“The second one,” Krystal says.
“Definitely,” Sasha adds.
Miranda pretends to be annoyed, even though I can tell she’s secretly pleased with herself. “Just because I’m smoking hot doesn’t make me illiterate. Hot girls read.”
“Then what’s the lie?” Sasha says.
“I’m not telling.” Miranda gives us an impish grin. “Let’s just say I’ve never been to Coney Island, but I go to mass all the time.”
Krystal goes next, telling us that her favorite superhero is Spider-Man; that her middle name is also Crystal, although spelled with a C; and that she, too, threw up after riding the Cyclone.
“Second one,” we all say in unison.
“Was it that obvious?”
“I’m sorry,” Miranda says, “but Krystal Crystal? No parent would be that cruel.”
When it’s time for her turn, Sasha nervously pushes her glasses higher onto her nose and wrinkles her brow in concentration. Clearly, she’s not used to lying.
“Um, my favorite food is pizza,” she says. “That’s number one. Number two: My favorite animal is the pygmy hippopotamus. Three: I don’t think I can do this. Lying’s wrong, you guys.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Your honesty is noble.”
“She’s lying,” Miranda says. “Right, Sasha? The third one is the lie?”
Sasha shrugs broadly, feigning innocence. “I don’t know. You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Your turn, Emma,” Krystal says. “Two truths and one lie.”
I take a deep breath, stalling. Even though I knew this was coming, I can’t think of suitable things to say. There’s so much I could reveal about myself. So little I actually want to have exposed.
“One: My favorite color is periwinkle blue,” I announce. “Two: I have been to the Louvre. Twice.”
“You still need to give us a third one,” Miranda says.
I stall some more, mulling the possibilities in my head, ultimately settling on something perched between fiction and fact.
“During the summer of my thirteenth year, I did something terrible.”
“Totally the last one,” Miranda says to nods of agreement from the others. “I mean, if you truly had done something terrible, you’re not going to admit it during a game.”
I smile, pretending that they’re right. What none of them understand is that the point of the game isn’t to fool others with a lie.
The goal is to trick them by telling the truth.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
My second night at Camp Nightingale was as sleepless as the first. Possibly worse. No electricity in the cabin meant no air-conditioning, no fan, nothing to act as a shield against the late June heat. I awoke before dawn, sweaty and uncomfortable, a patch of warm moisture between my legs. When I dipped an index finger into my underwear to investigate, it came back stained with blood.
I was seized with panic, unsure what to do. I knew about menstruation, of course. The girls in my class had been given “the talk” the year before, much to the relief of my mother, who was spared such awkwardness. We were told why it would happen. We were told how it would happen. But my gym teacher—kindly, clueless Miss Baxter—had neglected to tell us what to do when it happened.
Ignorant and fearful, I crawled out of bed and awkwardly climbed the ladder to the bunk above mine, afraid to part my legs too much. Rather than ascend one foot at a time, I gripped the ladder’s sides and lifted both feet up each rung in quick, bunk-shaking hops. By the time I reached the top, Vivian was already half-awake. Her eyes fluttered beneath a swath of blond hair that covered her face like a veil.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m bleeding,” I whispered.
“What?”
“I’m bleeding,” I said again, stressing the second word as much as I could.
“Then go get a Band-Aid.”
“It’s between my legs.”
Vivian’s eyes opened fully as she swiped the hair from her face. “You mean—”
I nodded.
“Is this your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.” She sighed, partly out of annoyance and partly out of pity. “Come on. There are tampons in the latrine.”
I followed Vivian outside, waddling like a duck down the mulch-covered path. At one point, she glanced back at me and said, “Quit walking like that. You look like an idiot.”
Inside the latrine, Vivian hit the light switch by the door and led me to the nearest stall. Along the way, she grabbed a tampon from the dispenser attached to the wall. I sequestered myself inside the stall, Vivian whispering instructions from the other side of the door.
“I think I did it right,” I whispered back. “I’m not sure.”
“You’d know if you did it wrong.”
I remained in the stall, humiliated, humbled, and not sure how to feel. Womanhood had officially arrived. The thought filled me with sadness. And fear. I began to cry all the tears I had managed to hold back the night before. I couldn’t help it.
Vivian, of course, heard me and said, “Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You totally are. I’m coming in.”
Before I could protest, she was in the stall, closing the door behind her and nudging me aside with her hips so she could join me on the toilet seat.
“Come on,” she said. “It’s not that bad.”
“How would you know? You’re only, like, three years older than me.”
“Which is a lifetime. Trust me. Just ask your older sister.”
“I’m an only child.”
“That’s a shame,” Vivian said. “Big sisters are awesome. At least mine was.”
“I always wanted a sister,” I said. “One who could teach me things.”
“Like how to shove cotton up your twat each month?”
I laughed then, in spite of my fear and discomfort. In fact, I laughed so hard I momentarily forgot about both.
“That’s better,” Vivian said. “No more crying. I forbid it. And since I’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty here, I am offering up my services as surrogate big sister. For the next six weeks, you can talk to me about any damn thing you want.”