Page 55 of Old Money

F or about ten years after the murder, I didn’t know how to tell the truth.

What I mean is that I just told it plainly—no softening the edges or politely hedging.

If I thought a dress was ugly, I said, “I think it’s ugly.

The ruffle especially.” I knew there were kinder words, but I couldn’t make myself use them.

Either I said nothing, or I said the whole unvarnished truth.

Of all the oddities and compulsions I developed, that one probably wrecked my social life the most. Try going through adolescence fainting on people and saying you hate their haircuts.

One night, when we were twenty-two, Susannah called me out on it.

She’d come home for a visit after graduation, and we were out in the city, buying drinks we couldn’t afford.

We were two cocktails in and chatting with the bartender while he mixed our third—a special, off-the-menu concoction he’d invented himself.

He handed them over, waiting with a smile as we each took a sip. I nearly gagged.

“This tastes like raw egg,” I said, setting the glass down. “And pennies.”

I’d had to speak over the noise of the bar, so really, it was more like shouting in his face. The bartender’s smile fell like a popped balloon, and he quickly disappeared to the other end of the bar. Susannah burst into peals of laughter.

“Okay, this was the most revolting thing I have ever consumed.” She stuck out her tongue. “But your honesty made me feel bad for the bartender. Can’t we just pretend we’re allergic?’ ”

It wasn’t an overnight fix, but that was the moment I started learning to catch myself.

“Believe me,” she said. “I wish we could all do it your way. But bullshit’s just one of the rules. You can’t trust liars, but—you also can’t trust people who don’t know how.”