I was amazed that I got away with as much as I did, disturbed by how easy it was to lie, to act like nothing had changed.

Yet it took me by surprise when one morning Mom said that I looked tired, asked if anything was wrong.

I told her I hadn’t slept well—that we’d had a fight.

I told myself that was the only thing I could think of, the only thing she’d believe.

That’s not true, though.

There were a million other things I could’ve come up with: a bad grade, a mean comment from someone in cross-country, a snub from a boy I liked.

I think what I was really doing was trying to punish you a little, because you should have noticed. You should have seen through the lies about where I was, who I was with. About all those runs I took.