Faking Faith Read Online Free PDF Page B

brother and I had finished our customary shoving match, I brought the conversation back to the task at hand.
    “Seriously, though, did you go to church? I’d really like to know,” I said. “For the essay, I mean.”
    Dad shrugged. “Besides weddings and funerals, I guess I remember going once or twice, for Christmas or Easter, I think. But it was with my mom’s parents or great-aunt or something. I think we just went to be polite. Well, you know your grandparents. They aren’t exactly … ”
    “Observant? Pious?” I supplied. “Faithful?”
    Dad looked totally zoned out. “Whatever you want to call it.”
    Like I said, not too interested in pondering the deeper questions of human spirituality. Not even interested in talking about it for more than two sentences. Then something occurred to me.
    “So … are we not baptized?” I asked.
    Dad shrugged again. “When you don’t believe in those things, there isn’t much point to all that ritual.”
    “Wow … ” I frowned down at the pizza, a little scandalized. I knew what Abigail and her family would think about that. Baptism of some sort was the absolute bare minimum for being Saved. I didn’t even qualify on an entry-level basis.
    “Wait, if you’re not baptized does it mean you’re going to hell?” Scottie asked.
    Dad sighed and ripped at the label on his beer bottle. It was obvious he would much rather retreat to his basement man-cave with the big-screen TV and prerecorded episodes of SportsCenter than have this or any conversation.
    “I guess some people would believe that,” Dad said. “Personally, I don’t believe in hell. And I’m not sure what I even think of God. I put my faith in things I can see and touch and feel. I guess I’m fine with whatever gets you by in the world as long as you don’t force your beliefs on others. I’m not going to tell someone else they’re wrong to believe in a white-bearded old man in the sky watching our every move and keeping a tally sheet, but I certainly don’t want anyone telling me that I have to believe in that in order to be a good person.”
    With that, he took a decisive gulp of his beer, looking a little embarrassed.
    I blinked at him. This was just about the longest speech I’d ever heard my dad give on something other than the bullpen of the White Sox or the idiocy of clueless
clients.
    “Oh,” I said. “Okay then.”
    “You guys are free to believe in whatever you want, of course … ” he said, trailing off. “Just don’t try and get me to donate money.”
    I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh at that or not, so I didn’t.
    We were all silent for a few awkward moments, then Dad’s cell phone rang. He looked at the display and swore softly. “Hold tight, kids, I have to take this.” He wandered off toward the living room, muttering, “One of the junior associates. Incompetent little twerp.”
    My brother and I glanced at each other, knowing Dad was done with the fatherly portion of the evening. Scottie grabbed another slice and headed toward his room. I sighed and picked at the pizza carcasses, half-listening to Dad bark into the phone at the poor associate who saw him more than I did.
    . . .
    Later on, I was in bed with my computer, working on a new Faith entry and trying not to obsess over how pathetic it was to be home on a Friday night, when Dad knocked on my door.
    He peeked in. “Is everything okay, Pickle?”
    I blinked at him in surprise.
    Pickle used to be my parents’ nickname for me (get it? Dylan, Dyl, dill pickle? Hilarious, right?) but Dad hadn’t called me that in years. Even prior to the whole webcam picture thing, my relationship with Dad had taken a turn for the distant after I grew boobs and turned into a definitive girl. It hadn’t helped when I’d quit my soccer league in eighth grade, which had been one of the only things he could ever be persuaded to leave work early for, and one of the few subjects we ever had to talk about. He’d transferred