Invent.
That word hurt more than liar.
My mother had helped me write the presentation the night before while she washed dishes. She had corrected my grammar without looking over my shoulder and reminded me not to exaggerate anything.
“The truth doesn’t need decorations,” she had said.
Now the truth was being passed around the classroom while students laughed at it.
I did not argue.
Mom had once told me, “People who humiliate others are usually desperate to feel taller. Don’t shrink yourself to help them.”
So I folded the photograph, put it back in my notebook, and returned to my seat.
By lunch, the story had spread through the school.
Near the lockers, someone asked whether Mom parked her fighter jet at Walmart.
In the cafeteria, three boys saluted me and called me “Commander Lucas.”
Mr. Reynolds passed our table, heard them, and kept walking.
Not reacting did not mean it did not hurt. It meant I refused to give them another performance.
