Sticky Fingers by Emily Chadwick

I can’t help it, all right? I mean, sometimes I just come out with the stuff. I don’t mean to take things, really I don’t. It just kind of happens.

Like, take the other day, in Primark. I didn’t really need to go in there for anything, but my mum wanted to take a look around. There were these socks, bright neon and fluffy warm, just hanging there. Like Eve’s forbidden apple, right?

Then, the tingling started. An itch, in my fingers. Like a desire to prove myself. Not that anyone really knows I do it. But I want to prove myself to me, if that makes any sense. A dare. I dare myself. Goad myself.

Bet you can’t take those socks without anyone seeing you.

I can so.

And then, before I can really think it through, the socks are in my hoodie pocket. My fingers are closed around my prize, clutching, clasping. Knuckles white with tension.

When we leave the store, the socks come too. The tension fades away and the rush comes, like getting high.

And I smile.

I guess I was just born with sticky fingers.