Pants on Fire
I had a permanent spot during “Show and Tell.”
Each week after my classmates stowed soccer trophies and vacation photos in their backpacks, I was given three minutes to regale my class with updates about our golden retriever and her new puppies. All three puppies were growing and learning to play, and I’d faithfully provide updates on which toys were their favorites.
So imagine my teacher’s surprise when she mentioned how much she and the class had been enjoying my weekly updates on a day that my mom arrived to pick me up for a dentist’s appointment - and my mother informed her: “Uh… we don’t have a dog…”
In fact, more than one elementary school teacher referred to my “vivid imagination” in the comments section of my report cards. (It’s called natural storytelling ability, Ms. Berryman!)
That storytelling formed the basis of my entire friendship strategy as a shy, socially awkward elementary schooler. (I’m a Leo! Why do you think I have a blog now?!)
People want to talk to interesting people - and so I would share interesting things. Even if none of them were true.
The Cousin
In the third grade, I spent months team-working a lie with my friend Connor. We were playing a long con - and we had everyone in our class convinced that we were cousins.
Looking back, there are several things worth noting about this lie:
It formed organically? I’m not sure who birthed the lie, but there was absolutely no discussion. Simply a spontaneous, unspoken mutual agreement to play along.
It served absolutely no purpose, beyond breaking up the monotonous day-to-day of a third grade public school education.
We effortlessly maintained it. We were smart enough to only add to our lie when we were both present, but also to perpetuate the details in our daily personal interactions.
Over time, we’d developed entire branches of fictional relatives on the family tree, recounted “memories” of Christmases past, and formed a joint account of a trip to Florida.
One of my working theories is that we trauma-bonded after being the two student volunteers cleaning the lunch room on September 11, 2001. If you’ve ever been embraced by a sobbing cafeteria worker who had to explain the concept of terrorism to you, you understand.
The lie continued for almost an entire semester - but dissipated when a pair of identical twins transferred to our school halfway through the year, making the concept of cousins in the same classroom much less glamorous and exotic.
The (Other) Cousin
In fourth grade, I decided to go solo with my fake cousin ruse. This time, I’d invented an older cousin named Hunter, who was 17, had a car and a girlfriend and all of the other things cool teenagers have. Obviously, a ten year old who can hang out with a 17 year old must also be worldly and interesting.
My friends clung to every word as I explained that Hunter and his dad didn’t get along, so my parents had agreed to let him live in our storage room.
I poured a wealth of knowledge from movies and books about the “cool older brother type” into Hunter. He took me to the pool and the movies and bought me slushies from 7/11. (My friends did not clock my misstep here. There are no 7/11’s in town.)
The lie unraveled a few weeks later, at the hands of my sister.
My friends had come over to practice our performance of the Star-Spangled banner for the school talent show - an act from which I was later demoted from backup singer to piano assistant, and then from piano assistant to flag-holder. (Not due to my dishonesty. Due to lack of talent.)
While I was searching for patriotic costume elements, my friends snuck upstairs to ask my sister if they could see Hunter’s room. By the time I emerged with arms full of red, white, and blue, she’d blown my cover. I was then forced to practice standing very still and holding a large flag for 45 minutes.
It’s Britney, Bitch
By fifth grade, I was feeling bold and ready to graduate to more far-fetched claims. This year’s embellishment was told to a single person - a friend that I swore to secrecy.
She couldn’t tell anyone that I was close friends with Britney Spears, or else the paparazzi would find out.
The lie began on a very boring field trip bus ride. I looked dramatically out the bus window as I told her of Britney’s struggles to find real friendship amidst the Hollywood glam of her life.
“She just wants to live a normal life, but her team won’t let her, and it’s making her crazy!” (Two years before Britney would infamously shave her head. Good storytelling, or eerily accurate foreshadowing?)
Luckily, Britney had me. Never mind the twelve year age gap - I was a trusted friend who she could hang out and do normal things with.
“I went to a movie yesterday with B.S. before she leaves for her tour in London.” I’d offer up new installments from time to time during recess or at lunch. These messages were always delivered with secrecy, because she was the only one who could know.
Looking back, I’m almost certain that my friend was well aware that these were entirely made-up. But you’d better believe that she was enjoying the story enough to keep coming back for more. And that is true friendship.