Faking Faith Read online

  “Yeah, Dad, everything’s fine,” I lied. Because why bother changing the trend now?

  He hesitated for a moment, his lawyer instincts no doubt catching that I was lying even though he was probably four microbrews into the night.

  “You’re sure?” he asked, putting one tentative foot in my room. “That talk about church and baptizing and stuff. I guess it threw me for a loop. It’s just … never anything I knew you were thinking about.”

  There have been a lot of things you’ve never known I was thinking about, I wanted to say.

  “Just for a school essay,” I said. “No big deal.”

  He’d stopped, one step into my room.

  “How has it been meeting with that … uh, that doctor?” he asked.

  After I’d gotten suspended, Mom had set me up with a fancy child psychiatrist to “talk about my acting-out issues.” But after a few unhelpful sessions that were really mostly staring contests, I called up Dr. Brenner’s office pretending to be my mom and cancelled the future appointments. No one from the office had followed up. And my parents, unsurprisingly, had forgotten about it. Until now.

  “Okay,” I said, looking at him steadily.

  “Is school going well? Are your grades still okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. Having no social life had, in fact, done wonders for my work ethic. “They’re fine.”

  “Because it’s really important to keep them up in your junior year, you know. Colleges really want—”

  “I know, Dad,” I said, trying not to let my voice sound bitter. As if I hadn’t had the college thing drilled into me since I was in elementary school. Keeping up appearances for the applications was the only thing that had ever seemed important.

  “Okay, well … ” he said. “If there’s anything else you ever want to talk about … ”

  Ugh, save me from parents who intermittently want to pretend like they’re all Involved.

  While you’re at it, save me from disappearing friends and hot boys who turn out to be awful human beings.

  “Nope, nothing else,” I said, with a small smile. “I guess I went through a rough time, but now it’s fine.”

  “Okay,” he said, turning to leave. He stopped and his shoulders slumped a little. “Hey, I know that we talked about going to that movie tomorrow, but it turns out—”

  “You have to go into the office,” I finished for him. “It’s fine, Dad. The movie looked stupid anyway.”

  He looked at me with those same tired eyes, grimacing a little, seeming almost appreciative that I was letting him off the hook so easily. I couldn’t understand why he did it. What was so awesome about being a lawyer anyway? When he was my age, did he dream of growing up and spending his Friday nights yelling into the phone at some underling while his kids grew up and kept secrets?

  I knew one thing for sure—no way in hell was that my dream.

  “You’re positive it’s okay?” he said.

  “Yeah, seriously, don’t worry about it.”

  I’ll just hole up in my room and assume a fake personality, like always.

  “Sorry, Pickle,” he said, and closed the door.

  SIX

  My blog, Faith’s Surrender to His Bountiful Glory, progressed nicely. So nicely that I had to remind myself every so often that it was totally fake and I was a big awful liar who was making it all up out of nothing.

  But it was just so … addictive. I researched country life and spun stories about Faith’s daily chores. I looked up recipes and pretended to try them out. I did some further reading into fundamentalist beliefs and discussed fake sermons that my fake pastor had given and how they had encouraged me. I named all of Faith’s siblings and created personalities and anecdotes for each one of them in a detailed spreadsheet, just to keep it all straight.

  By the last month of the school year, I was averaging over a hundred hits a day and had a nice cadre of loyal commenters.

  Your journey is so convicting, girlie! It is AWESOME to see the Lord work in your life!

  —Hisdaughter29

  I wish I had half the energy you seem to have …

  what a wonderful stay-at-home daughter you are.

  —BlessedMaiden4Him

  I got so much reinforcement from my readers that it was easy to stay motivated. More than that, it was straight-up fun to invent Faith’s life.

  As I walked alone through the school halls between classes, I would think about what I’d write next. I’d type up drafts of blog posts while hiding in the library study carrel eating lunch. As I deleted taunting, anonymous messages from my school email account or erased nasty, non-anonymous messages from my Facebook inbox (which were still arriving regularly), I’d make up nicknames for Faith’s new kittens. And when balls of paper were thrown at my head during study hall and everyone snickered, I hardly noticed because I was brainstorming about what adorable antics Faith’s younger siblings could be getting into.

  And when I wasn’t faking Faith, I was surfing the other blogs for ideas. I didn’t plagiarize or anything, but it was easier to get into character when I was drowning in the language and beliefs and images of these girls and their families.

  Sometimes I would stare at the family pictures they posted, mentally placing myself into the background, perhaps holding one of the younger kids in my arms, smiling beatifically.

  Abigail remained my constant favorite.

  There was just something about her—the complete confidence she had in her beliefs and her goals, the sweet way she wrote about her parents and family, as if they all completely adored each other and never disagreed or fought, and the recipes for old-fashioned food like soda bread and sticky toffee pudding that she posted with lovely pictures that got scads of fawning comments. Many more comments than I ever got.

  Combine that with her apparent complete unawareness of the outside world, and her innocence was beautiful and somehow … contagious.

  When kids around me in school would swear, I found myself flinching over how offended Abigail would be to hear such profanity. When I watched movies at home, I started averting my eyes during violent or sexy parts, envisioning how disappointed Abigail would be to know I’d allowed myself to see such unwholesome things.

  To be honest, my obsession with her was only slightly based in jealousy. Mostly it was plain adoration.

  . . .

  “Mom, is it okay if I bake this weekend?” I asked one morning. I was, as always, on my computer and she was shuffling through a file of papers at the breakfast table. A cold piece of toast with one missing bite sat at her elbow.

  She didn’t even pause in her work. “Sure, Dylan, just don’t burn the house down.”

  “Okay,” I said, happily going back to clicking through all the recipes that Abigail had posted on her site. I hadn’t decided which one I was going to attempt yet. They were all so tempting. Lemon cake or apple strudel, perhaps? Or maybe strawberry rhubarb crisp!

  A full five minutes later, my mom jerked up her head.

  “Wait, what?” she said, as if suddenly processing what I’d said.

  I looked at her.

  “Did you just say something about baking?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Like … some of that pre-made chocolate chip cookie dough, like we did when you were little?”

  That had been the extent of my activities in the kitchen with my mom. Half the time the cookies had turned out burnt. She used to barely be able to slice up oranges for my soccer team without cutting herself. She always made Dad do it.

  “No, Mom,” I said, rolling my eyes. “That cookie dough stuff is for wusses. I want to make this.”

  I turned my computer toward her and showed her a picture of Abigail’s strawberry rhubarb crisp. It was perfectly browned and you could just about smell the sweet waves of baked goodness coming off the computer screen.

  Mom squinted hard at the picture. “You really want to make that?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Mom looked back at me, wr
inkles of concern on her forehead.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little … well, ambitious, Dylan?”

  My first instinct was to snark at her—and what would you know about ambitious baking, Mom? But I swallowed back my sarcasm and smiled instead. I really didn’t feel like fighting with her this morning. I just wanted to bake.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I said cheerfully. It sounded like something Abigail would say.

  “But … ” Mom looked at the screen again. “Baking? That? Really?”

  I could almost hear her brain churning, wondering what confusing new phase of adolescent development I was going through now, and if this one would involve a potential lawsuit or suspension from school. I just hoped it wouldn’t make her remember the psychiatrist.

  “So? I don’t get what’s the big deal,” I said.

  “I just … think … well, maybe you need to get out of the house more.”

  “You’re the one who grounded me for forever,” I pointed out, becoming more annoyed. “And what’s wrong with baking? It’s a good skill to have. It’s pretty much the most wholesome thing I could be doing with my time.”

  “Nothing is wrong with it, exactly,” she said, rubbing her temples as if she were in pain. “It’s just very … domestic.”

  “So?”

  “And I’m not … you know … I’m not the most domestic woman around.” I had rarely seen my mom stumble so much for words. She was usually in complete control of all situations.

  “No, really?” I said.

  She frowned at me. “I just … where is this coming from? Why this sudden fascination?”

  “Why do I have to be exactly like you?” I asked, ignoring her question. “What if I want to be different?”

  She blinked at me for a moment, looking stung, and then shrugged. “Well, of course you don’t have to be exactly like me, but—”

  “Look, Mom, me wanting to bake isn’t a judgment of you or anything,” I interrupted, working hard not to let myself get snippety. I was trying to act how I imagined Abigail would act in this situation, calm and sweet and wanting to please. “I just want to try it, is all. I mean, something a little more advanced than pre-made cookie dough cookies. I think it’ll be fun.”

  She still looked disturbed, tapping her fingers on the table. “Are you doing okay, Dylan?”

  “Sure,” I said, with a quiet sigh.

  Mom reached across the table and put her hand over mine. “I know you’ve had a tough couple of months, sweetie,” she said. “I’m … well … ”

  “What?” I asked.

  She appeared to gather herself, like she was preparing to say something important.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry that things have been so hard for you. And that we have such a tough time talking about it without fighting. It’s something we need to work on, that I really want to work on, but I’m just trying to get through this stage of the case and then I’ll be much more—”

  “It’s fine, Mom.” I cut her off, gently disengaging my hand from hers. “This doesn’t need to turn into a huge thing. I just want to bake, okay? It’s really not a big deal.”

  We looked at each other and then she sighed, glancing down at her work on the table and then back at me.

  “Well … all right then. Not sure what kind of baking supplies are in there … ”

  Before she could say anything more, I jumped up. “No worries, I’ll walk to the store and buy what we don’t have. I gotta get to school now. Bye, Mom.”

  I left her sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the papers in front of her.

  SEVEN

  Abigail and I began to email back and forth.

  It started simply enough. I wrote to praise her strawberry rhubarb recipe, even though my inedible rendition of it had somehow turned out both soggy and burnt.

  I’m so glad you like it! she replied. I’m so happy that the Lord brought us together through our websites! What an amazing blessing. I’m sure I have much to learn from you, too.

  Oh Abigail, you don’t even know, I thought.

  I wrote back to her after that, asking for a book recommendation, and she replied again, and pretty soon we were regular pen pals. Well, Faith and Abigail were regular pen pals. By this point, the situation had spiraled so far beyond that fateful day when I’d clicked on that first link that I sort of felt like an invisible bystander.

  It was getting to be the last few days of school, which was wonderful (since it meant 100 percent lower odds of verbal abuse in the hallways and awkward avoidances of former friends) but also made me an anxious, fidgety mess. More than usual, that is. Being at school sucked, but if I didn’t have it to go to every morning, I didn’t know what reason I’d ever have to leave the house. I didn’t know what reason I’d have to even get out of bed.

  Scottie had sports camps and trips with friends planned for most of the summer, and, of course, Mom and Dad didn’t work any less just because it got hot outside. We had a trip to visit grandparents planned for August, but that was it as far as scheduled activities with my family were concerned.

  If I still had Kelsey or Amanda, or even Blake, that’s where I’d be.

  Instead, I was looking at spending a whole summer haunting my house solo, wandering the Internet and watching daytime TV in the cold basement, waiting for my family to come home just to have someone to talk to.

  It felt like a death sentence.

  I guess maybe a more normal, healthy girl might have put in applications for summer jobs. She might have called her relatives and asked to come visit or signed up for some classes. But I hadn’t been normal for a while and none of that sounded remotely interesting. Besides, I was sure that wherever I went as Dylan, someone would know about what had happened and it would be terrible and humiliating.

  There was only one thing that could get me excited anymore, and slowly, an idea began to take shape in my brain. A ridiculous idea that had the potential to get me in huge amounts of trouble. But the more I thought about it, the better it started to sound, and soon I couldn’t think of anything else.

  I kept writing to Abigail—at this point, it was daily. We had quite a friendship … well, at least as much of a friendship as was possible when we’d never met and one of us was totally fake. We’d moved beyond just recipe sharing and pleasantries. She confided in me about worries involving her older sister and wanted my advice, and I asked her for her thoughts about some Bible verse I’d looked up online and didn’t understand. We’d gently argued about which Jane Austen hero we’d most want to marry—(Abigail: Mr. Knightley; Me: Mr. Darcy, of course), and talked about what we wanted to name our future children. We’d send links to online videos of adorable kittens and convicting sermons and modest clothing stores back and forth.

  Honestly, by that point, Abigail really was my best friend.

  I don’t know what I’d do without you, Faith! she wrote. What an encouragement you are to me. I hope someday we can fellowship in person!

  So one evening, the night before my last final exam of my junior year, I wrote to Abigail about my ridiculous idea. An idea that I hoped wouldn’t sound so ridiculous to her.

  My father said it would be okay for me to go visiting this summer, I wrote. He would like for me to be exposed to other godly families so I can have more experiences for when I am married and to help me cultivate even more of a servant’s heart. Do you have any ideas about fellow stay-at-home daughters whom I could visit? I know this might sound a little odd, but it’s my father’s will, of course!

  I waited anxiously for a response, obsessively refreshing my email while I should have been studying for my French final. Had I gone too far outside the boundaries of what these girls thought was “normal” this time? Was inviting some strange girl off the Internet to come visit something Abigail would even consider? Would she get suspicious and see through me?

  Her excited response came just a few hours later.

  Oh, Faith, the Lord sent me the best i
dea! Why don’t you come and stay with my family? I talked it over with Daddy and Mama and they said it would be fine. I’ve told them all about you for months, of course, and they have always thought you sounded like such a wonderful example of faithful maidenhood! I think they believe you’ve been a good influence on me.

  I literally laughed out loud at that. Me, the golf-club-wielding slutty screw-up, a good influence on the perfect angel Abigail?

  Obviously not, but I wasn’t about to tell her and give up this ideal chance to witness her world. I didn’t even think twice before writing back to accept the invitation.

  . . .

  After developing a detailed action plan and collecting the necessary materials, I was ready to go. First stop: parental permission. Strategy: divide and conquer.

  Which wasn’t all that hard, seeing as I hadn’t witnessed Mom and Dad together in the same room for over two weeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d start to wonder if they were the same person dressing up in different costumes.

  But I managed to corner Mom in her usual place. At breakfast, while she was distracted.

  “So, guess what, Mom? I found this cool all-girls camp in, um, Springfield that I want to go to this summer,” I said, the very essence of nonchalant. “For two weeks in July. Is that okay?”

  As per usual, she was barely able to tear herself away from legal briefs long enough to look at me. “Oh, really? What kind of camp?”

  I put down a brochure that I’d swiped from the guidance counselor’s office for some young women overachiever’s camp in the capitol city of Illinois. The cover showed a diverse group of smiling girls doing wholesome, educational activities. The application deadline was long past and you actually had to be nominated by a teacher to go, but Mom didn’t need to be aware of that. And I was gambling on the hope that she wouldn’t look closely.

  I rationalized that I’d be doing terribly wholesome things if I managed to pull this off and get to Abigail’s house.

  Mom glanced through the brochure. “This looks interesting, Dylan,” she said, briefly smiling at me. “I’m glad you’re taking some initiative. And it seems like a good place to stay out of trouble, too.”