Sticky Fingers

My memory starts with a purple pencil case and green spiral notebook. They sat on the starched white tablecloth most Chinese restaurants provide on their tables, usually ending in a tie-dye of soy sauce and messy chopstick habits. It is winter and I am warm, bundled in a mass of coat and scarf, which will prove to be useful for my plan.

Thinking back now, I didn’t realize that I had schemed this all out before hand. From the moment I heard my family and I were traveling to dim sum breakfast in Chinatown on the coming Sunday, I must have known I was planning to steal the Chung May Food Market’s excellent selection of Chinese candy. I brought along my pencil case and notebook (now really, who needs to draw during a delicious breakfast?) so I must have known I was going to hid the stolen candies within my pencils, a truly perfect plan. I also must have thought my parents would completely and totally disapprove of buying me candy if I had asked them. Being six years old, even considering asking a question that contained “candy” and “have” was inconceivable. But I had to justify my plan somehow. Or maybe I just had to have that candy.

The brilliant red decorations covered the walls and ceilings and floors of the restaurant. Chinese teenagers pushed and pulled the carts of food to each table, letting the customer’s eye each entree before choosing. The fleeting cart pushers weaved in and out of tables dodging and maneuvering their way around. The chaos of it all brought comfort and calm to my body.

My next memory goes straight to the act of the candy isle. My heart started to thump, hopefully muffled by all my layers. The rainbow of colors in the isle danced in my eyes and I stared, mesmerized by the choices I had. The Chinese characters on various candies no long brought confusion, but curiosity and excitement. I loved the prospect of having whatever I wanted, whatever my palette craved. I chose pink tablets in a cylindrical plastic case. The flip top caught my eye and I knew I had to have it. Slipping it into my pencil case, I turn and try to find my family.

I feel accomplished and satisfied though, I had done something wrong, but why did it feel so right?

My next vivid memory begins with my mom’s voice.

“Sarah Bell. Come in here please,” she calls me to. I can hear the sternness in her voice, but don’t connect it to my felony; how could she possibly know? The sixth sense that comes along with being a mother kicks in and ask me to go retrieve the stolen property and bring it to her. As I walk back to my pink-walled room, I can feel like the stares of my judging beanie babies and stuff animals. Their beady eyes follow me as I seek the candy from underneath my pillow. My face turns red with embarrassment and shame. Truly, nothing is ever as easy as it seems. I had never felt this way before; I was so upset and disappointed with myself. Guilt had never stricken me so rigid as it did on the walk from my room to my parents’. I handed my mother the candy. She eyed it, playing with it in her hands. A small part of me so sad because I knew I had barely even begun to start eating it.

They begin to lecture me; this part I can’t remember, but I assume I cried, hoping my tears could bring out the sympathy in their hearts; no such luck.

“Sarah, your father will take you back to the market and you must apologize to them,” my mother tells me. Shame and guilt pass through me faster than I stole that candy and I become completely petrified.

I remember finding myself in front the Chung May Food Market, once again warm in my coat and scarf, although this time, they suffocate me. My eyes tear and I can see the sympathy in my father’s exhale. I feel the awesome task before me, heavy on my mind. I can barely see for the tears are blinding my vision. I walk shakily through, into the dried fish smell, reminding me of the day before. I walk up to the counter, unsure and nervous. I place my stolen candy on the black conveyor belt, not even a breath leaving my mouth.

“Hi,” my dad begins, “My daughter took these yesterday, she just wanted to apologize and I can pay for whatever necessary.” I look up at him, still horrified of what could happen.

“I’m really sorry,” I profess, looking the cashier right in the eyes, sure she is about to yell at me for her face is completely blank.

“Ohkay, ohkay, two dollar thirty cents,” she announces, a blissful smile spread across her face as she rings up my half eaten candy.