The Truth About Faking by Leigh Talbert Moore

short skirts and high kicks.
    So a few years back it came out that Mr. Bender’d had an affair with this Cambodian woman when he was on duty in Vietnam. He confessed to my dad that he practically had this whole other family in the South Pacific and Mrs. Bender almost left him over it. But my parents saved the day—with God’s help, of course.
    Dad reminded everyone that Bender was a war hero and said what had happened was one of those “in love and war” types of situations. He said what mattered now was saving their marriage, that it was a mistake, and forgiveness was a gift. Mrs. Bender wasn’t as understanding or ready to forgive, but after counseling with my mom for several months, she decided to put it behind her. I couldn’t believe it, but Mom said I didn’t understand the concept of building a life with someone.
    Maybe I’m still learning, but I believe having another woman pop up with your husband’s two long-lost kids seriously wrecks any life-building efforts. It’s the exact opposite of how things went with Shelly’s parents. Of course, once all that came out, Shelly’s dad had been more interested in ending their marriage than trying to keep it together. That’s what hurt my friend so much. But to be fair, I don’t believe a marriage can be saved after something like that happens, and it’s hard for me to understand where Mrs. B’s coming from acting like it doesn’t matter to her. Mom says I should wait until I’m older to decide.
    As Dad continues speaking, I look over at my mom. Her eyes are glued to him like she’s hanging on his every word. I chew my lip and frown. It’s so confusing how she can go from a private huddle with Mr. Men’s Health one night to gazing at my father like he’s the Second Coming today. But it helps ease my dream-inspired anxiety, and it seems to subdue the gossip. For now at least. Maybe there’s a chance I’m wrong. I mean, what I heard last night had sounded pretty incriminating, but there isn’t any proof that anything bad happened.
    I tune in to Dad just in time to realize he’s giving me my cue. Every Sunday, he likes me to sing the Doxology to close the service. I did it once when I was five because the lady who was supposed to sing it never showed up for church. I was too little to be self-conscious, and I’d always liked the song. I imagined all the creatures were like the little mice and birds in Snow White , and I was the princess urging them to praise God with me. I thought it was pretty cool, and everyone else seemed to agree. So it became our regular way to end the service.
    Now that I’m older, I know singing in church is kind of special, but I’ve been doing it so long, it’d be even more exceptional if I stopped. So that’s the order. Dad brings the message, and at the end, he backs away for me to sing the Doxology while Mrs. Turner plays the large pipe organ. Then we all make a bee-line for the back doors and Sunday dinner.
    Dad says his final words, and I stand to approach the smaller podium on the right. It doesn’t matter that I hadn’t listened to the sermon, I could do this in my sleep. But when I look up, I freeze. Jason’s sitting in the last row of the sanctuary. He’s wearing a suit and tie, and he actually looks… really handsome. Our eyes meet, and I see his eyebrows go up as the sound of the pipes burst out from behind me. I jump and move to my usual spot.
    Mrs. Turner blares the last eight chords of the song, which is my introduction, and for the first time, my breath catches at the thought of singing out loud in front of everyone. In front of him.
    Right on cue, though, my mouth opens and the words come out. It’s the longest 30 seconds of my life. I worry that I might hit a wrong note. I worry that my voice sounds funny. I feel my legs tremble, and I want to turn and dash out the back door.
    Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
    Praise him all creatures here below.
    Praise him above  ye heav’nly host.
    Praise