That’s what I thought anyway...

It was all because of Gitty’s sweater.

(The first ploy of the criminal mind: Laying the blame at someone else’s door. Or, in this case, something else’s door. It doesn’t matter who or what, as long as the other guy ends up responsible for what you did. This kind of thinking makes it a little easier to live with yourself...)

My sister Gitty’s sweater was a pale, delicate blue, with exquisite flowers stitched across the top in pastel shades. I’d been drooling over that sweater ever since she got it for her birthday. Pale blue is Gitty’s color. It matches her eyes. I, on the other hand, have mud-brown eyes. No one looks at a beautiful, light-blue sweater and thinks, “Oh, that’ll be perfect for Penina.” When people buy me gifts of clothing, they tend to be in bright, vivid tones — to spark up my lackluster coloring, I guess. But I loved pastels. Specifically, I loved Gitty’s sweater.

The sweater seemed to take over my mind. Like one of those plants that sucks the oxygen out of the air around it, that sweater seemed to suck every other thought out of my head. Its beauty seemed to call to me. I started contemplating the notion of calling back...

All I wanted to do was try it on. I convinced myself that Gitty wouldn’t mind. (Second ploy of the criminal mentality: Convincing yourself that what you’ve done, or are about to do, is “not really wrong.” It’s like putting on a costume and then telling yourself that it’s “not really you”...)

And so, one Sunday afternoon when I was home and my sister was not, I opened her dresser drawer, took out the sweater, and put it on.

My reflection gazed back at me, both of us absolutely thrilled with the way we looked. There was no question in my mind that pale blue was every bit as becoming to me as it was to Gitty. It wasn’t fair that she always landed such pretty things. By trying it on, I was only tilting the scales of justice a little  making things a little more even. (After you’ve convinced yourself that what you’re doing is “not really wrong,” the next step is telling yourself that the act is actually a good thing! I’d suddenly become the justice keeper of the world...) I should have taken the sweater off then. I’d gotten what I wanted; I’d tried it on and admired myself in the mirror. But I was not satisfied. I wanted more. (The criminal mentality always wants more.) Instead of taking off the sweater and putting it back in Gitty’s drawer, I decided I’d wear it around the house for a while and pretend it was mine. No harm in pretending, was there? I was alone in the house and there was no one to see me. Choosing a favorite book from my shelf, I settled myself on the living-room couch to enjoy a good read, feeling like a princess in the sweater.

Somewhere around chapter 2, I started to get the munchies. With my nose still buried in the book, I wandered into the kitchen to find something to eat. A few of my mother’s oatmeal cookies found their way onto a paper plate. Then I went to the fridge. There was a started container of chocolate milk there. I placed the container on the counter and popped the top open.

It popped open, all right — together with a spray of rich, brown chocolate milk, aimed directly at me. Or rather, at my sister’s beautiful sweater. For a second, I didn’t believe what I’d just seen happen. Then I forced my eyes down to where three bold, brown speckles decorated the delicate pastel fabric. My heart got a sort of queer, cold feeling, as if it had turned into a chunk of ice.

I awoke from my trance and leaped into action, applying frantic first aid to the sweater. I tried water, I tried club soda, but all I accomplished was turning those distinct spots of brown into amorphous, spread-out blobs of brown. The sweater was ruined.

My mother might have had some other ideas for getting the stain out, but I wasn’t planning on asking her for them. I didn’t want to share this catastrophe with another living soul. It was my secret. My crime. And it was up to me to keep it that way.