I Cannot Tell A Lie

This afternoon, I went to BJ’s to buy a rotisserie chicken. I spent more time there than I planned. I was stopped by the new sweaters they had on display. I peeked at the chocolates my husband likes and was angry that all the rotisserie chickens were gone. It was only 2 p.m.

They had two packages of half chickens, so I bought both. I paid, and on the way to my car, I saw a girl, about six years old, walking with her daddy. The child was reading the letters and numbers of the license plates. They got to my car, and I heard her ask, “Is this a word?” Her Daddy replied, “Yes, it says FICTION.”

It’s the only vanity plate I ever had, representing the six books I have written.

The child asked what fiction meant, and Daddy said, “It means making up stories.

At that moment, I reached my car and opened the trunk. The child looked at me and yelled, “Liar!”

I thought the father was going to faint on the spot. I asked her if she knew the difference between a fairy tale and real life, and she said yes. I explained that a fairy tale is not true; it’s a make-believe story. A lie is different. It means that you are not telling the truth about something real.”

She smiled and accepted my explanation. They went on their way, and I started laughing.

From now on, I must put one of those disclaimers in my books, clearly stating that these stories are works of fiction and any likeness to living people is purely coincidental.