turned away. In the old days, I guess something would have gotten broken. But I was under control. As I started to walk out, I glanced over to my right and saw something that sent a rippling chill of excitement across my skin.
moving violations
NORMALLY, I’M PRETTY sure you can’t see inside a bank vault. They probably don’t want customers staring at the money and getting crazy ideas. But there was a reflection in the glass of the window where the drive-through tellers sat. Not only could I see inside the vault, I could see stacks of bills on a cart.
I remembered a piece of the endless trivia Cheater had shared with me back at Edgeview. There was a famous bank robber. Willie Sutton. That was his name. After he was caught, they asked him why he robbed banks. He answered, “Because that’s where the money is.” I wasn’t going to rob a bank. But I was going to get my money.
I walked over to the counter along the back wall where they have the deposit slips. I grabbed a pen and pretended to fill out the form the teller had given me. Still looking at the reflection, I pushed a stack of bills from the cart and let it fall to the floor. If anyone saw it happen, they’d pick up the bills. I waited a moment, then slid the money out of the vault and down the corridor to the lobby. It was so easy. I moved the bills along the side of the room, right where the wall metthe floor. Nobody noticed. The customers in line were all staring straight ahead. The tellers were all busy with the customers.
Once the money was near me, I moved it over by my feet and up my leg, right into my hand. Then I jammed the stack in my pocket and strolled outside, trying not to rush away like a fleeing bank robber.
I didn’t want to count the money in the street. I went next door to a bookstore, hoping I’d gotten enough for the brushes. It wasn’t really stealing. Whatever I got, I’d just never withdraw that amount. I’d let it stay in my account forever. So—me and the bank—we’d be even.
I went over to the poetry aisle, which is never crowded, and pulled the bills from my pocket. Instead of Washington or Lincoln, I found myself face-to-face with Benjamin Franklin.
“Hundreds …” I said as the meaning of that sunk in. I didn’t know how many bills were in the stack, but I was definitely holding a lot more money than I had in my account.
I’d just robbed a bank. Big time.
Then a thought hit me—I could walk home and nobody would ever know. It would be the perfect crime. The teller had never looked at my ID. Even if she had, there was no way to connect me to the vault. It might be weeks before they even realized any money was missing. A bank this size probably dealt with a hundred times that much cash every day.
I could keep the money.
It wouldn’t matter if I never got another penny of my allowance. I could buy anything I wanted. Brushes, paints, a roll of canvas, and a stretcher.Even some of those really expensive art books with the full-color illustrations.
But someone would get in trouble. I thought about the teller who had smiled at me. Monica. Someone at the bank—maybe her or one of her friends—would get blamed for the missing money. I knew what it felt like to be accused of stuff I hadn’t done—at least, not done on purpose. As thrilling as it was to think about the perfect crime, and a fistful of brushes, I had to take the money back. It would be easy enough to float the stack to the vault.
It should have been easy—except when I got to the door, it wouldn’t open. In my panic, I almost threw the bolt open with my mind. Then I took a look at the hours listed on the door. The bank closed early on Saturday.
Calm down. It’s not a problem.
I saw a drawer next to the door for night deposits. It was locked, but my mind was the key. I unlocked the drawer and dropped the money inside, then took off. The money was back in the bank, even if it wasn’t in the vault. That would have to be good enough. There’d be
moving violations
NORMALLY, I’M PRETTY sure you can’t see inside a bank vault. They probably don’t want customers staring at the money and getting crazy ideas. But there was a reflection in the glass of the window where the drive-through tellers sat. Not only could I see inside the vault, I could see stacks of bills on a cart.
I remembered a piece of the endless trivia Cheater had shared with me back at Edgeview. There was a famous bank robber. Willie Sutton. That was his name. After he was caught, they asked him why he robbed banks. He answered, “Because that’s where the money is.” I wasn’t going to rob a bank. But I was going to get my money.
I walked over to the counter along the back wall where they have the deposit slips. I grabbed a pen and pretended to fill out the form the teller had given me. Still looking at the reflection, I pushed a stack of bills from the cart and let it fall to the floor. If anyone saw it happen, they’d pick up the bills. I waited a moment, then slid the money out of the vault and down the corridor to the lobby. It was so easy. I moved the bills along the side of the room, right where the wall metthe floor. Nobody noticed. The customers in line were all staring straight ahead. The tellers were all busy with the customers.
Once the money was near me, I moved it over by my feet and up my leg, right into my hand. Then I jammed the stack in my pocket and strolled outside, trying not to rush away like a fleeing bank robber.
I didn’t want to count the money in the street. I went next door to a bookstore, hoping I’d gotten enough for the brushes. It wasn’t really stealing. Whatever I got, I’d just never withdraw that amount. I’d let it stay in my account forever. So—me and the bank—we’d be even.
I went over to the poetry aisle, which is never crowded, and pulled the bills from my pocket. Instead of Washington or Lincoln, I found myself face-to-face with Benjamin Franklin.
“Hundreds …” I said as the meaning of that sunk in. I didn’t know how many bills were in the stack, but I was definitely holding a lot more money than I had in my account.
I’d just robbed a bank. Big time.
Then a thought hit me—I could walk home and nobody would ever know. It would be the perfect crime. The teller had never looked at my ID. Even if she had, there was no way to connect me to the vault. It might be weeks before they even realized any money was missing. A bank this size probably dealt with a hundred times that much cash every day.
I could keep the money.
It wouldn’t matter if I never got another penny of my allowance. I could buy anything I wanted. Brushes, paints, a roll of canvas, and a stretcher.Even some of those really expensive art books with the full-color illustrations.
But someone would get in trouble. I thought about the teller who had smiled at me. Monica. Someone at the bank—maybe her or one of her friends—would get blamed for the missing money. I knew what it felt like to be accused of stuff I hadn’t done—at least, not done on purpose. As thrilling as it was to think about the perfect crime, and a fistful of brushes, I had to take the money back. It would be easy enough to float the stack to the vault.
It should have been easy—except when I got to the door, it wouldn’t open. In my panic, I almost threw the bolt open with my mind. Then I took a look at the hours listed on the door. The bank closed early on Saturday.
Calm down. It’s not a problem.
I saw a drawer next to the door for night deposits. It was locked, but my mind was the key. I unlocked the drawer and dropped the money inside, then took off. The money was back in the bank, even if it wasn’t in the vault. That would have to be good enough. There’d be
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