The Fake Out by Sharon M. Peterson
SIX
Are you made of ice cream? Because you bring “sun” to my “dae.”
—HOLLY JO E.
A week later, Mama and I were watching Wheel of Fortune. Or she was watching. I was deeply engrossed in a sexy pirate romance so that my new book club friend, the superstar football god, and I could discuss it tomorrow at lunch.
My life was getting stranger by the minute.
“What are you reading?” Mama asked at the commercial break.
I tore my eyes from the page with a sigh. I was in the middle of a very swoon-worthy scene. Dang it. Holding up the paperback I’d wrapped in a book cover, I said, “A memoir.”
“Your cheeks look awfully red. It must be good reading.”
Not quite looking her in the eye, I tucked it in between the sofa arm and my body. “How was therapy today?”
“It went so well. Guess what?”
“What?”
“I buttoned an entire shirt on my own. I swear it took me longer than a one-legged man in a three-legged race to finish, but I did it.” She grinned her sweet, lopsided grin.
“That’s wonderful,” I said, feeling a tightness in my throat that I swallowed down.
Mama’s blue eyes settled on my face. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Alright.” I turned toward her, tucking a foot underneath me. “This sounds official.”
“You’ve always been such a big support for your sister, and now with…” She waved a hand down her body.
“I want to help.”
“Oh, I know you do. It’s how you were made. Never had to worry about you making poor choices or acting first before thinking things through.”
To be fair, I’d never much had a chance to rebel.
She patted my leg. “You were like that when you were little, too. I think you had more sense than me when you were five. Never caused a second of trouble.”
I tilted my head, trying to figure out exactly where this conversation was headed.
“I’ve never had to worry about you wandering off to go find yourself or getting in trouble like your father.” She spit out the last word like it was spoiled milk and pressed her lips together until they turned white around the edges.
Ah, my father. There wasn’t anyone I wanted to talk about less. When you’re a kid and don’t know any better, your parents are the focus of your whole world, the sun, the moon, the stars, the smartest, bravest people you know. But my father had shown me who he really was when I was young, and by the time I turned ten I’d lost all respect for him. He’d only spent the ensuing years making it worse.
It was hard enough having a criminal for a father, especially one who landed himself in trouble so often. But the truth was he was a terrible criminal.
One time, he’d been arrested after trying to rob a convenience store. While using a zucchini as a gun. When asked why he went with a vegetable, he said he didn’t have a concealed carry permit. Another time, he’d broken into a house, fixed himself something to eat, rummaged through everyone’s belongings and then fallen asleep in a bed. Like Goldilocks, except the three bears had called the police when they’d got home.
But his real claim to fame were the cons he ran. With his boy-next-door looks, warm smile, and natural charm, people gravitated toward him. Worse, they trusted him. He took full advantage of that. Robbing old ladies of their savings with fake stories about helping them invest in an “exciting opportunity.” Convincing investors he’d discovered hidden treasure if only he had the equipment to dig it out. Selling the latest fad from companies with very pyramid-shaped business plans. Backroom poker games, betting rings, you name it, he’d at least tried it. Despite his track record, he never could stop himself from targeting what he called an “easy mark.”
The gas stations, elderly couples, and vegetables of the world weren’t safe when he was around.
“But Iris,” Mama said, cutting into my thoughts, “she’s different from you. She always was a Daddy’s girl.”
Which was ironic since she’d probably only spent a handful of weeks in his presence. In the early days, after we moved to Two Harts, he’d show up every now and then, con Mama into letting him back in the house, spend just enough time getting Iris’s hopes up that he’d stay, then just as quickly disappear.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly why she was a Daddy’s girl. She’d missed out on the years on the road, moving from hotel room to shabby apartment. When she was just a few months old, Mama had brought us to Two Harts, and we’d moved in with Granny. It was the first time I’d had a home for longer than six months and it was the only home Iris had ever known.
“I worry about her,” Mama went on. “I don’t know if she’s ready to be out in the world on her own.”
“Iris will be fine,” I said with more confidence than I felt. But I would just have to make it so. Maybe I could put a tracking device in her lip ring?
“She will, eventually. But Iris has always been one who needs to see for herself instead of listening to what everyone else tells her.” Mama rested a hand on my knee. “She said she wants Dad to come to her graduation.”
I sucked in a breath.
“You and I, we cover for him. We always have. But it’s time she sees him for who he is.” She paused, eyes narrowing. “I can’t say he was a mistake because he gave me you and Iris, but I could go the rest of my life never seeing his face.”
“Me too,” I grumbled.
“This is important to Iris.”
“Do we even know where he is?”
“He calls every now and then, to check up on you girls.” Her cheeks reddened. “And me too.”
“Mama.”
She held up a hand, her voice firm. “I’m not interested. Trust me. Been there, done that, didn’t even get the t-shirt. This is for Iris.”
I hesitated. This was all new information. I liked to mull things over before weighing in. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t want her to resent me because she thinks I kept her from him.” Mama heaved a sigh. “But I don’t want you to resent me either.”
“I won’t,” I said quickly. But maybe that was a lie.
She held up a slip of paper. “I think you should call him.”
“Me? Why?”
“I’ve already called and left a message. Iris, too. We aren’t getting a response. I think it would be good if you tried.”
“Mama,” I sighed.
She picked up my hand, placed the slip of paper in the palm and wrapped my fingers around it. “Please. For Iris.”
With a shake of my head, I stood and stalked to my bedroom, a sour taste in my mouth. I threw myself on my bed and screamed into my pillow like I used to when I was a teenager. This was not how I imagined my life as an adult. Yet here I was. In my bedroom angry with my father and worried about how the next bill would be paid.
I turned my head to the side and Kevin glared from the pillow beside me.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I muttered.
His ear, the one with the notch in it from some cat equivalent of a bar fight, twitched. He stood and rearranged himself so his butt was in my face.
“Such a gentleman. Thank you.”
My cell phone buzzed with a text notification.
Dreamboat: Did you fall from Heaven? ’Cause I think you’re an angel.
It had been a week since Chris had first texted. It had taken me a minute to figure who Dreamboat was and why he was sending me random cheesy pickup lines. If I were being honest, his texts were becoming something I sort of looked forward to. Not that I would ever admit that to him or anyone else.
Me: Were you born on a highway? I hear that’s where most accidents happen.
Dreamboat: You are savage.
Me: Thank you.
Dreamboat: We’re still having book club meeting tomorrow at lunch, right?
Dreamboat: I’m on chapter 10 and I have questions.
Dreamboat: That thing they did in chapter 9 on the plank. Is that even physically possible?
Me: Maybe you don’t have a good enough imagination.
I almost threw the phone across the room when it rang.
“Excuse me, I have a great imagination,” Chris said as a greeting. “I was even voted Most Imaginative in high school.”
“Your parents must have been so proud.”
“I’ll prove it to you. I’m imagining what you’re doing right now.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m talking to you, dummy.”
“Shut up. I’m imagining here.” He had a nice voice, deep but smooth. “Yes, I see it. You’re on your bed and there’s a cat.”
I sat up. That was a little creepy. “Why a cat?”
“Because you are definitely a cat person,” he said with certainty.
“Why does that sound like an insult?”
He chuckled. “It’s not. Cat people are discerning. They’re very selective in who they choose to hang with. You never want to mess with a cat person. They might seem quiet, but you never can tell what they’re thinking. For instance, you could be planning my murder right now.”
“Keep that in mind, Sterns. Let me guess, you’re a dog person?”
“I think that’s obvious. For one, I’m adorable. I’m willing to do a lot of things for food and I’m very loyal.”
“Don’t forget you both like to play with balls.”
His laughter was immediate and warm. Long after I hung up and crawled into bed, I could still hear it.