I stared at a blank piece of paper in the typewriter on the floor of my bedroom. Hunched over it, I practiced in my head the best approach to this lie. I wanted it to be convincing, but I couldn’t overdo it. Too much enthusiasm and effusiveness and everyone would know that it was satire—that I was making fun of them, of myself, of this entire year.

“Why Jesus Christ Is Important in My Life” was the theme of the short essay we had to prepare and read at our confirmation ceremony. The typewriter only produced letters in a script font, lending each word a saccharine appearance, as if they would be perfectly at home on a plaque bearing an inspirational poem. It was perfect for subterfuge.

I typed a paragraph, stared at it. I told myself not to think too much. This was supposed to be in my voice, personalized, heartfelt. I did what I was supposed to do: I capitalized “He” and “Him.” I talked about personal struggle. I constructed sentences about learning to overcome hardship with His guidance. I gave it a conclusion about strength, compassion, and understanding.

When I stood up in front of the congregation of the church in which I would never again set foot, however, I could not be completely numb. These pleasant faces, hushed, maybe a bit bored from hearing 13-year-olds stutter and mumble their way through turgid prose, looked proud of their families and friends and also like they’d heard it all before. What I had written was no different in tone, really, but I imagined I was sharing a secret. I was also horrified to realize as I read it out loud now that some of what was stamped into this paper in front of me was true.