Teenage Liar

Politicians lie to constituents. CEO’s lie to stockholders. Police officers lie to District Attorneys. Husbands lie to their wives. Con artists lie to their marks. Doctors lie to nurses. Salespeople lie to customers.

In no small part, lies make the world go round.

My son lies – to me, to his mother, to his grandmother. Fourteen and he’s already an accomplished spinner of lies. Small lies. Big lies. Stupendous lies. How much homework do you have tonight? None. None at all? No, I did it at school. Geometry? Finished. Biology? Done. English? Just reading. He answers quickly and with complete conviction.

Around bedtime the boy is in his room working on his Biology homework and stressed out over the Geometry problems that he did not, in fact, finish at school. The reading for English has over the last few hours morphed into a five page paper the first draft of which is due tomorrow, not a line of which is yet conceived or written. He can’t explain why he lied about his homework any more than he can explain how the vase in the living room – a wedding gift -- mysteriously developed a crack. If I press him on the vase he’ll say his sister did it. If I ask his sister she’ll say her brother did it. Maybe our beta fish is the culprit.

A tangle of lies. Did you, I ask my dear son, eat the last container of Greek yogurt and leave the empty container in the refrigerator? He regards me as if I have no right to ask such a question. He has no idea, no clue, can’t even make a guess as to who ate the yogurt; I should ask his sister.

Lies atop lies. Only a phase that will pass, I hope, otherwise the boy will one day wind up on the wrong side of a Federal indictment. Mendacity is an unattractive trait. I can’t remember when all this lying began or when an occasional white lie became a lifestyle. It’s astonishing that my son claims no responsibility for anything that happens around here. No matter what happens, he’s as innocent as a newborn ferret. Having a baby sister provides a built-in scapegoat. Plus he can always blame the beta fish if his sister happens to have an airtight alibi.

The homework crisis has passed and we are sitting in the living room, the four of us, enjoying a peaceful family moment of the kind that is rare within our walls, when a foul odor wafts across the room and settles above our heads like a toxic cloud. I look at my son, his serene face, bearing no sign that he is aware of the horrific stench that is threatening our nasal passages. You farted, I say. Not me, he says. I bet it was my sister. No, this is your work. Your fingerprint. It’s thirty-nine degrees outside but we fling open doors and windows, stand gasping in the rush of fresh air. You’re totally overreacting, my son claims. I don’t smell anything!

Ironically, this is probably true.