The problem, Arden decided, was that his sister was a terrible liar.
Arden himself could be quite convincing, when the need arose. His sister, raised in a more idyllic world, had never really found lies necessary until her parents had kicked her out for a particular nasty truth.
It didn't matter much, though. The only really big lie he ever told was about his family, and nobody cared when he lied about that because they all knew why. He just didn't like it when people knew he was lying.
Or when he told the truth and they called him a liar anyways.
Arden was nothing special to look at; a chubby, cheerful nine-year-old, with disobedient hair and big round eyes. Just like all the other boys.
But the other boys couldn't sing like Arden. And somehow, singing like an angel meant he was treated like a devil. When the other boys pulled somebody's hair or put frogs in the toilet, it was tolerated with minimal shouting and maybe a restriction on after-school snacks for the rest of the week. When Arden pulled the same tricks as his peers, the old busybodies from his sister's church acted as if each and every one of them had been the intended - and only - victim.
So every Sunday, he sang to make them forget what a naughty boy he was, because he wasn't a naughty boy at all. He just needed real parents to treat him like a real son, and who would believe him (sometimes) when he said that his latest prank hadn't really been his idea.
Arden himself could be quite convincing, when the need arose. His sister, raised in a more idyllic world, had never really found lies necessary until her parents had kicked her out for a particular nasty truth.
It didn't matter much, though. The only really big lie he ever told was about his family, and nobody cared when he lied about that because they all knew why. He just didn't like it when people knew he was lying.
Or when he told the truth and they called him a liar anyways.
Arden was nothing special to look at; a chubby, cheerful nine-year-old, with disobedient hair and big round eyes. Just like all the other boys.
But the other boys couldn't sing like Arden. And somehow, singing like an angel meant he was treated like a devil. When the other boys pulled somebody's hair or put frogs in the toilet, it was tolerated with minimal shouting and maybe a restriction on after-school snacks for the rest of the week. When Arden pulled the same tricks as his peers, the old busybodies from his sister's church acted as if each and every one of them had been the intended - and only - victim.
So every Sunday, he sang to make them forget what a naughty boy he was, because he wasn't a naughty boy at all. He just needed real parents to treat him like a real son, and who would believe him (sometimes) when he said that his latest prank hadn't really been his idea.
~~~~~
"Kiki, I'm ho-ome!" Arden plunked himself down on the step, leaning backwards through the door to make sure his sister heard him as he tugged his shoes off.
"Arden, really. I told you all about it two years ago now. You know who I really am. You can call me Mommy."
Arden smiled up at his 'sister' - his mother, only fourteen years older than he was - adoringly. "Nah. You'll always be Kelly or Kiki or Sis to me." He fell backwards across the doorstep and kicked his feet into the air, reaching up to a particular stubborn knot in his shoelace. "Will you help me choose a song to sing this Sunday? Auntie Ella's still mad at me after last week's service, even though I sang all the way soprano like she likes."
"Arden, really. I told you all about it two years ago now. You know who I really am. You can call me Mommy."
Arden smiled up at his 'sister' - his mother, only fourteen years older than he was - adoringly. "Nah. You'll always be Kelly or Kiki or Sis to me." He fell backwards across the doorstep and kicked his feet into the air, reaching up to a particular stubborn knot in his shoelace. "Will you help me choose a song to sing this Sunday? Auntie Ella's still mad at me after last week's service, even though I sang all the way soprano like she likes."