I stepped out of the car that day with a vibrant smile stretched from corner to corner of my worry-less face… a sinister smile that did not expect what was going to happen in the next 20 minutes.

…

With the soft shut of the back door in the navy Camry, we all three strolled into the local mom-and-pop Dollar store past the dense heat of the June evening. The auburn sun was an hour from the brink of setting and the wind was silent, while my mother pulled the heavy door as we entered the walls of my future humiliation.

With the “ding” of the door opening, the variety of small knickknacks entered the scene of my vision as I scanned the store from left to right, making my way over to the forever beloved party section by every child. The cellophane covered noisemakers, the recycled cones for tiny heads, and the addicting multi-colored clappers were all treasures for youngsters, stashed and found at the end of the rainbow (a.k.a. the Dollar Store). This amusement and awe in the worthless yet precious pieces of junk in that store killed my wonder forever and this I can say with certainty. I still do find entertainment in aimlessly wandering these kinds of shops to look at hundreds of worthless pieces of plastic and lead colouring; however, never the same wonder has twinkled in my eyes… since that day.

My mother wandered into one of the left aisles with her hand tightly wrapped around my toddler brother’s and called for my follow, as it had been the last day to get supplies for some “creativity intriguing” project that we were given in those elementary days.

“Challo, let’s go, we don’t have much time,” my mother called from ahead, as I tottered along with innocence behind her with the signal to come along.

My left foot -I know of it for a fact- turned in her direction but the right was the one that beckoned for my death as it twisted right with the sight of the new stock of the birthday cards and accessories on the impulse buy rack. I started towards it and my eyes widened as the sight of the “jewels” got closer until they were within reach of my little hands. I stepped towards it and a devilishly innocent thought came in my head as I approached the spinning rack and adjacent shelf.

It seemed valid at the time. Of course, I would first go home and tease and pock him with intrigue then I would take it out of my pocket and present it as a ‘gift’. I had it all thought out. The excitement of the act thrilled my fingers, so I didn’t even think twice when I extended my hand to place it in my pocket. I remember carefully looking around to check if no one saw me, but then again, I was only six at the time. I rubbed my chubby fingers over it to check its quality and the embedded “Congratulations” in plastic, but what was I thinking, quality?

Anyhow, once I placed the pearled scarlet one into my small pocket, I scurried over after my mother to catch up during the quick dollar store shopping spree. We continued to look and scan the aisles for whatever we were looking for, but once we got closer to checkout, my heart went from pumping to pounding with excitement.

With each scan and flash of the red laser, my eagerness to leave and carry out my devised plan grew. The impatience of the moment with the trailing smell of the recycled cardboard and plastic all follow in my memory of this event each time it sneaks into thought. The young lady with the neon red work uniform at the cash register continued to stuff the project supplies into the translucent bags of plastic during checkout; meanwhile, the afterthoughts of my genius idea continued to buzz in my immature mind, as I swished the tips of my short fingers over the dusty wooden racks and shelves near the counter during the wait. When my mother swiped her credit card and placed the two bags of coloured construction paper and Styrofoam shapes around her sleek wrists, my feelings of euphoria doubled as my mission was at the edge of claiming the status of “success”.

As the last rituals of store checkout completed, we all approached the heavy door that stood only three meters apart. With each step, my heart raced, pounded, and squealed. It was all okay until that short 20-something lady with the neon red shirt called from behind as we were exiting through the front door.

“Common on Mama, we need to go remember, you were saying we don’t have time,” were the only words that escaped my mouth within those traumatizing minutes as I pulled at the hem of my mother’s sleeve.

Beads of sweat formed within seconds at my hairline. The disgustingly dirty brown eyes of the woman shot into the milk chocolate ones of mine-the eyes that had a tendency to melt with each flame it encountered.

The accusation.

The embarrassment.

The pleading for innocence to my mother.

I strongly remember it all. The red shirt woman must have seen me on the store camera or during checkout or when I first put it in was all that I could think of.

“What are you saying, how could she steal such a petty object, I don’t believe you,” politely curled out of my mother’s mouth.

“I saw, ask yourself, take it out of your pocket girl.”

“I don’t believe her, what’s wrong?”

The tone of my mother’s voice shifted with the speck of sight that hooked together between my eyes and hers. The belief that she held transformed with the sight of the guilt and bubbling tears at the corners of my eyes.

“Take it out, hand it over,” was all that was said to me in the store before the trouble at home, as my mother extended her hand towards my trembling one.

After the allegation, my nervously frost-bitten hand pulled it out of the pocket, but my petite eyes closed to save my view of the look on my mother’s face for at least those few seconds.

I don’t remember any of what happened that day at the store other than the slam of the door of the navy Camry and the yelling and trickling tears that stung my eyes that evening at home.

I’m not sure if it was the horror of the accusation or the disbelief turned to a loss of trust in the eyes of my mother that scarred me the most to have left this memory embedded within me till this day. And I wonder why I ever thought the plastic trash was ever worth the childish trauma.

All for just a 50¢ balloon I wanted to surprise my brother with. All that emotional scarring for a balloon… and I never stole again.

 

 

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