Olivia Smit:

In this video, Olivia Smit reads from her Honours Thesis in Creative Writing  at Western University. The project is titled Stealing Time.

Stealing Time
(an excerpt)
By Olivia Smit

“Work with me, Ember. What are you good at? What are your skills?”

“Making a perfect vanilla latte,” I say. “Never getting lost.” Being able to take anything from a store without paying for it – or getting caught. But I don’t say that one out loud.
           
“Okay,” says the guidance counsellor my mom is forcing me to meet, drumming her fingertips on the edge of the desk. “Attention to detail, resilience, problem-solving skills. This is good. You can use all of this in your applications to local colleges.”
           
When I don’t say anything, she flicks her gaze from the screen of her computer up to me. “Ember?”
           
“Uh-huh,” I say, arms crossed. As much as she tries to maintain eye contact with me, she can’t help herself – her gaze flicks up to my hair. Then down again. Gotcha.
           
“Do you know which colleges you’ll be applying to?”
           
“Not yet.” I lift my chin, making eye contact with her. She won’t find the answers she’s looking for in the expression on my face. No one ever does.
           
“How about a program? A major?”
           
“No.” I try not to snap like I do when Mom asks the same questions.
           
The final bell rings right outside the office, and even though I graduated last year and school bells no longer apply to me, I stand up, swinging my backpack over my shoulder. “Okay, thanks for your help.”
           
“Ember, wait,” she says, but I’m gone, the door swinging shut behind me as I loop my left arm through the strap. Nothing she says is going to change my mind. I’m not going to college this year. In defiance of my outward poise, my stomach clenches at the thought.
           
Because the guidance office is right by the front doors, I slide out and onto the street ahead of everyone else, avoiding the clamour at the bus stop right in front of the school. On cue, like she knows I ducked out of my meeting early, Mom texts.
           
Early acceptance to Riley comes out this weekend. Send application in now please.
           
I ignore this message, burying my phone in my backpack where I won’t be able to feel the notifications buzzing anymore. Dad’s face appears in the back of my mind, lips pursed in disappointment. He’d want me to text her back. He’d want me to sit back down and listen to the guidance counsellor. But I can’t do it.
           
By the time I’ve reached our apartment complex, my palms are sweating and the stomach clench has turned into an entire herd of butterflies. I let myself in, sweat beading down my back, and take the stairs instead of the elevator, pumping my legs all the way up to the fifth floor. I can feel the energy spiking through my veins like a drug. Dad’s expression is burned through my mind, that familiar frown that appears whenever Mom and I have a fight, and the guilt rolls over me in waves, hot and prickly.
           
Inside our empty apartment, the feeling intensifies, like it’s breeding on the emptiness in the room. I flop down on the floor and try to stretch my muscles, try to alleviate the pressure building within me, but nothing works.
           
I force myself into a seated forward fold, hands gripping the soles of my feet, head pressed towards my knees. There are still two hours until I have to be at Starbucks for work, and Mom won’t be home from work until late tonight, so either I stay in the apartment alone until then, or …
           
I push myself further into the stretch, feeling the searing pain along my hamstrings. I really shouldn’t steal something today – not after leaving the appointment and ignoring Mom. Not after stealing twice already this week. I can handle this like an adult.
           
Five more minutes go by, and I develop an ache in my right hip from stretching past my flexibility. Maybe I should go for a walk.
           
As I lace up my running shoes, trying to pretend that I selected my new ones because I like them and not because wearing expensive things makes me less of a suspect, I tell myself over and over again that I will not steal. I won’t. I’ve hit my quota for this week.
           
Then, right as I think I’m making headway, right as I’m clamping down on this urge that grows stronger with every second, my phone chimes again. For a second, I think it’s from my dad before Mom’s face lights up the screen.
           
Text me back. Riley has a good science program.
           
My stomach tightens, like someone’s taken a screwdriver to my insides. Tighter. Tighter. I shouldn’t steal today. I shouldn’t.
           
But I probably will.
           
This time, I take the elevator down, pacing back and forth within the confines of the box barely bigger than a coffin. I count in my head to distract myself from the way the walls seem to press in on me, and by the time I’ve reached twenty-five, the doors are sliding open again.
           
I shouldn’t steal anything, I tell myself, even as I relax my shoulders and slow my walk, dropping my hands so I look relaxed and casual. I definitely shouldn’t go into any stores when I’m in a mood like this, I try to say, even as my feet point me in the direction of downtown.
           
I shouldn’t have worn the jacket with the pockets, I chide myself, as I slide my fingers inside to make sure they’re empty and ready to carry my prize to victory.
           
I’ve lost the game before I began. That is, if it was ever a game at all. It’s not very much fun for me anymore.
           
By the time I reach downtown, I’ve totally succumbed to the urge, fully prepared and ready to play this game – and win – just like I always do. For today’s target, I’ve chosen the drugstore where Mom sometimes shops. It’s best to choose a place where you’re known – that way, people are less likely to suspect you, and less confident in accosting you even if they do catch you with something in your pocket.
           
The bell above the door tinkles as I enter, and the girl behind the counter turns to greet me with a smile. I pretend to be looking at something else so I don’t have to hold eye contact with her, walking slowly down the first aisle. The only way to shoplift, now that they have electronic scanners by every door, is to actually buy something and hope that they chalk it up to a scanner mistake when you walk out. For my real purchase, I’ll choose something cheap.
           
“A toothbrush,” I murmur to myself, making sure I pretend to read the labels and compare brands before I pull it off the shelf. The real purchase has to take just as much time as the theft, otherwise it attracts suspicion.
           
The first time I stole something, I was clumsy. It was for a dare. I still remember the looks on my then-friends’ faces as I shoved a chocolate bar into my pocket and ran for the exit. Adam, my then-boyfriend, had his lip between his teeth, like he couldn’t decide if he should say something, but in the end, it was Dad who came to get me. I still remember the look on his face when he walked in through the doors: disappointed, but calm. No B.S., but kind.
           
I don’t get caught anymore.

Olivia Smit loves baking, visiting small towns, and writing stories that face hard truth with hope and encouragement. Her first novel, “Seeing Voices,” releases with WhiteFire Publishing on April 15. Olivia will graduate from Western with an Honours Specialization in Creative Writing, English Language, and Literature.