We’ve all done it. At least once I want to believe. If I convince myself that we are all guilty, then I am not alone in my crime. A crime no one ever mentioned. A crime no one knew about, except me. Me and my piano teacher. She and I both knew that at the ripe age of eight years I had become a thief.

You will not find my name under "forgiveness" in God’s Big Book, because I never asked for it. Simply put, I was left alone to fester in my own guilt.

It all started with Mrs. Ledbetter’s metronome, a no. 2 pencil tapping out a cranky rhythm against the left top edge of her practice piano. That metronome, and the circle. The Circle of Fifths–the circle that became my pathway to some level of forgiveness.

At school, I was allowed to cut in front of the lunch line on Wednesdays. This did not bode well with the older kids, letting a third-grader up-stage them.

"Teacher’s Pet."

"Miss Priss."

"What the hell do you think you’re doin’?"

I ignored them, silently standing my ground, because if I didn’t, I would be late. If I was late, Mrs. Ledbetter’s metronome was louder and crankier than ever. If Mrs. Ledbetter’s metronome was really cranky, my mom received a phone call during her afternoon break at the Wrangler Jeans factory. This was a scene I tried to avoid.

"Piano lessons?" The cook asked before sliding my Wednesday plate across the stainless steel counter. Meatloaf, creamed-corn, green beans, a biscuit, and cherry Jello stared back at me. Each portion was segregated from the others by the hard ridges of the green plastic plate.

On Wednesdays, I sat alone in complete belief that my friends had forgotten me. I shoveled the meatloaf into my mouth, drank chocolate milk as fast as I could, and then raced across the vacant playground to begin the two-block walk to Mrs. Ledbetter’s house. She was the only piano teacher in the entire county, so I should have considered myself privileged. I was lucky, my mother constantly reminded me. Other children spent their after-school time taking lessons. My after-school time was spent riding the bus. Twenty miles, one way. Einstein was right. Education does not take place in the classroom.

Straight up noon, I stood in front of Mrs. Ledbetter’s aluminum door. My fingers caressed the wings of the metal bird that decorated the portal into her home. I gently knocked to signal that I had arrived, then timidly entered the dim hall just as her heavy heels hit the hard-wood floor of the music studio.

"Rachel," she pronounced.

"Mrs. Ledbetter," I replied, with meatloaf heavy in my stomach.

"Sit."

I sat.

"Closer."

I scrunched forward on the bench, scooting the cushion along with me.

"Back straight."

I stiffened.

She placed a piece of paper overtop my books. A large circle sat on the page in front of me.

"The Circle of Fifths," she replied. "The first key is C. You already know this scale."

So, I played — all white keys. Fluidly, without errors. Then, I played the scale of G, and moved right along to the key of D. At the slightest improvisation, or error as she liked to call it, she lowered her withery hands, and let them hover just above mine, directing me and guiding me around and around and around the Circle of 5ths.

All the while, her pencil rapped against the edge of the piano, a few feet to the left of my head. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three…….round and round we went exploring the Circle of Fifths, riding an endless carousel where she held me captive, poised, and suspended in time as my thirty minute lunch break slid away into oblivion.

In all honesty? I became a thief because the Ledbetter’s house was so irresistible, so manicured, so white. Comparatively speaking, their house was a mansion. As all dreamers would do, I pretended that Mrs. Ledbetter’s house was mine.

At least once during each piano lesson, I faked going to the bathroom. Mrs. Ledbetter never called my bluff. It seemed as if she enjoyed these breaks in our lessons, giving her time to waddle into the kitchen for a toothpick. Once there, she would lean against the gold Formica counter, heckle Mr. Ledbetter into doing the dishes, and pick her teeth.

During this reprieve, I quietly explored the house, venturing into rooms that were no where near the bathroom. "Stay on the runners," were her only words. She vowed to keep my dirty feet off her immaculate, white carpet. As soon as my saddle oxfords crossed the threshold into the dining room, the hard clogging immediately dissolved into a soothing, rhythmic brishk, brishk, brishk. These hard, plastic runners were strung across the dining, the living room and the recital parlor leaving an image of giant silk threads woven together like a spider’s delicate web. They were magical, transformative, plastic runners that made me feel as if I could walk on water, as if I were skating on ice across a snowy landscape, a landscape of perfection and prosperity.

Now, I know that they simply established my boundaries.

I was fascinated with Mr. Ledbetter, his grass-stained overalls and dirty face. When I arrived at noon, his rusty hedge clippers were always leaning against the back door. I couldn’t help but wonder how this sweaty, wrinkled man lived in such a white house. Did he actually ever sit on the white sofas? Or, was he like me, forever destined to follow the pathway of plastic runners, and never allowed to detour onto the supple carpet, the carpet that invited me to lie down and rub it with my cheek? Which is exactly where I found myself that fateful day when Mrs. Ledbetter said, "Rachel, honey. Do you mind using the upstairs bathroom, this one down here is not flushing properly."

I wasted no time in the dining room, no games of "Mirror, Mirror," no dawdling at the edge of the parlor gawking at the recital piano. I scurried along, beating Mrs. Ledbetter to the kitchen, where I found Mr. Ledbetter drinking tea straight from the pitcher. He raised his eyebrows above the amber glass and winked at me.

I winked back, then floated up the plastic coated steps on my way to the second floor of Mrs. Ledbetter’s house, a place I had never seen. At the top of the stairs, I was startled to see my furtive eyes and tangled black hair reflected in a gilded mirror. The girl looking back at me was not beautiful.

I turned away.

Behind me lurked the Circle of Fifths. In front of me lay undiscovered territory--two bedrooms, a bath, and the most luminous shaft of light I had ever seen. First, I peeked inside the bathroom—toilet, bathtub, vanity and sink. All white, of course. No surprises. Then, I turned my attention to the bedroom on the south side of the house, completely unaware that the foreboding plastic runner had ceased to exist at the top of the stairs. My feet silently padded against the pale carpet, sinking deeply into the white pile, a springboard that launched my curiosity to a height that I could not control.

She sat looking straight at me, alone on a petite marble table, surrounded by flimsy white curtains and filtered sunlight. The southern most window was propped open a few inches allowing a gentle breeze to float in and drape the fabric into a cascade of frothy waves that danced and flirted with the most beautiful doll I had ever seen.

"Oh my," I sighed, reaching out to touch the champagne silk dress and brown velvet cape that sprawled out around her.

I slid my fingers underneath the eyelet slip and let my hands grasp her waist, right above the point where her legs hinged and the elastic of her pantaloons separated her cold porcelain torso from the rest of her body.

"What’s your name?" I whispered.

Her painted face seemed to move with mine, following me as I swiveled her around to view her body from every angle. She was so delicate, so old. The doll’s heavy, fragile weight fit perfectly into my sweaty palms.

How long did I stand there? Time simply disappeared. All I felt was the spongy carpet, the luscious silk dress and the chilly smoothness of porcelain. All I saw were her sagacious eyes luring me, promising me that she could be mine.

"Ra-chel!" Mrs. Ledbetter screeched and clapped from the kitchen.

"Coming!" I yelled back.

I heard my teacher’s feet scuff against the hard plastic runner of the first tread.

As I twisted the doll in my hands I noticed that her head seemed to wobble just a bit. I fumbled with her for less than a second, but that was enough time to alter my life. My fingernail snagged the eyelet pantaloons and she fell. Gravity stole her away from me.

I lurched forward trying to save her from shattering against the edge of the table, but I was only eight and she was at least fifty — too many years between us. Gasping for her life, I thrashed and screamed as her alabaster head bounced off the marble tabletop. Then, together, we fell to the floor. My left cheek burned against the white carpet.

"Rachel? You alright?" Mrs. Ledbetter asked from somewhere outside the room.

I never answered her.

The doll’s imminent death announced my trespasses. All I could see were several shards of the doll’s face, and Mrs. Ledbetter’s black leather pumps standing guard in the background.

It was Mr. Ledbetter who seemed to share my pain. As I retreated across the yard and into the alley, he stopped me.

"Rachel?" his tender voice called from the shadows.

"Yes, sir?"

"You alright?"

"Yes, sir," I sniffled.

He opened the screen door to his workshop and stepped out into the sunlight — a kind, old man wearing overalls, a fishing hat, and stooped shoulders. "You sure?"

"No, sir," I heard myself say as I followed him into the dark room where he worked on his lawn mower. Grease soothed the hard lines of the tool shed and made the pungent room shiny and warm. My scuffed oxfords held me steady on the plastic green doormat that read "Welcome."

His aged hands squeezed mine. Compared to Mrs. Ledbetter’s withered claws, his hands were supple and soothing.

My bottom lip throbbed.

"…..maybe I can glue her head back together."

My eyes widened with tears.

At that moment sunlight poured through a round window at the back of the shed and I saw Mr. Ledbetter’s life illuminated before me. Encircled in bright light and laid out neatly on his workbench were his hedge trimmers, gloves, matches, a wet cigar and a small bottle of whiskey.

"Don’t tell the teacher," he grinned, following my eyes.

I could not speak.

On the sluggish walk down the alley, I realized that I forgotten my piano books, that they remained hidden behind Mrs. Ledbetter’s Circle of Fifths. For a moment, I froze knowing that I would be returning next Wednesday, and every other Wednesday after that.

As high giggles from the playground lured me back to school, I began to run headlong into the cool fall breeze. My victory was tainted. I reached into the pocket of my sweater and grasped a triangular piece of porcelain. By itself, it was worthless. One sliver of the China doll’s delicate head lay tightly wrapped in knotted wool between my fingers.