I took another bite of my pita and watched Mom. She wiped the counter pretending it had a very stubborn mark that she couldn’t get out. I knew she was body lying, but I didn’t mention it.

“Evangelina!” Pappou shouted. He doesn’t know how to speak quietly. I think it’s genetic. Greeks don’t seem to know how to do it. I don’t know why they bothered installing telephones in Cyprus—they could have shouted across the island at each other and heard just as well. “We have wedding. Our boy. Our boy!”

Mom’s hair was tied back and she was frowning. I was still chewing the same bite—it wouldn’t go down, and now it was a dry ball in my mouth. I was waiting for Mom to turn around so I could spit it into my hand.

“We’ll work it out,” Mom said, pulling the tea out of the shopping bags.

“How? How we work it out?” Pappou barked from his chair.

“They can get married twice,” Mom suggested. “She can go to the first one and we’ll go to the second one.”

You should have seen Pappou’s face.

“Marrrrrriiiiied? Twiiiiice?” he cried. “They need make two times wedding because you won’t stand in same room as your sister?”

Mom gave him a half smile. “OK. Maybe not.”

“Of course not! So?” Pappou’s hands were flying about now. Greeks have hand gestures for pretty much every situation, including Are you seriously suggesting having two weddings? Surprisingly.

“What we do?” Pappou yelled. “What we do about you brother wedding?”

“I dunno, Dad,” Mom snapped. She turned to put the tea in the cupboard, so I quickly spat the mouthful out and closed my fingers around it. It felt gross. Squishy and dry at the same time. “Haven’t really thought about it, have I?” Mom muttered.

Well, that wasn’t true. Course she’d thought about it. She might not have had a solution, but she’d thought about it. She was getting edgy, too, because she couldn’t find an inch of space for the tea, and instead of just putting it in the garage like she usually did with the extras, she was tut-tutting and moving things about.

“Two weddings?!” Pappou cried in Greek and banged his hand on the armrest in frustration. “What nonsense you speak!”

I put my pita down and sat there with the ball of gunk in my hand. I was hoping Mom wouldn’t notice it and make me put it in my mouth again.

Mom said, “We’ll work something out, Dad,” and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. I swear, Mom could lie so easily.

Which made me think.

So what if we lied? What difference did it make if we told the truth or told bald-faced lies every single day until we died? There were probably Vikings or Romans or Egyptians that spent their whole lives lying, and thousands of years later, no one knew and no one cared. Everyone told lies. Everyone. Except maybe priests and nuns, but even they probably did at least once in their lives. I’d have asked Father George about it, but it’s not the kind of thing you feel comfortable asking a priest.

And nothing happened if you lied, either. Mom didn’t get punished for it by being struck down with lightning right then and there, which was just as well because that would have been a little whoa. God didn’t care either. He didn’t give liars and criminals nasty diseases or let my dad win the lottery, even though he bought a ticket every week. It was all completely random. The world would spin like a blue and green disco ball hanging in the universe, and life would carry on either way. What was the point of even trying to tell the truth?

“Can’t eat any more,” I said, pushing the plate away. The pita was soggy, the insides had turned into a chickeny mush, and I still had the globule in my hand.

“Eat!”

“If you make me, I’ll puke souvlaki all over the floor.” It was a lie but so what? I liked the idea of spending my whole life lying. I could make up all kinds of wild stories about myself.

Yeah, hi. I’m Lulu Balulu McCheesecake O’Reilly. I’m thirteen and a member of the Spanish royal family. I have ten albino hamsters, a cat called Fatso Catso, and a giant tortoise called Fluffy that transports me from my palace to school on the back of its shell.

“Tut. What’s the matter with you—it’s tiny!” Mom shouted, still stuck on the pita problem and pointing at it with her hand. When Mom shouts, it’s not bad or mean—she just talks like that.

I shrugged. “Not hungry.”

Lie. I was actually quite hungry. I just didn’t feel like eating when Pappou was so miserable.

Mom marched over, pulled me toward her, and felt my forehead. “You’re not even sick!” She sounded disappointed.

“Do you want me to be?” I asked.

She gasped. “Banayamu. What silly nonsense do you get in your head?” Then she shrieked and put her hand on her chest in alarm. “Wait. Something wrong with my souvlaki today?”

I rolled my eyes. She’s so weird.

“Who will be koumbaros?” Pappou shouted from his armchair. He was still stuck on the wedding.

The koumbaros is like the best man, but there are lots of them. They stand with the groom like his personal army of best friends. They’re not just the koumbaroi for the wedding day, either. They stay your koumbaroi forever, like close friends for life. Two of Uncle Dimitri’s koumbaroi were Dad and Uncle Christos, but now they weren’t talking to each other. And with Yiayia gone and my Mom and Aunt Soph not talking either, this was going to be the most awkward wedding in history.

“You girls are killing me,” Pappou muttered.

“Oh my God!” Mom stared at him and then at me with bulging eyes. “Dad, it’ll be fine!” she said. Lying, lying, lying. “Stop with the killing me stuff, will you? It’s doing my head in.”

“Keeellling me!”

Mom grunted. Loudly. More like a roar.

“Fine. You know what? I love you very much, Dad, but I’m going home. I can’t talk about the wedding right now.” Then she screeched, “Kat! Nicos! We’re going!” And in a quieter voice, but you could have still heard her in the very north of the country, she said, “Get your shoes on, Lex.”

I still hadn’t thrown the glob of dry food away. Luckily, I managed to drop it in Pappou’s garbage can when Mom was in the bathroom or I’d still be holding it now.