Ch 3: Learning to Lie

An introduction to the art of secret-keeping

Sitting on the ground by the chain-link fence between our Denver yards, I watched the little dark-haired girl in the yard next door with curiosity. Perhaps two or three years older than me, she moved with a grace I didn’t have, although I’m not sure I would have known to label it that way at five. What I knew then is that I liked watching her pirouette around her small, shaded yard. She turned summersaults and cartwheels from one side of the yard to the other. When she finally plunked herself down by the fence opposite me, sweat poured off her face and her shiny black hair took its time settling back onto her shoulders.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said back.

I don’t know what the content of our conversation was after that. I imagine she told me her name—Margo—and I told her mine. I might have told her that we just moved here from Michigan. She might have told me that she’d lived there all her life. The only thing I remember her saying as clearly as if she sat across the room from me at this moment, are these words:

“I hope you’re not Catholic. We hate Catholics.”