concerns, if she sticks to the story, she will fit in with no issues.
The only strike against her, of course, is me, but no one knows about me.
No one can ever know about me.
AUGUST
Marchburg, Virginia
3
THE SCHOOL
“It’s hard to imagine a prettier place, isn’t it?”
The driver, who has been trying to engage me in conversation for fifty miles now, isn’t wrong. The farther west we drive into Virginia, the more beautiful the scenery becomes. Wineries, horse farms, stone walls, and charming cottages dot the landscape. The ridge of mountains ahead looks like an ancient dragon curled up and went to sleep and the trees grew over its skeleton. I can see each bump of its spine, the ribs curving gently in the air, moss growing over the sharp tips, and the roots of the trees sprouting from its heart inside.
It is a far cry from the noise and dirt of the DC airport, and even further from the world I’ve left behind. Good riddance.
“Mmm-hmm. Pretty.”
The car turns south, moving along the Blue Ridge, down I-81, and the scenery is breathtaking. I glance at the map stowed in my purse, a detailed topographical imaging of the area surrounding Goode, which is situated near Wintergreen. Another hour to go, at least.
“Where’d you say you were from?”
I drag my attention back to the driver. He’s decent looking, dark hair and skin tanned from a summer outdoors, hazel eyes. He’d said his name when he opened the door for me, Rudy or Ruly, something like that—I didn’t pay attention, why should I? He’s just the driver, a stranger I’m sharing a fleeting moment with. I’ll never see him again after today. Don’t get into the car with strangers, we’re taught. Don’t talk to strangers online. Stranger danger. Now, it’s as much a part of life as breathing.
And who’s to say I’m not the stranger to be worried about?
“I didn’t. England.”
“Thought so, from your accent. Ever met the Queen?”
Hardly. We don’t exactly run in the same circles.
But I’m embarking on a new life. Perhaps it’s time for a bit of embellishment.
“We go to the same church in the countryside. Have you ever heard of Sandringham? There’s a beautiful little stone church there, with a graveyard that dates back to the 1300s. They—the Queen and her husband, I mean—spend much of their time in the country, especially now they’ve been handing over duties to the younger members of the royal family. We saw them only last week.”
“I know exactly where you’re talking about. That’s the place they filmed part of Game of Thrones, didn’t they?”
“The very one.”
The best lies are based in fact. The stone church at Sandringham exists. It’s called St. Mary Magdalene, and it’s a bit more than a stone cottage, but I have no idea what it’s really like. I’ve never been there. I’ve never met the Queen. I have exactly zero idea where Game of Thrones was filmed, but I assume it wasn’t on the royal estate.
The driver has no knowledge of what I’m talking about but doesn’t want to seem stupid, so he is more than happy to pretend. He grins at me in the rearview, and I smile in turn. We’re connected now, over this lie. We both know it. Accept it. These are the social niceties of a modern civilization.
I resume my outdoor viewing, pretending I didn’t enjoy the tiny frisson of excitement I got from the dopamine rush of telling a lie.
Why did I do it? I swore to myself I wasn’t going to lie anymore. All part of turning over a new leaf, as my mum would say.
And I have no business lying to this stranger, one who knows where I’ll be for the next few years.
But it is so easy. And what will it harm? He’s practically a child himself.
I’ve never understood my compulsive desire to lie. I’ve read so many articles I’ve become my own sociology experiment. Everyone lies. To themselves, to each other. It’s a way to belong, to be included. To look important.
In the past, it was much, much easier to get away with these transactional lies. Purveyors of falsehoods were con men, flimflam artists. Now, everyone is a grifter. With the advent of social media, allowing the masses to peer in through the open windows and doors to your home, to your mind, your body, your soul, the only way to lie properly is to curate your life for the masses to behold, carefully, carefully. Stage. Filter. Design. My very existence