Lexie

There are moments of clarity from my childhood, moments that seem particularly meaningful or significant, even if they're not.

It was springtime and I was on the swings. Not that it was like it wasn't always warm enough to be on the swings, but I remember how green it was. The hills around the school had changed from winter brown to promising green—the promise that summer was almost upon us. It felt good.

I was alone. That wasn't really news either—seemed like I was always alone. Not that I bothered too much. Normally I just sat on the playground, waiting for recess to end. I was the reserved, too-smart type, unable to converse with my peers without giving myself away as a flaming intellectual.

I don't really know what I was thinking about, but I was certainly distracted. So much so that I didn't immediately recognize that a dark-haired boy was talking to me. He had a goofy grin on his face, the kind that hinted at some illict, ill-gained secrets.

“What?” I asked.

“Do you know Lexie?” the boy asked.

Of course I knew Lexie. I'd been in her class for the past four grades. She had beautiful skin, dark eyes, perfect hair and lived not far from my house. What was more, she was brighter than I was. In my mind, I imagined that we were destined to be together, we abandoned intellectuals. My schoolwork was mainly aimed to impress and keep up with her. She made my elementary school world go 'round.

“She LIKES you!” the boy blurted out, in a mix of revulsion and excitement.

My elementary school world stopped.

It wasn't that this was something I hadn't ever thought about, ever fantasized about. Now that the moment was here, however, I didn't know what to do.

Lexie ran over. Suddenly, I knew even less what to do. She took one look at the other boy, one look at me, and we were all on the same page. A horror and a misery crossed her face.

“I don't! I—I” She was sputtering, trying to recant and undo the three words of the other boy. She began to hit him repeatedly in the arm, berating him by name. For the life of me, I can't remember his name. At such a critical juncture in my life, I was paralyzed by the incomprehensible potential of the situation and unable to process everything happening around me.

Lexie had finally turned to me. “I don't like you! I don't! I mean, you don't like me?” It wasn't a statement. It was a question. This was the moment.

I opened my mouth.

And it just kind of hung there.

I had been a different kind of caught. So I did what I needed to to gain some kind of control on the situation.

“No. No! No. Of course I don't.” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

All three of us just kind of waited for something to happen. I realized that I wasn't swinging anymore.

Looking back, that was the last conversation I ever had with Lexie. My family moved away that summer. I've always wondered what other outcomes that conversation could have had. More than that, however, I've tried to understand what made me lie.

It is a subversive, backwards kind of control that makes someone lie. It's that desperation that makes someone shelve their morals, ignore their better self and put their credibility on the line all in pursuit of the upper hand in a situation.

Lying, then, isn't a habit. It's not just a pattern and a rut a careless someone gets into – it's an addiction. I would not realize it until later in life, but my lies embodied a craving for control and my instinctive urge to fabricate an out for myself. In hindsight, Lexie was the first social casualty. I wish she had been the last.