The Shrinking Lie

Oscar woke up on Monday morning and did something he'd never done before.

He lied.

It wasn't a big lie. It wasn't a terrible lie. It was just a small, quick, slippery little lie that popped out of his mouth like a hiccup.

"Oscar," said his mom, peeking into his room. "Did you brush your teeth?"

Oscar had not brushed his teeth. His toothbrush was bone dry. But his bed was so warm, and the bathroom was so far away — all the way down the hall — and so he said, "Yep!"

His mom smiled and walked away.

Easy, Oscar thought.

But then something happened. Something very, very strange.

Oscar felt a tiny zip run through his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Like a shiver, but going the wrong direction. He looked down. His pajama pants were pooling just a little bit over his feet.

He shrugged. Probably nothing.

At breakfast, his dad set down a plate of scrambled eggs. Oscar poked at them with his fork. He did not like scrambled eggs. He had never liked scrambled eggs. But his dad looked so proud of them, all fluffy and golden.

"These are delicious, Dad," said Oscar.

Zip.

Oscar's feet no longer touched the bottom rung of his chair. He swung them back and forth, frowning. Hadn't they reached before?

"You're awfully quiet this morning," said his dad.

"I'm fine," said Oscar.

But he wasn't fine. Something was definitely happening.

At school, things got worse.

During morning circle, Ms. Takahashi asked if everyone had finished their reading logs over the weekend. Oscar had not finished his reading log. He had not even started his reading log. He had spent the entire weekend building a very impressive blanket fort and feeding crackers to his dog, Biscuit.

But every other hand went up. So Oscar's hand went up too.

"Wonderful, Oscar!" said Ms. Takahashi.

Zip.

Oscar looked around. Was it his imagination, or was his desk getting... taller? He had to sit up very straight now to rest his arms on top of it. His best friend, Nadia, glanced over at him with a funny look.

"Are you okay?" she whispered.

"Totally fine," Oscar whispered back.

Zip.

Now his feet were definitely dangling off the chair. Like a kindergartner. He grabbed the edges of his seat and held on tight.

At recess, things got even worse than worse.

Marcus, the fastest kid in second grade, challenged Oscar to a race. Oscar was not the fastest kid in second grade. Oscar was maybe the seventh or eighth fastest kid in second grade, on a good day, with the wind behind him.

But everyone was watching.

"I let you win last time," Oscar said. "I wasn't even trying."

Zip.

Oscar had to look up at Marcus now. Way up. Marcus stared down at him.

"Dude," said Marcus. "Did you get shorter?"

"No!" said Oscar.

But his shoes were loose. His belt was on its last hole. And when he went to the water fountain, he had to stand on his tiptoes, which he had never, ever had to do before.

By Tuesday, Oscar had told four more lies.

"Yes, I washed my hands." (Zip.)

"No, I didn't take the last cookie." (Zip.)

"I already did my homework." (Zip.)

"My stomach hurts — I can't clean my room." (Zip. Zip.)

That last one might have counted as two lies, because his stomach felt perfectly fine and he could absolutely clean his room.

By Wednesday, Oscar could barely see over the kitchen counter. His clothes hung on him like curtains. He had to jump to reach his doorknob.

"Oscar," said his mom, tilting her head. "Come here. Stand against the wall."

She took out the measuring tape.

Oscar stood as tall as he possibly could. He stretched his neck. He pointed his toes. He even tried to puff up his hair.

His mom stared at the tape. Then she stared at Oscar. Then she stared at the tape again.

"That can't be right," she murmured.

But it was right. Oscar had lost nearly eight inches since Monday.

By Thursday, Oscar was the smallest kid in his entire class. Smaller than Nadia. Smaller than Marcus. Smaller than Priya, who had been the smallest kid in second grade until now, and she noticed.

"How come you're shorter than me now?" Priya asked, not unkindly.

"I'm not," Oscar said.

Zip.

He was now shorter than the classroom recycling bin.

Oscar sat behind his enormous desk, his chin barely reaching the top, and felt something heavy and cold settle in his chest. He thought about all the lies. The toothbrush. The eggs. The reading log. The race. The cookies and the homework and the room and the hands.

Each one had seemed so small. Each one had been so easy. And each one had taken a little piece of him away.

What if he kept shrinking? What if he got so small that no one could see him at all?

Oscar's eyes stung. He blinked hard and swallowed.

That night, Oscar sat on his bed — which now felt like a giant's bed, wide as a field — and Biscuit laid his big golden head right next to him. Biscuit was now roughly the size of a horse, from Oscar's point of view.

Oscar scratched behind Biscuit's ears and made a decision.

It was not a fun decision. It was not an easy decision. It was the kind of decision that makes your stomach do a slow, uncomfortable flip.

He slid off the bed, walked down the hall that now felt like a long, long tunnel, and found his parents in the living room.

"Mom? Dad?"

They looked down. Way down.

Oscar took a deep breath.

"I didn't brush my teeth on Monday. I lied. And the eggs — sorry, Dad — I don't really like scrambled eggs. And I didn't do my reading log. And Marcus is faster than me. And I took the last cookie, and I didn't wash my hands, and I didn't do my homework, and my stomach was totally fine, and I could have cleaned my room. I just... didn't want to."

Each word felt like swallowing a porcupine. But with every sentence, Oscar felt that zip again — only this time, it went the other direction. Upward. Outward. Bigger.

His pants stopped dragging on the floor. His sleeves crept back toward his wrists. He could see the top of the coffee table again, then the back of the couch.

His parents were quiet for a moment. His dad looked at his mom. His mom looked at his dad.

"All of that?" his mom said.

Oscar nodded. "All of that. It's been a rough week."

His mom knelt down and hugged him. His dad did too.

"Thank you for telling us," his mom said quietly. "That must have been really hard."

"It was," Oscar said. "But the shrinking was harder."

On Friday morning, Oscar stood against the wall. His mom pulled out the measuring tape.

Four feet, two inches. Exactly where he'd been last Sunday.

Oscar looked at himself in the hallway mirror. His clothes fit. His shoes fit. He could reach the doorknob without jumping.

He walked into the bathroom, picked up his toothbrush, and actually, genuinely, truly brushed his teeth.

At breakfast, his dad set down a plate of scrambled eggs.

Oscar looked at them. He looked at his dad.

"Dad," he said carefully, "would it be okay if I had toast instead? I don't really love scrambled eggs."

His dad blinked. Then he laughed — a big, warm, surprised laugh. "You could have just told me that, buddy."

"Yeah," said Oscar, smiling. "I know that now."

He grabbed his backpack, which fit perfectly on his shoulders, and headed out the door. Full height. Full size. Completely, entirely, one hundred percent Oscar.

And you know what? It felt pretty great.