I stopped in the hallway, hearing his voice, and Mom’s, arguing about Dad’s work. Just because he had money he wasn’t so big. I only needed 45 lousy bucks. If I had my own money I wouldn’t even need him. Then, suddenly, I didn’t want his money anymore, or Mom’s. I could mow lawns, or shovel snow. No. I couldn’t. Freddie Pomeroy tried it and the older kids beat him up so he couldn’t cut in. They’d do that to me in a second. And at that moment I hated him, hated him for trapping me like this. I wanted to be alone, on my own, free from having to ask for my things. But his heavy voice coming from downstairs was like a thick hot blanket around me, smothering my life. I was fired up inside. I wanted to punch something hard. The wall. I flexed my fist at the wall. I was going to hit the wall, and then...then, I held up, seeing the door of Mom and Dad’s room. So what? They were still arguing in the dining room. I hardly thought about it but then I opened their door and went in.

          There was Mom’s pocketbook, sitting right there on the bureau.  It was the first thing I spotted.  I went to it, like I was drawn to it, my heart pounding in my stomach.  What in the world was I thinking of? Stealing?  Yes.  I was.  I pecked at the clasp on the pocketbook, then, I got back near the door.… Still arguing.  Quickly I got back to the bureau and pressed on the clasp, which clicked open.  Then, back to the door again.… Still arguing. Back to the pocketbook. I plunged into envelopes and brushes and keys, the sweet smell of lipstick or perfume from the wide open bag made my head dizzy. Then, I saw money there! Right near the top!