The Seventh Commandment: Thou shalt not steal.

Age Nine

Mount Plymouth Academy was a very expensive school. Parents got what they paid for, Principal Dennick felt – small classes, top-notch teachers, a challenging curriculum. Of course, they admitted a small number of scholarship students each year, to build diversity and give back to the community. These were talented kids who were being given the opportunity of a lifetime. Dennick really believed in the scholarship program, even if she kept it small. The subsidized students were given money to pay for books, uniforms, and school supplies on top of their tuition waivers. Their parents were often uneducated and intimidated by MPA.

Which is why it was rather alarming that the father of Spencer De Silva had called her office with a complaint.

Dennick checked her files before returning Mr. De Silva's call. Spencer was in third grade, doing well academically, no behavioral concerns. His mother was a housekeeper and his father was a construction worker.

"Hello? Mr. De Silva? Yes, this is Principal Dennick returning your call."

After a minute or so of how-are-you and I-hate-to-be-a-bother-but, the man explained the problem. "You see, we got Spencer this video game for Christmas – I can't believe how expensive they are! – and another boy in his class stole it from him. I've told Spencer to talk to the teacher, but he just won't. He doesn't want to be a tattletale. I get that, I do, but it's not tattling if it's a fifty dollar game!"

Principal Dennick assured Mr. De Silva that the matter would be taken seriously. "And do you know the name of the boy who might have taken it?"

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The seats in Principal Dennick's office were sized for adults, big enough that Grant's feet didn't quite touch the ground unless he stretched his toes.

"Do you know why you're here, Grant?"

"Because my teacher told me to come here."

"Do you know Spencer De Silva?"

Grant nodded. "Yeah, he's in my class." As an afterthought, he added, "He's good at soccer."

After speaking to Spencer and the boys' teacher, Dennick thought it was very likely that Mr. De Silva's accusation was true, but Grant wasn't acting guilty or rattled.

"Did you take a video game from Spencer?"

Grant nodded again, still unfazed. "Yep. From his backpack. I think he was going to show it to people at recess."

"Did you have his permission?"

"No."

"That's stealing, Grant! I won't allow that in my school. I want you to write a letter of apology and give the game back."

"I can't."

Dennick raised her eyebrows. "You can't?"

"I don't have the game anymore. I destroyed it."

Well that was unexpected. And the word destroyed was an odd choice. Not broke, not lost. Destroyed. "You destroyed it on purpose?" she checked, just to be sure. "Why would you steal something if you didn't want to have keep it?"

"He talked a lot about it, how his parents got it for him for Christmas and it made him really happy. I didn't want it. I just didn't want him to have it."

The Eighth Commandment: Thou shalt not bear false witness.

Age Thirteen

Grant settled into his regular chair across from Dr. Wolk. She could see that he had added black nail polish to his increasingly goth appearance. She knew better than to comment on it, but inwardly she was pleased. He was a teenager and a little healthy rebellion was to be expected. His older brother had maintained a clean-cut outward appearance, according to Grant, but had experimented with different political positions. Currently, Grant said, Christian was aligning himself with something called 'Sinn Fein'.

"I've never heard of that."

"It's the political part of the IRA. You know, those Irish guys who plant bombs because of Northern Ireland? He doesn't really believe it. He's just trying to impress a girl."

"I see." In contrast, an all-black wardrobe and some steel jewelry was positively benign.

Grant squirmed in his seat for a moment before saying, "Can we…talk about a book?"

Dr. Wolk nodded, slowly. There was always a tightrope to walk with Grant. She had very strong suspicions that there was something very wrong in the Ward household. And of course, if Grant told her of specific acts of abuse, she would be required by law to report them to the authorities. But the Wards had connections, and there was no way her report would actually result in sanctions against the parents. And then the parents would remove Grant from treatment and the boy would be worse off than when he began, because Dr. Wolk did in fact believe that she was helping Grant to process and deal with all the events in his life, albeit indirectly.

They couldn't talk about exactly what was happening, and Grant preferred to keep his feelings at arm's length anyhow, so they talked about movies and books. They talked about A Wrinkle in Time and how a person might end up with impossible responsibilities. They talked about Tuck Everlasting and how a person might grieve the death of a loved one. They talked about Star Wars and how a person might handle the realization that their parents were on the Dark Side. Conversations about books were important conversations.

"Is there a particular book that's on your mind?"

"Harry Potter."

"Hm." She had asked him to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone a few months prior. The protagonist came from an abusive family and then went on to form a new family of friends and mentors. She had been hoping to guide Grant toward considering that possibility for himself, but all her teenage patient had wanted to do was discuss Quidditch at great length. "What's on your mind?"

"Just…what it was like for him with the Dursleys."

"Mm-hm?"

"They made him live in that little closet. They treated him like a slave." Grant's arms were parallel to each other, pressed against his stomach.

"I imagine there were many details left out of the book. Other things people like the Dursleys might do."

Grant scoffed. "They might do anything! People are so creative when they're horrible. They might-" Grant closed his mouth. He kept his face pointed forward, but his eyes looked away.

Dr. Wolk felt a little jolt of recognition. She could help Grant process many things in his life, but they could never talk about the worst things. "And you've really been thinking about the sorts of things the Dursleys would do," she said. "I'd really like to hear your ideas about this story."

Grant squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He pressed both hands against his forehead, almost as if he were trying to press himself back into the chair. "I just think they're awful."

"Mm-hm."

"And…they punish him for no reason! But, but what if he actually did something bad?"

"I imagine they would be even worse."

"Yes! They would…they would…"

"They wouldn't just send him to his room would they?"

"No. No, it would be worse than that." Grant's face was very red and his lips were pressed together. "No, they might…"

"Might what?"

"Might make him…might put…put hot sauce on his tongue." Grant was near tears and obviously trying to hide that fact. "A lot of it. And it burns."

"He would probably want some water."

Grant shook his head. "Can't have water."

"What do you think he'd do?"

"Probably nothing. Can't do anything because he's a stupid little kid." Grant swallowed heavily. "Maybe he'd do magic. Or just wait until he can go away to school."

Dr. Wolk put her hand on Grant's back, rubbing lightly over the black t-shirt.

Grant took the cue as it was intended. He whispered, "I wish I was magic," and started to cry in earnest.