I will spare you the finer details such as the weather, the location, the year. What is undeniably important is the confession.
I, Kat Clarke, am a thief. Not a petty thief. A jewel thief.
The owner of said jewel is, or more accurately was, Annabelle Bonafante.
Now that is said. I will divulge.
Annabelle is my polar opposite. She has soft golden hair that tickles her waist, glassy blue eyes and skin as fair and smooth as china plates. From this description she sounds like a doll. I sometimes think she behaves like a doll too.
I on the other hand am the yin to her yang. My hair is muddy brown and cut undesirably short by my mother who has deemed it unsalvageable. My skin is always tanned from playing outside and I have far too many freckles scattered all over my face. My brother, when he was furious with me, described me to look like a speckled egg in a boys wig. This is a despairingly accurate description.
It was last Friday that I stole the jewel.
I bet you are wondering what jewels a ten year old may own.
The jewels were a selection of beautiful glass squares, vibrant in colour, wicked in nature. They were set in a majestic royal blue box with gold trimmings.
Annabelle had brought them in to our school for Friday’s show and tell. She told the room of school children they were given to her by her parents when she swam one length of the pool for the first time.
When the bell rang for break Annabelle was ushered outside leaving the jewels alone and unprotected.
I took a closer look. They glinted at me purple, gold, silver, bronze, blue, red, green and colours I didn’t even know existed. They whispered encouragingly and before I knew it one perfect shard was safely hidden in my book bag and there was no backtracking.
The rest of the school day dragged on. My palms were sweaty. I felt nauseated. I could not concentrate. Even if I tried I could not return the piece of glass back to it’s family, back to it’s rightful owner. I willed for the bell to ring for home time so I could escape.
Finally I made it home. And I waited. I waited for the phone to ring. I waited for the explosion of voices. I braced myself for the repercussions to hit. But it never happened.
Not that day, not the next. Not even the week after.
Perhaps Annabelle and her parents did not notice. Perhaps they did not care.
I stowed the shard beneath a lose floorboard under a rug. Every few hours I return to the floorboard and steal a glance. Marvel at its beauty and carefully polish the shard’s silky surface with my father’s handkerchief.
I had every intention of returning the shard back to Annabelle but her lack of fuss made me change my mind.
I felt sad that the other shards were most likely left alone. Probably in an expensive mahogany cupboard left untouched, unappreciated and forgotten. The missing shard unnoticed.
I refused to let this shard have the same fate. So there Annabelle bonafante’s shard lies, under a floorboard in my home.
And that is how I became the jewel thief.