Sick

Dizzy. Spinning. Circling. Me around them. Them around me. Too many tomes at this book expo that spreads across a convention center's main floor like water breaking through a levee and flooding in all directions. I select one booth and stop, announcing my presence and explaining my condition. May I stand here? Sure, no problem. Their empathy helps. I do not confess my transgression of being a book thief. Yes, in sixth grade I stole a book from a fair held in my elementary school's auditorium. My palms were sweaty then as a I grabbed a mass paperback about Michael Jackson. A woman saw the crime and escorted me to the school principal, my former first grade teacher. Disappointed he said. Disappointed in a model student. A role model others in this school look up to he said. I could not explain myself. Mislead by others. Bad company. Greedy for printed pages between covers. My punishment was exile: I was forbidden from returning to the book fair. It was there for a week longer. This harsh penalty I accepted in exchange for no call made home to my mother. No reason to steal now. I have money for books, a library card and Michael Jackson is dead.