We were talking last Wednesday night about lies and lying and liars. I was, when I was a child, a very prolific liar. The time I told about, however, was once when I told the truth - and how VERY angry it made my brother.
When I was in first grade, my brother was in fifth and we both went to St. Rita's, home of the maroon plaid uniform. I don't remember why Richard didn't want to go to school that day but he didn't and, since we walked to school together, if he played hooky, I had to play hooky.
So we did.
It's not easy to hide out in a small town when you're wearing a Catholic school uniform. We managed, mostly hanging out in creekbeds and small groves of trees. It was a very long day and I was a very whiny, demanding, obnoxious compatriot. I liked school.
Anyway, it got to be after 3:00 and we could finally go home. We did and all the way home, my guilt grew and grew and grew and my fear of eternal damnation grew and grew and grew. The first thing I did when I got home was to tell my mother what we had done.
The rest of that day was not pretty.
Facing Sister Marie Emile and the Mother Superior the next morning was not pretty.
It was, however, far prettier for me than for my brother.
I did not play hooky again while I was at that school and I graduated from 8th grade there.