Page 2 of Faking the Face Off

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I find my sweet pops leaning over the sink, grinning as the faucet is running smoothly now.

“No need, sweetie. It’s fine. Should hold up another day.”

“Are you sure?” Opening the door to the cabinet under the sink, I look inside suspiciously.

“You don’t trust me?”

“You drive a Zamboni, you’re not a plumber.”

He laughs. “I know how to fix a sink. And the toilet, too, for that matter. But don’t worry, I’ll call a plumber this week and get it looked at, okay, Mom?”

I’m preparing a witty comeback when we’re both startled by the sound of his phone and the insane ringtone he’s chosen. Normal people have a bell sound or a song, even the regular “ri—i-ng, ri—i-ng” that you can set it to, but not my dad. He’s got a chainsaw.

Spotting his phone on the kitchen table, I grab it and slide it over to him.

“That’s not normal,” I say, adding a tsk-tsk as he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not normal,” he mutters as he puts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Shaking my head, I glance at the time and realize I need to get laundry going. I love a day off like nobody’s business, and boy, can I be lazy on these days or what? Seriously, I’m all go-go-go; being a personal assistant, I’m busy by nature. There’s not one set task list, which I like because I’m never bored, but that also means that each day is like a mystery surprise. My friend Ollie, who is probably my best friend at this point in my life, says it’s because I can’t sit still.

I shuffle back down the hallway to my room and start gathering the clothes strewn all over as a result of my pace during the past week. Look, to have a job like I do, you must beorganized; in fact, if you’re not—do not even apply. I was the kid who had file folders when I went to school; the one who insisted that my locker have an extra shelf so I had another spot where I could put a container or two. The kid who worked off their calendar starting at age twelve…another thing Ollie likes to tease me about.

Ollie is not only a friend, but we kind of, not really, work together, too. Ollie plays for the Renegades, and I work for his coach, Ben Masters. It makes my trips to the arena a little more enjoyable because I get to see him when I go by. It’s funny to me that skinny, little Ollie who used to tutor me in history in high school is now a giant. A brute force to be reckoned with on the ice, although the guy I know is all sweetness and light, and really fun to be around.

I stop and look around my room. For someone who’s always prided herself in being organized, it all seemed to fall away, at least personally, when I took this job. What’s the old saying—a carpenter’s house is never finished? Well, a personal assistant’s home—or in my case since I moved home temporarily, her bedroom—is never organized.

I find the empty laundry basket in a hall closet and busy myself filling it up with my dark clothing, my thoughts dipping back to Ollie. We’d attended community college together after high school; we were left behind by our friends, but we liked it. It made us closer, but it was harder when we got our two-year degrees and both ended up in different states to finish school. I can remember hugging his body and feeling bones, and two years later when I saw him again after we’d both moved back to the area, he’d become…well, not quite the same skinny guy he used to be, I’ll say that.

Shaking my head, I turn my attention back to the task at hand: laundry, Anna. Do the laundry. I take the basket and onceI’ve filled it up, I head back down the hallway to the laundry room, cutting through the kitchen.

As I walk by, Dad suddenly stops talking. It could be me, but I can tell that the energy in this room has changed since I left. I ignore the shift and keep walking to the laundry room. He stays quiet for a moment, but I can tell it’s for my benefit, that he’s not done talking. He only remains silent until I close the door—well, almost all the way.

I leave it cracked just enough so I can eavesdrop, of course. I swear, my nosiness will one day be my downfall.

His voice drops an octave, making it harder for me to hear what he’s saying. But I can still tell he’s worked up. There’s a subtle quiver in his words, the strain of someone trying to keep their cool but failing. It’s the way his voice dips lower with every syllable, and the tightness in his tone tells me he’s fighting to stay calm.

The next few words are barely audible, but they’re enough to make my stomach drop. “I told you, I can’t pay it right now. You’re going to have to wait.”

A silence follows, only broken by the sound of Dad’s breath—sharp, forced. And then, a voice on the other end, cruel and cutting, too muffled for me to make out clearly, but it’s unmistakable—the kind of voice that bullies, pushes, and manipulates.

“I’m doing my best here,” Dad snaps, though I can hear the tremor in his voice. “I said I’ll get the money…just give me some more time, alright?”

The tone on the other end grows harsher. Dad’s words quicken as he tries to reason with whoever he’s talking to. But all I can hear now is the growing anxiety in his voice.

My heart sinks as I listen, feeling a mix of helplessness and anger. My father is usually so solid, so calm…But right now, he sounds small, cornered.

I bite my lip, wanting to rush out there, to ask him what’s going on—but I stay put. The quiet conversation continues, and I wish I could somehow protect him from whoever is on the other end of that phone. I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right and I can’t stay here and pretend I’m not hearing him, either.

“Dad?” I step into the doorway and lean against its jamb. “What’s going on?”

“That was the bank. About the…scam artist.” He chokes on the words, his voice tight with frustration.

“Scam artist?” In truth, the only thing I know about scam artists comes from my experience with an ex-boyfriend named Jason, but that’s a heartbreak story best saved for another day.

“I don’t even know how it happened, Anna. One day, things were fine. I was doing alright, making my investments, and the next…I find out I’ve been suckered into a Ponzi scheme.”

I blink, trying to wrap my head around what he’s saying. “Ponzi scheme?”

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