Being lied to
“Oh, what a beautiful baby girl.”
I don’t quite remember that one, but I’m sure someone said it. I’m sure you’ve said it to some new mother proudly beaming while holding what appears to be a second cousin to ET or one of the shrunken heads in the science experiment kit you used to have once upon a time. Hey, everyone loves babies. I get it.
“What a lovely young lady you’re becoming.”
Said at various stages of development when the mirror lets you know quite clearly that you will never be on the cover of any magazine except perhaps Dermatology Today. And that the paper bag over the head joke is not at all funny because you’ve contemplated wearing one more than once.
“You sang so beautifully.”
I couldn’t remember the words although I had known every one before Ms. Ross took my hand to sing with her on stage. And I couldn’t sing one note in tune though she provided me with every line.
“Why are they lying to me?” my seven-year old embarrassed, miserable-self asked my mother. She just smiled and said something like, “Oh honey,” and gave my shoulder a squeeze as we exited the theater, smiling at all the well-wishers who recognized the lucky kid who couldn’t sing to save her life.
“I’ll be your best friend,” said the ten-year old girl who was always mean but was suddenly saccharine sweet…eying the bag of candy I had bought at the corner store with my allowance. I gave her a piece as I replied, “No, you won’t.”
“I won’t tell anyone. I swear,” said minutes before everyone in the school knows your secret crush.
“I promise,” said for the umpteenth time while you sit with shoulders hunched, phone to your ear, your mom looking on pityingly, knowing your dad is not going to show. Again.
“I’m not seeing anyone,” he insists but then you see him kiss the pretty blonde between classes.
“I called you.” Funny, my phone never rang.
“I was thinking about calling you.” That’s nice. Yeah, I was thinking about calling you, too. And then I did.
“I was going to call you.” And then you forgot?
“I love you.” I love you, too.