BooksBarbecue
Back One White Lie
Chapters (59)
  1. COVER
  2. About the Author
  3. DEDICATION
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. TWENTY-SIX
  30. TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. TWENTY-NINE
  33. THIRTY
  34. THIRTY-ONE
  35. THIRTY-TWO
  36. THIRTY-THREE
  37. THIRTY-FOUR
  38. THIRTY-FIVE
  39. THIRTY-SIX
  40. THIRTY-SEVEN
  41. THIRTY-EIGHT
  42. THIRTY-NINE
  43. FORTY
  44. FORTY-ONE
  45. FORTY-TWO
  46. FORTY-THREE
  47. FORTY-FOUR
  48. FORTY-FIVE
  49. FORTY-SIX
  50. FORTY-SEVEN
  51. FORTY-EIGHT
  52. FORTY-NINE
  53. FIFTY
  54. FIFTY-ONE
  55. FIFTY-TWO
  56. FIFTY-THREE
  57. FIFTY-FOUR
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

I emptied the trust my grandmother had set up for me before she died, the one I’d been saving for moving after college – twenty thousand bucks – and went to New York. I knew it would be impossible to get a job in my state, especially in a competitive field like journalism – any potential employer who googled me would see that I’d been expelled, be able to read article after article about me – I knew, more than anything, that I needed a fresh start. I was a computer science minor. It wasn’t difficult to purchase a new identity on the dark web if you knew where to look. The full package: ID, health insurance info, Social Security number and everything, it only cost a couple thousand bucks, less than the price of a used car. It wasn’t foolproof, but if you were careful, if you didn’t try to steal money or open a ton of credit cards, it was easy enough to get by on someone else’s name.

In the city, in a roach-infested room-share in Williamsburg that cost nine hundred a month and was presented to me as a very good deal, I started my new life.

I hadn’t intended to lie about my parents, only my roommate, she couldn’t stop going on and on about hers, how they were so supportive of her move to New York, how their dream was for her to be an artist, how they were coming to visit from Kansas in just another month.

When she’d asked me about mine, I’d blurted it out quickly: ‘They’re gone.’

‘Oh my god,’ she’d said, her bottom lip jutting into a pout. ‘You’re all alone?’

I nodded, understanding exactly what she’d assumed, not daring to correct her. It was a better story, I realized, than what I knew was true – that they didn’t love me, wouldn’t look at me the same way anymore.

Eventually, questions were asked, and a story bloomed from nothing. They’d died in an accident, during college. In a way, it hadn’t been entirely untrue. They had died a little that day I tossed almond milk in Jordan Exley’s face. I had, too. What we’d had as a family had died, at least.

In Brooklyn, I carried on as I would have if I’d graduated. I made up a résumé for the delightfully common and difficult-to-google Olivia Williams, including a journalism degree from my would-be alma mater, University of Washington, and an internship at the indie newspaper there, the Stranger.