Is it really breaking and entering if you have the key and the alarm code? That was the question running through my head as I logged onto the computer, as I downloaded copies of the emails, as I erased all evidence, and then ran back through the east woods of the estate to the car waiting. Was it really a crime if there weren’t any barriers to stop you? His password was Bennetson123. It was written on a sticky note next to his mouse. Does it even count if the break-in happens while the sun is up by someone dressed in running clothes? My purple Nikes don’t seem like the typical burglar uniform.
It was a slowly dawning 5 am when I jumped back into the car. I was out of breath. Despite the amount of sportswear I own, I wouldn’t really classify myself as athletic.
“Did you get the emails?” Ginger, my sister and getaway driver, asked.
“The watermelon seeds are in my stomach.”
Ginger shook her head at my code words as she pulled back onto the road, barely fazed that she was now an accomplice to my crime. I couldn’t say the same for myself. I went from out of breath from exercise to out of breath from panic quickly. It was worse than the time that thought I lost my midterm exam. This was a full-blown, worst case scenario, probably going to end up as someone’s prison bitch anxiety meltdown. I had always suspected I was not cut out for a life of crime, but now I had proof.
My life had gone from normal, normal summer before junior year of college, a normal job at a historical estate and museum, to completely ludicrous in a matter of weeks. I pulled down the car visor to look at myself in the mirror, and the flushed, crazed, and yet oddly determined girl who looked back at me was not one I recognized. In one month, I had gone from boring history nerd who enjoys doing puzzles with her family to a semi-athletic, well-meaning, and only technically criminal. At least one summer of my life will be worth writing a memoir about.