The first time I stole something I was twelve. Old enough to know it was wrong, but too young to care, as the saying goes.

It was from a small shop in town whose owner could barely pay the bills each month. I hadn’t meant to, really. I was there alone, gazing at all the things I could have in a snap if I asked. When two new customers entered the store, I was fingering the rainbow threads of a bracelet with the word ‘peace’ woven into them. I’ve always found that ironic, that the first thing I stole promoted good morals.

The owner led the two customers into the back room and then soon I could hear them talking about prices. Without security cameras or witness, there was no one stopping me.

It was done almost by impulse, really. I had done it before I had consciously made a decision. I’m not sure I could have stopped myself, had I tried. But before I knew it, the bracelet was in my hand and then bottom of my designer jacket pocket.

I exited as casually as I could, though my face was a picture of guilt. Once the cool air hit my face and my feet were out of the store, I burst out into a run. I ran all the way home to our multitude of expensive cars out front next to our large, well-trimmed lawn.

I went to my room first. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with the bracelet- where to put it, whether to wear it or not. Better not, I decided, and it stayed in my pocket. It was cold outside, but I put on my swimsuit and climbed into the hot tub anyway. Snowflakes swirled around me. I wondered why a rich girl like me would steal.

Even now, I ask myself why I steal things. Why I have three credit cards, ready for use, and a pocket bursting with cash, yet I still find myself using the five-finger discount. All for something I won’t wear. To this day, I still haven’t worn the little bracelet that started it all. I’m too ashamed to admit that I’m a rich girl who steals more than if I were poor.