Mom, I’m Not a Liar Novel – A pathological liar. That was what Mom called me. She was big on “scientific parenting, so from the day we were born, she buckled honesty bands onto my twin sister Bella Miller and me. Those bracelets flashed red whenever we lied. Mom would hit a button on her remote, and the shock would follow.
Bella’s bracelet stayed green. She tore up Mom’s favorite dress and blamed it on the cat, and the band just pulsed, calm and steady. For me, even saying “Mom, I’m hungry” made the bracelet flare bright red. The shock hit before I could even breathe again. I tried to explain. Once. Mom shut me down. “The band doesn’t lie. Pain’s the only way you’ll learn. I’m doing this because I love you.” Shock after shock, I started to believe her.
Maybe I really had been born wrong. New Year’s Eve rolled around, and Mom was taking Bella downtown to watch the fireworks. Pain knifed through my stomach. I crumpled to the floor, my voice cracking. “Mom, please. My stomach hurts… it hurts so bad.” The band flared red, frantic and bright. Mom looked down at me, watching cold sweat soaking through my shirt.
She cranked the dial all the way up. “Playing sick so you can tag along? God, you never learn!” She grabbed Bella’s hand and walked out. The door slammed behind them. Maybe Mom was right. The bracelet was red, so I couldn’t really be in pain. I was lying again, just begging for attention like I always did. I’m sorry, Mom. Maybe in another life, I’ll be born honest. … “It hurts. God, it hurts.” Pain tore through me in waves.
My nails scraped the floor, leaving pale grooves in the wood. The doorknob turned. Hope flared in my chest. Mom was back. She was a doctor. She’d figured it out. She was here to help. “Are you done with this yet? The fireworks start in ten minutes, and Bella’s been waiting in the car.” “Mom.” My voice came out thin and cracked. I reached toward the door. “Mom, please. It feels like something’s tearing me open from the inside.” Her eyes dropped to my wrist, where the band pulsed red.
She crouched down and grabbed my chin. When she spoke, every word was edged with disgust. “How long are you going to keep this up, Stella?” “God, you really are a pathological liar. Stay here and think about what you’ve done.” Dad spoke up from the hallway. “Honey, we need to go. The fireworks are about to start. If Stella’s staying, shouldn’t we at least leave her some dinner?” Mom straightened and brushed her hands off, like she’d just touched something dirty. “Why would I do that?” “She has that stash in her closet. The stuff she bought with stolen money.
She’ll be fine.” “Lock the door behind us. She doesn’t come out until that band reads green.” “But…” Dad’s voice trailed off. “But what? You’re too soft on her. Look at Bella’s band. Always green. Stella’s rotten. If we don’t fix this now, we never will.” My closet was empty. Bella took the money. Bella ate the snacks. All Bella did was stand there with that green band and say, “It wasn’t me.” Mom believed her. I tried to tell the truth.
The band flashed red, and the shock came. I watched her turn away. Bella leaned back through the doorway and stuck her tongue out at me. “Bye-bye, Stella. We’re gonna go watch the pretty fireworks now.” Her band glowed green, perfect and steady. The door slammed. The lock clicked. The house went quiet. Just me and the pain tearing through my stomach. God, it hurt. Mom was right. The band didn’t lie. It was red. That meant I was lying. I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t.
I told myself that over and over. Tears still ran down my face. I don’t know how long I stayed there. The pain started to fade. I dragged myself to the desk. It took everything I had. I had to write my apology. That was the rule. Every time the band flashed red, I had to write “I am a liar” a thousand times. If I finished, maybe Mom would forgive me. Maybe she’d finally take me to the hospital. My hands shook as I opened my diary.
Pages filled with the same apologies I’d written before. I always wrote the same thing: [I’m sorry. I was wrong. I won’t lie anymore.] This time, I wanted to tell the truth. Everything swam. I could barely see through the tears, but I wrote anyway. [Mom, I love you. It hurts so much. Why won’t you believe me? Mom, please. Believe me just this once.] The moment I finished, the pain vanished. Something light replaced it, something I’d never felt before.
I felt weightless. Like I was floating. When I looked down, I saw myself slumped over the desk. My hand rested on the page, frozen mid-stroke. The band on my wrist still flashed red. Oh. I was dead. I guess I never learned how to be honest. I’m sorry, Mom.