The question hung in the dusty air. Tricia felt her armor crack. No one had ever asked so directly. No one had ever wanted the real answer.
By high school, she had perfected the art. Her lies were never large enough to harm. She never claimed to have cancer or a dead twin. Instead, she invented a weekend trip to Boston she never took, an uncle who played saxophone in a jazz club, a scar on her palm from rescuing a stray cat from a drainpipe. Each lie was a tiny, shimmering scale, and together they formed a suit of armor. tricia fox
When her mother asked if the bruise on her arm was from falling off a bike, Tricia said yes. It was easier than saying the boy next door had a temper like a kicked furnace. When the school counselor asked if she had friends, Tricia described a whole imaginary circle with names like Lily and Sage and a boy named Jules who always shared his lunch. The lie was a warm coat against the cold fact of her empty table in the cafeteria. The question hung in the dusty air
She pulled her hand back. “I have to go,” she said. No one had ever wanted the real answer