Count My Lies

by Sophie Stava

It’s just that the truth is so uninteresting. Amending it, changing the details, adding in color, is something I started when I was a kid, a bad habit—like biting your nails or picking at scabs—that I never grew out of. In fact, I grew into it, the lies rolling off my tongue more and more naturally, almost reflexively, until it became

I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted so desperately for people to like me, and it was the only way I could think of. It was no more complicated than that: I wished I was more interesting, so I pretended to be. Sloanie, Sloanie, the big fat phony.

neither punishment taught me not to lie. It taught me to be a better liar. I didn’t make the same mistakes at my next school.

But here’s the part that makes me an even bigger freak. Sometimes I believe my own lies. They feel real. I get swept up in the fantasy, the telling of it, the retelling, lying in bed at night adding to the story, drifting off and dreaming about it. I think it’s because I’ve always felt like there had to be more to my life than what it was. I couldn’t just be this poor kid with

I nod. “She has lupus.” It’s lie number three. I’m Caitlin, I am a nurse, and my mother has lupus. One, two, three. “It’s been rough, but her

It’s a nice addition to my list of lies: one, my name is Caitlin; two, I am a nurse; three, my mother has lupus; four, I am a runner. I like the way it sounds.

She’s magnetic. I could watch her dance all day.

Like my parents, Jay has always been clear about what he thinks a woman should wear, what she should weigh, the clothes he prefers.

body tight, happy knowing he couldn’t wait to take off what I put on. This was before I knew he’d be happy to take off anything, off anyone.

This is the first time Jay’s seen her since her haircut and new clothes. By the way he’s looking at her, his eyes lingering, it’s clear he appreciates the transformation. He’s probably imagining her ass up, bent over the edge of a bed—his favorite position.

Even if I’d wanted to, which I don’t—I’d rather fuck a cactus—I’d have turned him down. The sting of rejection

He deserves to be quartered, all four limbs tied, splayed, pulled apart, pop pop pop pop

There, we can be a real family, the three of us. Thanks to Violet’s grandmother, we’ll have more than enough money; neither of us will have to work. Legally, we’ll share my identity, both Sloane Caraway, but tell everyone we’re sisters. I go by Caitlin now, to make it easier.