Pants
on
Fire
By
Varya
Kluev
Winner
,
2019
New
York
Times
Learning
Network
Personal
Narrative
Contest
I
never
kissed
the
boy
I
liked
behind
the
schoolyard
fence
that
one
March
morning
.
I
never
had
dinner
with
Katy
Perry
or
lived
in
Kiev
for
two
months
either
,
but
still
told
my
entire
fourth
-
grade
class
I
did
.
The
words
slipped
through
my
teeth
effortlessly
.
With
one
flick
of
my
tongue
,
I
was
,
for
all
anybody
knew
,
twenty
-
third
in
line
for
the
throne
of
Monaco
.
“
Actually
?
"
the
girls
on
the
swings
beside
me
would
ask
,
wide
eyes
blinking
with
a
childlike
naivety
.
I
nodded
as
they
whispered
under
their
breath
how
incredible
my
fable
was
.
So
incredible
they
bought
into
it
without
a
second
thought
.
I
lied
purely
for
the
ecstasy
of
it
.
It
was
narcotic
.
With
my
fabrications
,
I
became
the
captain
of
the
ship
,
not
just
a
wistful
passer
-
by
,
breath
fogging
the
pane
of
glass
that
stood
between
me
and
the
girls
I
venerated
.
No
longer
could
only
see
,
not
touch
;
a
lie
was
a
bullet
,
and
the
barrier
shattered
.
My
mere
presence
demanded
attention
after
all
,
I
was
the
one
who
got
a
valentine
from
Jason
,
not
them
.
This
way
I
became
more
than
just
the
tomboyish
band
geek
who
finished
her
multiplication
tables
embarrassingly
fast
.
My
name
tumbled
out
of
their
mouths
and
I
manifested
in
the
center
of
their
linoleum
lunch
table
.
I
became
,
at
least
temporarily
,
the
fulcrum
their
world
revolved
around
.
Not
only
did
I
lie
religiously
and
unabashedly
good
at
it
.
The
tedium
of
my
everyday
life
vanished
;
instead
marched
through
the
gates
of
my
alcazar
,
strode
up
the
steps
of
my
concepts
,
and
resided
in
my
throne
of
deceit
.
I
believed
if
I
took
off
my
fraudulent
robe
,
I
would
become
plebeian
.
The
same
aristocracy
that
finally
held
me
in
high
regard
would
boot
me
out
of
my
palace
.
To
strip
naked
and
exclaim
,
the
real
me
,
take
a
look
!
would
lead
my
new
circle
to
redraw
their
lines
they
would
take
back
their
compliments
,
sit
at
the
table
with
six
seats
instead
of
eight
,
giggle
in
the
back
of
the
class
when
I
asked
a
question
.
I
therefore
adjusted
my
counterfeit
diadem
and
continued
to
praise
a
Broadway
show
had
never
seen
.
Yet
finally
lounging
in
a
lavender
bedroom
one
long
-
sought
-
after
day
,
after
absently
digesting
chatter
about
shows
I
didn't
watch
and
boys
didn't
know
,
I
started
processing
the
floating
conversations
.
One
girl
,
who
I
had
idolizedfor
always
having
her
heavy
hair
perfectly
curled
,
casually
shared
how
her
parents
couldn't
afford
to
go
on
their
yearly
trip
the
coming
summer
.
I
drew
in
an
expectant
breath
,
but
nobody
scoffed
.
Nobody
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