“But my dog did eat my homework!”
“Thomas, this is the last time you tell that lie in my class. Now, where is your homework?”
It didn’t matter to Miss Grumplehorn that I was telling the truth. It didn’t matter that my dog was a 75 pound mammoth of hair and drool. It didn’t matter that I had a fist full of wet pages, carefully documenting the historical event of George Washington crossing the Delaware. She didn’t believe me, again.
I had accidentally used the lie once to get out of an assignment, and now that it was true, she didn’t believe me. When she found out that I had lied, she drew a hard line in the sand. No one was ever getting away with a lame excuse for not having homework done.
But when she did that, it seemed to have been a class decision. No one believed me now. It didn’t matter what I said, what I promised or swore on, no one thought I was telling the truth. I did hit Bill with the dodge ball. No, I didn’t steal Maggie Hopkin’s chocolate chip cookie. But it didn’t matter.
Grumplehorn was still waiting. And I didn’t have any other truth to tell her. Then it hit me. Why tell her the truth? She wasn’t going to believe me regardless of what I said, so why not lie? Why not come up with a story that is so dumb, so ridiculous that she has to know that I’m lying? Maybe so much of the opposite of truth will show her how obvious the truth was, my dog did eat my homework.
“Fine,” I said with mischievous eyes,” you want the truth? Here it is.”