The boy had decided it was best to tell the truth, about his teeth, about the robin’s eggs, his mother, his pinkie, his towel, the rain, the piece of candy still stuck on the roof of his mouth. But truth could be told so much easily and with no words by grabbing his mother’s mascara and awning his eyes lashes with it, without benefit of a mirror.
His mother might be utterly confused by the site of him. She might yell and hit him. But the truth was there.