The Thief by Brittney Blaskowitz Prichard F IRST P LACE My grandmother was a thief. First Blue, my blue goldfish. She was only supposed to watch him for the weekend while my family RVed to the ocean, all cramped up and miserable, our house on slow wheels. When I returned, running towards her scraped knees and sunburn, she would not surrender. She had him eating tiny flakes from her wrinkling hand, jumping from his bowl to reach her. “He’s mine now,” she said and that was that. Ten years later, sixteen, I begged for a dog for Christmas. My mother surprised me with a parakeet in my stocking, a yellow serenader with black sideburns. I named him Elvis, tried to hide my disappointment. I had all but forgiven grandmother. Blue a distant memory. My mother convinced she would not steal another companion, made me leave Elvis in her company while we searched for new apartments, a place without father. And just like that, I lost them both, our new space stripped of its tenors, no more shouting or song. When I begged her to give him back to me, she said I should have never left him in the first place. Bad things happen when good girls leave their men behind, all caged up.
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