I am a good liar. I have been my whole life. I’m twelve years old. Or am I thirteen? Or eleven? I’m such a good liar that I could convincingly tell you anything.

It was my father who first taught me how to lie. “Look them dead in the eyes, son. Don’t blink, or look to one side. Dead in the eyes. Speak calmly. Add in some details, ones that aren’t important. That makes things more believable.”

So every day I concoct a new adventure to tell my classmates, they lap it up. They believe I live in the big mansion, that I only wear tatty clothes because my parents don’t want me to be spoilt. They don’t know that I actually live in a caravan in the field behind it.

Last week I told them that my parents had taken me off to a ski resort for the weekend. “We met Prince William up there, he loves skiing. I was really bad at it, but Will, (he said I can call him that), said it didn’t matter, because he thought I was really funny. I must’ve fallen over right in front of him about 8 times! We’re going to be invited to dinner at Windsor Castle soon”.

I liked that story. It’s another thing my father taught me about lying, you can’t always paint yourself as the hero. Sometimes you have to be bad at things.

Today I’m telling an even better lie. “They opened the aquarium especially for me”, I say, breathing evenly, “my parents just knew that I’d always dreamed of swimming with sharks.” I look directly at them. “I don’t know if you’ve all seen, but they have those love little orange fish at the aquarium too, like Nemo! I’ve got a stuffed one from the gift shop, but I’ll get some real ones soon”.

It’s all in the details, the little inconsequential details.

“Anyway, the shark swimming went a bit wrong. The shark tried to attack me, but I fought it off.” I shrug nonchalantly and bask in their awe. One girl asks if she can touch the red gash across my face.

It was my father who taught me how to lie. I have to be believable when I explain away the injuries he gives me, or he’ll kill me.

I am a good liar, but a very bad boy.