Page 18 of The Fake Out

Against my better judgement, I tugged my phone from my back pocket, unlocked it and handed it over. With a wicked little grin, he began typing.

“This is my number. I texted myself. If we’re going to be book club friends, we have to be able to talk about the book, right?” He handed the phone back. “Now, get reading. You’re already behind.”

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.”