I (used to) love lying.
I still remember my first big lie.
I am five years old, sitting on the carpet of my Pre-K class, my fingers tracing the purple streets of the 2-D cafes, farms, fire stations, and ponds. The teacher is talking about China. I’m vaguely listening, but my playscape is becoming monotonous. I want to spice things up, so my hand rises. “Yes,” my teacher, my oh-so oblivious teacher, says, looking my way.
“I’m actually from China.” A grin plasters across my face. There it is—the attention I crave. Everyone’s in awe, just like they should be. See, I am patently not Chinese. In fact, I am white and Hispanic. But my teacher’s not one to judge. She moves on, but my classmates do not. All day, I’m pestered with questions I don’t know the answers to, but no bother—I continue to dig my hole deeper. One kid (nerd) starts talking about the one-child policy in China. I’m not even joking.“You had to move away because of that, right?” he asks innocently. “Oh…yeah!” I reply, the story slowly weaving out of my control. “Once I was born, we had to flee.” Great. Now I am not only from China, but a refugee from China!
The lie could have died there. But no. No, no, no. Silly me failed to realize this lie would follow me through the entirety of my elementary school experience.
Now it’s fourth grade. I am sitting, casually, kindly, innocently. A kid approaches.
“Oh, hey.”
“Hey.”
“You know what I remember?”
“What?”
“You’re from China!!”
Oh. Oh, dear. I thought we had left this in the past. I shyly nod and turn back to whatever I was doing. But unfortunately, lies follow you. And double unfortunately, I loved lying. I was hooked. The attention brought a spotlight to me that fed into my already burgeoning ego—a feeling truly unmatched by anything else.
In first grade, I told what was perhaps my worst lie. I can see it now: back on that rug, everyone is sharing family members who have died. Without any dead loved ones myself, I panic. A normal person would have offered condolences and kept their mouth shut. But I feel my hand rising.
“Yes, Lucas.”
“My dad died!”
Eyes turn—attention once again! Hip, hip, HOORAY!
That day was full of condolences. My teacher felt genuinely bad for me. Of course, I didn’t feel bad at all. Now, this might be hard to believe, but keeping the lie of a dead parent up is a difficult one to maintain. So difficult that I didn’t even last a day.
At pick-up, my name is called. We are only six years old—far too young to walk through the parking lot alone—so our teacher escorts us. So here I am, hand-in-hand with my teacher, grinning because my day has been just gleeful. But who is that in the front seat? My eyes narrow as we approach the car. Oh, dear.
“Is that your dad?”
“….”
The car window squeaks down.
“Hi, are you Lucas’ dad?”
“Yes”
Eyes turn. I do not like this kind of attention.
After an embarrassment like that, you’d think I’d stop lying. Oh, how naive of you. I was a liar through and through. I couldn’t be stopped!
Now I’m ten. As I walk into my brightly decorated math class, I realize that I am, unfortunately, homework-less, but not to worry—a veteran liar like me can nullify this little dilemma in a matter of seconds. I just need to come up with a good lie. A normal kid would say something like, “My dog ate my homework!” or simply, “I forgot it at home.” But you know the drill—I am no normal liar.
After class, I meekly shuffle up to my teacher.
“Where’s your homework, Lucas?”
“I’m sorry…”
Tears begin welling up in my eyes—as it turns out, I am also quite the actor.
“It’s just—my mom was in the hospital last night. I don’t know if she’s okay. I’m just so worried about her.”
Tears are streaming down my face, and each word is fighting to slip out of my mouth.
“Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
In fifth grade, I moved schools, and I made a vow to myself: I would stop this streak of lying. I would begin anew. A rebirth! A phoenix rising from the ashes!
“Where are you from?” a kid innocently asks.
“I’m from Phoenix, Arizona!” I say.
I am not from Phoenix. I am from Austin, Texas. It turns out, I could not stop lying. I loved it too much.
Successful once again! And that was the problem. The lies never really came back to bite. I was just too good at it; no one could stop me. I don’t remember when I stopped lying—I guess it was something I just grew out of naturally. But as I reminisce on my days as a fibster, I’m remembering the thrill of lying, of the attention from unsuspecting teachers, friends, and strangers. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll return to the lying lifestyle and once again usurp my rightful place as the center of attention.
