My Big Mouth

by Steven Camden

  It’s awkward, right?

  You feel bad for your friend, but maybe you also understand why they’re in trouble and want to show the grown-up that you understand through your facial expressions.

  Quite often their mum or dad will say something to you like, ‘I’m sorry you have to see this, but he has to understand that he can’t speak to me like that.’

  Or maybe, ‘Look at how you’re embarrassing us in front of your friend.’

  It’s pretty tense, in my experience, but always feels under control, at least, because there’s a parent involved.

  What happened at Danny Jones’s flat that afternoon felt very different. First off, I couldn’t see what was happening, which made it worse. His bedroom door was closed and I heard him walking towards the kitchen. Cupboards and drawers slammed. Then I heard a man’s voice. A kind of muffled barking. Then Danny said something. Then there was a thud. Like a stack of encyclopedias hitting the floor.

  I thought about how much more dramatic everything seems through a wall. What you imagine is happening is always way worse, but this felt bad. Sometimes you can feel danger in the air, I truly believe that, and right then I definitely felt it.

  I wanted to go and see what had happened, but the fear in Danny’s face when he’d left the room kept me stuck to his bed. Then I heard footsteps stomping towards his room. Whoever had come back was heading this way. I was about to hide under his bed when I heard Danny’s muffled voice from the other room and the footsteps stopped, turned and walked away. There was a little back-and-forth talking, more footsteps, then the front door opened and closed.

  Every part of me wanted to leave. To run back home. But I didn’t move. I just sat on Danny’s bed and waited. Through the little window I could see the sky turning dark.

  After what felt like ages, his bedroom door slowly opened, and Danny came in. His head was down and he was holding the side of his face.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I said, knowing it was a stupid question.

  Danny started to put the encyclopedias away. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Whoever made big brothers is an idiot.’

  I could see his face was red on one cheek. I thought about Donna wrestling me into submission holds and pinning me down while she watched whole TV shows, and I got a sudden urge for her to walk into Danny’s room right now.

  ‘You should put some ice on it,’ I said. ‘My mum showed me how to make an ice pack.’

  Danny gave me the most gentle smile. ‘My mum showed me too.’

  He pushed the last encyclopedia back on to the shelf and sat down next to me on the bed.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Sometimes, I miss him.’

  I wanted to put my arm around him. I wanted to pull him in for a hug to make him feel better, but somehow I could tell that I shouldn’t. Him sitting down next to me was as much as he wanted. So instead I just sat quietly, next to Danny Jones, in a bedroom that nobody else would believe.

  Week Three

  How often do you think you lie?

  Once a day? A couple of times a week? Never?

  There are some people who’d answer that question with: ‘I never tell lies, I’m an honest person.’

  And maybe they believe that. Maybe it’s actually true. But, like with most things, there are different levels with lying. Different sizes and reasons that make some things that aren’t true feel different to others.

  A university study done a few years ago estimated that the average human being lies approximately seven times a day. Seven.

  Does that seem like a lot to you? Not much?

  Whatever your response, I’m pretty sure I know one you tell quite regularly.

  How are you?

  Fine.

  Is the ‘fine’ part a lie? I’m sure sometimes you are feeling fine and the answer is true, but how many times has someone asked you how you are, and you’ve actually been feeling pretty rubbish, but still said ‘fine’? I’m guessing at least a few. Maybe you didn’t want the person to worry, or maybe you just didn’t feel like talking much, but if you answered ‘fine’ and didn’t mean it, does the ‘fine’ become a lie?

  Does that count?

  How about this one?

  Check out my new shoes! I got them for my birthday – do you like them?

  Yeah. They’re great. Really great.

  You don’t think they’re great at all. You think they’re some of the ugliest shoes you’ve ever seen, or at least just pretty boring. But you didn’t say that, did you? You said they were great, because you didn’t want to hurt the person’s feelings. Because you didn’t want to start an argument. So is ‘They’re great’ a lie? Maybe you mean they’re great for them. The shoes aren’t to your taste, but you respect the fact that the person loves them.

  You see my point? It can get complicated and muddy, and these examples are only answers to simple questions. Imagine how muddy things can get when it’s you making up the whole thing to start with.

  Trust me. It’s mud city.

  To be honest, Week Three is a bit of a blur.

  I carried on making things up. Danny went to work on a new report about São Paulo. When I gave him the letter and he realized it was a location from his dream list, he almost exploded with excitement.

  At school I genuinely felt like a completely new person. Everything had changed. Everyone looked at me differently. People I’d hardly spoken to my whole time in the juniors were coming up to me, asking about Dad and other things I’d made up.

  I’d gone from feeling like it was just me and Dominic, to it seeming like almost everyone at school wanted to be my friend. Me. Jason Gardner. The cool kid.

  Dominic was getting pretty agitated about my lack of commitment to Full Force. His rehearsal timetable hadn’t really worked and after the awkward dinner with his mum and dad, I’d been avoiding going over there even more.

  Walking home together on Friday of that week I could feel the weight of Danny’s São Paulo report in my bag. It was almost encyclopedia-thick and must’ve taken him hours to make. I thought about the look on his face as he’d handed it over to me at lunch, and felt the cold tapping on my shoulder again. I started running through the weeks’ stories, trying to ignore it as Dom rambled on about dance power moves and floor work.

  Then, as we reached Mr Rogers’s corner shop, he whacked my arm.

  ‘Oi! What was that for?’

  Our following conversation went roughly like this:

  Dom: You’re not listening!

  Me: What?

  Dom: See. I knew it!

  Me: Yes, I am.

  Dom: So, what did I just say then, if you’re listening?

  Me: Don’t you remember yourself?

  Dom: Answer the question.

  Me: I don’t know, something about the moon?

  Dom: I knew it! Why don’t you listen any more?

  Me: I am listening.

  Dom: No, you’re too busy thinking about your stupid stories.

  Me: What? Shut up! They’re not stupid!

  Dom: They’re not real.

  Me: Dom, I’m just a bit tired.

  Dom: From what? Not from practising, I know that much.

  Me: Leave it, will you?

  Dom: We need to practise! We only have three weeks left and we’ve done nothing. The routine has to be super sharp if we’re going to win the talent show.

  Me: We’re not going to win any talent show.

  Dom: Not if we don’t practise!

  He was waving his arms around like a football manager on the sidelines. I felt my head dropping. I was really tired. Maintaining my cool was taking almost all my brain capacity, and the last thing I needed was Dominic trying to fill my head with the stupid talent show. I sat down on the low brick wall outside the shop we’d walked past for years, and I guess I must’ve looked troubled, because out of nowhere, Dominic apologized.

  ‘I’m sorry, man,’ he said, sitting down next to me.

  I looked at the little note I’d made on the back of my hand
with biro:

  Mr Benn. £2m. Cheque.

  At afternoon break, I’d told Tracey and Rupinder from the other Year 6 class that my next-door neighbour, old Mr Benn, had won the lottery. When they asked me how much, I said I didn’t know exact figures, but that I’d seen him outside his house holding a big cheque, posing for photographs.

  Another little bag of details to add to my already covered wall.

  ‘You wanna talk about it?’ said Dom.

  I looked at him.

  He shrugged. ‘Mum said I should ask.’

  Even when he didn’t need to, Dom couldn’t help but tell the truth.

  ‘What else did she say?’ I asked.

  ‘She said that, when something bad happens, people can behave differently. Funny. She said that’s how we deal with something we don’t like.’

  ‘I see.’

  Dom pulled an uncomfortable expression. ‘Like someone leaving.’

  I looked down.

  ‘She said a good friend would ask if the person wanted to talk about it.’ He nudged my shoulder with his. ‘I want to be a good friend.’

  ‘You are a good friend,’ I said, looking up again.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like it lately,’ he said, scraping the ground with his foot. ‘Lately it seems like you’re more bothered about everyone else.’

  ‘Dom, look –’ and I was about to say something real. Something true. I swear I was. Something that would make him feel closer to me. Sitting right next to my oldest friend, I really wanted to, but before I could, Dom said:

  ‘I just think it’d be a good thing to do, you know? Help you feel better. I really think we could win.’

  And just like that, the moment had gone. The space between us felt wider than ever and I just wanted to go home.

  ‘I need to get back,’ I said.

  ‘What about rehearsals?’

  ‘Sorry. Mum’s taking me to Merry Hill, for new trainers. It’s her only day off.’

  Just like that. A complete lie. Easy as breathing. To my oldest friend. Mum wasn’t taking me to Merry Hill. She didn’t have a day off, and nobody had even mentioned new trainers. I’d just made it up so I wouldn’t have to go to his house and feel awkward with his happy mum and dad, and pretend to be excited about the completely awful idea that was Full Force.

  There are things that the human body does when it’s telling a lie, right?

  Little ‘reveals’ that, if you can spot them, give away when someone is not telling the truth.

  How many can you think of?

  I’m not sure how much experience you have already, but just in case you’re new to this, here’s a list of things to look out for to spot when someone may be lying.

  • Eye contact. Bit obvious, you’re probably thinking. You have to look someone in the eye for them to believe you, everyone knows that. But it’s a bit more complicated if you want to spot someone who isn’t a Level One amateur. You want to look for an amount that feels unnatural. Not enough, and someone is worried about you looking into them and seeing the lie. Too much, and someone is trying to bluff and convince you that what they are saying is the most true thing ever. Inexperienced liars will often stare at you way too intensely as they speak, like an owl.

  • Smiling. Of course, it depends on the subject, but again it’s all about what feels natural. Someone who speaks without any emotion in their facial expression may be worried that their feelings will betray them. They think the truth is neutral. It isn’t. The truth always comes with emotion attached. On the flip side, someone who is grinning the whole time, trying too hard to appear friendly, is quite often a slimy salesperson, trying to make you buy something you don’t really want. In this case, a lie.

  • Sweating. This might sound a little basic, but it’s surprising how hot lying can make you. Blood temperature has been scientifically proven to rise when telling a lie. Sweat usually begins at the side of the head at the temples, and on the top lip. Slightly more experienced liars have been known to use handkerchiefs to mop their faces when talking.

  • Touching the face or head. When a person lies, their body sometimes tries to get involved to help. If someone touches their face as they speak, it is often because they are unconsciously trying to hide from their own guilt. Often a liar will touch or scratch one of their ear lobes in a fake display of feeling relaxed. If this action is repeated, it’s an even clearer sign.

  OK, that’s all Level One stuff. You probably knew all those ones already. Let’s crank it up a notch. Here’s a couple of Level Two ones.

  We’ll use the scenario of ‘The Last Biscuit’.

  Basically, someone took the last biscuit, and you want to know if it’s the person you suspect, so you ask:

  ‘Did you take the last biscuit?’

  And here’s the response you get:

  ‘No! I did not take the last biscuit! I resent the fact that you would ask me that! I’m so offended that I can’t even stand to be in the same room as you right now! I’m leaving! Aaaaarghhh!’

  And the person storms out.

  How do you know that is a lie?

  • Too much emotion. In an attempt to distract you, the person has pumped too much emotion into their words in the hope that you might even feel guilty for asking them, and go on to your next possible suspect.

  Let’s try another. Same scenario, so same question: ‘Did you take the last biscuit?’

  This time, the response you get is:

  ‘Me? No I didn’t take the last biscuit, I do love biscuits, though, I can still remember my first ever biscuit, I was three, or maybe even two, it was with my granny and I was sitting on her knee and she gave me a Jammie Dodger and I took a bite and I was like, “Oooohh, this is amazing,” and then she showed me custard creams and bourbons and Jaffa Cakes, and I love, love, love biscuits and, no, I didn’t take the last biscuit, nope, not me, not at all, no way, OK, bye.’

  How do you know that is a lie?

  • Too much information. Again, in an attempt to distract you, the person has packed in so much information that you become swept up in their little story, maybe picturing them on their grandma’s knee or even thinking about your own grandma and remembering happy times from when you were little, thus completely losing a sense of what you were even asking them in the first place.

  You see? It’s a tricky business.

  Now, most people don’t get beyond that, but there are some who are even more sneaky.

  When you start getting into the realm of Level Three and beyond, it really is a minefield. But those people do exist. There are people in the world who have crafted the skill of lying to a level where it’s almost impossible to tell.

  What do you know about micro-gestures?

  Do you know what a gesture is?

  gesture (noun)

  An expressive movement or action.

  Not to be confused with:

  jester (noun)

  A person with pointy shoes who shakes a stick with bells on and falls over to make the king and queen laugh in medieval times.

  Examples of gestures:

  Well, as you might guess, micro-gestures are the same, only way smaller.

  A blink. A millisecond glance up and to the left. Half a cough before the important word. A twitch at the corner of the mouth. Tiny, tiny movements that most eyes can’t even see, but they’re there.

  A very wise man told me early on, ‘Every lie is dirty. None of them are clean. It’s just that some are neater than others. And some are messy from the start.’

  Try it in the mirror.

  Go to your nearest bathroom. Bring this book with you.

  Right, now stare at your own reflection and say something that isn’t true:

  ‘I just won fourteen million pounds.’

  ‘I can run faster than a cheetah.’

  Anything? Did you seem natural? Not too much or too little emotion?

  Try something nearer to the truth.

  ‘I am the most popular person in school.’

/>   ‘I have never been scared of spiders.’

  ‘I never, ever, ever get annoyed with my parents.’

  Look at yourself. Do you believe you? Were there any little tics that gave you away?

  It’s easier in the mirror too. Imagine a room full of eyes on you as you say it. What that feels like.

  See, the thing is . . . What I’ve learned, and what I truly believe, is that our bodies are honest.

  My body. Your body. Everybody’s body.

  They don’t want to lie. No matter what our minds might hope when they hatch their sneaky plans, our bodies don’t really want any part of it. That’s why they twitch. That’s why the corner of our mouth moves in a weird way. Or our eyebrows slide a few millimetres to the side. Our bodies don’t want to lie. They don’t even want to be anywhere near a lie. So when when we tell a lie, or we’re faced with a lie and don’t call it out, point a finger or walk off, a little part of our body tries to run away.

  Sometimes my dreams are just full memories, playing out like films as I sleep . . .

  Me in the car, sitting in the back seat, Donna across from me, Dad driving, Mum next to him. I’m watching the grey concrete buildings of the city slide past us as we drive. The morning sun is intense. There’s music on the radio. The car feels light.

  We don’t know where we’re headed, because we’re on one of Dad’s spontaneous road trips. Just an hour ago we were all sitting in the living room, eating cereal, watching Saturday morning cartoons. Then Dad suddenly stood up like someone shot electricity through the seat of his chair. ‘Everyone, get dressed!’

  Next thing, we’re in the car, on our way to who knows where.

  One song turns into two songs, then three songs and a whole album, as the grey concrete starts to spread out and buildings become less and less. After a while everything is different shades of green, and there are fields dotted with cows and the sky feels bigger and full of possibility. I can feel a crackle in my stomach, the excitement of the unknown.