“Liar, Liar, pants on fire.”

By Anonymous, 17.

Credit: Flickr / MesmerisingEyes

There is nothing exhilarating about lying. I stumble through it clumsily, but I have learned deception, I have learned to cheat, and walk through the flames untouched.

I would say it began in fourth grade, when I received a flat seventy percent on my spelling test. I went home, and my parents were horrifically angry. They checked my grades to the point where I developed anxiety over my tests, and found ways to slip little pieces of paper into my sleeves, or my pockets. In sixth grade, my teacher caught me, and in a rage, she called my parents. It was a small offense, but she took it as the greatest. And yet, there was no evidence and so I denied, denied, denied.

It got worse in ninth grade, when everything became more difficult. I played a varsity sport, which took more than four hours per day. I balanced extracurriculars. I took AP courses. I would say that I’m a good student. I do study, and most of the merit I receive with my grades is that of my own.

But if it wasn’t for this fear of failure, this need for my backup plan, I wouldn’t have ever needed the little slips of paper. I wish I never started.