    “Yep, and I’ve got some of the ladies coming here.” Then she laughs. “They were all more than willing to have Ricky cover for me if I needed him to.”
    “He’s a rock star all right,” I say.
    “He’s a sweet boy.”
    Ricky might have the hots for my mom, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Last night when I got back with dinner, her shirt was inside out. Her hair was swept high in a pony tail, and around the temples it looked a little damp. She was elbow-deep in dish water singing a Peter Frampton tune off-key, and my dad was back in his study reading his book about issues in the church. He looked undisturbed, but something had happened while I was gone. I can always tell by the way they grin at each other when they think I’m not looking. It’s reassuring, but at the same time, I don’t want to picture what or where.
    “Is it ever weird that he has a crush on you?” I ask, scratching polish off the skin beside my freshly manicured nail.
    “What?” She frowns.
    “Ricky? Mr. Hot for Teacher?”
    “I don’t know what you mean,” she says, sliding a tiny row of my hair back from my face.
    “C’mon, Mom,” I groan. “It’s so totally obvious.”
    She stops braiding for a second. “Harley. Ricky does not have a crush on me.”
    “If you say so,” I sing-song.
    “I know so. And I’m disappointed. You’re being very stereotypical.”
    “I’m just saying how it looks.” My head’s resting on her lap, and I can smell the fresh eucalyptus lotion she uses after her bath. It reminds me of being outside in the springtime.
    “Well, looks can be deceiving.” She continues braiding, so I try another way.
    “Don’t you ever worry that people might… talk?”
    I hear the frown in her voice. “Has someone said something to you?”
    “No. I’m just thinking. Like what about Mrs. Perkins?”
    Mrs. Perkins is the wife of one of the elders at our church, and I’m pretty sure she hates my mom, un-Christlike or not. The rumor is her husband applied for the pastor’s job back when my dad was hired, and she never got over it. Then she met my mom and nearly lost her religion.
    She openly states that massage therapy is unseemly work for the wife of a pastor. Unseemly , she likes to say. Mom just dismisses Mrs. Perkins’s not-so-subtle insults as jealousy and ignorance, but I know that woman bugs the crap out of Mom.
    “Harley.” Mom’s voice is firm. “You know I have no control over the students who’re assigned to me. Are you saying I should give up my job because occasionally one of them might be… better-looking than the others? Is that fair?”
    So she admits Ricky’s better-looking than the others. “I guess not,” I say.
    “Well, I would hope not.” Then she starts talking under her breath. “You can’t live your life worrying about small-minded people with big imaginations.”
    “But the appearance… you know. Like Dad says.” I try reminding her one of his favorite sermon texts.
    Mom braids a few seconds in silence. “Harley, do you know what stereotypes are?”
    “Yes.” I roll my eyes. Here we go. Stereotypes are one of my mom’s pet peeves. The other’s eavesdropping. Oh, and gossip. But Mom has a lot of wild ideas about how people should act and what they should believe.
    “They’re tools ignorant people use to make sense of the world,” she continues.
    “I know.”
    “They’re perpetuated by fear and a reluctance to learn and grow—”
    “I know, I know!” I interrupt. Jeez, now I’ve done it.
    “People see a young man like Ricky under my instruction, and immediately they assume the most stereotypical thing in the world,” she continues.
    “I was just saying—” I try interrupting again.
    “Is it so hard to believe that I could actually teach him something?” Her voice is angry, and she’s pulling my braid too tight.
    “I wanted you to do my hair like this for a guy!” I blurt.
    “What?”
    Lecture effectively derailed. “There’s this guy at school? Trent? I’m hoping he asks me out