In the Basket

In my twenty-one years of life, never have I taken anything that did not belong to me- not until today. 

Perhaps my uncanny aversion to stealing came about by means of my mother. When I and my two sisters were young, any arguments over who stole whose hairbrush or Polly Pocket was quickly put to an end by my mother’s methods of property management- namely, everything in the house was labeled. Far from being merely a prevention of playroom squabbles, labeling became a lifestyle that encompassed everything from forks and tupperware to Wii remotes and bottles of shampoo. Of course there were times when one of us would be caught illicitly using another’s lotion or such, but the crimes were quelled nearly immediately, considering the offender could not but plead guilty. 

All that to say, early on I developed a penchant for minding my own possessions and keeping my hands off everyone else’s. 

I clearly recall the first instance in which I actually went so far as to borrow something. It was in the fourth grade- no, I suppose it would have been fifth grade- when I discovered I had forgotten my pencil at my locker. If it hadn’t been Ms. Mitchell’s class, this would have hardly been a problem, but Ms. Mitchell was the strictest teacher in the entire school and I was delicately balancing a good rapport with her which just might have fallen and shattered if I had gone back for my pencil. So I asked Natalie Ryan if I could borrow one. 

Maybe it’s Natalie’s fault that I stole today. If it hadn’t been for her, that stuffed fox would still be in his little basket in the reading room at the college library. 

The pencil passed from Natalie to me like a secret pact, and from that day on we were best friends- at least, until our friendship was cut despairingly short in the seventh grade when her father got a job in Indiana and she was forced to move halfway across the country. The day before she left, we went to the park and frolicked as though life should continue that way forever, neither of us acknowledging the forthcoming chasm. At the time it seemed we did not need to acknowledge it- we would carry on as we had for three years, our friendship strong enough to withstand a drive and a time change. 

But summer came and went, and our texts and calls grew infrequent. Indiana began to seem farther and farther away, and by the time eighth grade caught up to us, Natalie and I hardly talked at all. It was simply too difficult to maintain that kind of friendship over so great a distance.

I found consolation in a classmate of mine, a quiet boy named Greysen Lark who sat next to me in social studies. I asked him if I could borrow his eraser, and he asked me to the school dance. I was certain I had found my destiny in him. Greysen and I would go through high school together, maybe go to the same college, and eventually get married. 

Then Greysen broke the news he was going to trade school on the outskirts of town for his secondary education. 

I knew the decision was not necessarily of his own volition- his mother made many decisions on his behalf, and he supported whatever she did even if it was not his own desire. This made trying to talk him out of it nothing short of frustrating. I could see in his eyes he didn’t want to go to trade school- at least, I thought I could. But maybe I was only seeing my own reflection. 

Greysen and I kept in touch for almost an entire year after we entered high school. We called for hours at a time and texted in between. But when homecoming rolled around, he failed to ask me. (Not that I probably would have enjoyed his school’s homecoming- I wasn’t a party girl.) After that, I scarcely heard from him again.

By my sophomore year, I was acquaintance to all and friend to none, pleasantly regarded but rarely actually seen. Then something happened that changed my life- I started dating the student body president. I asked to borrow his charger, and he asked me out for coffee. 

How I was adored! Suddenly surrounded by new boyfriend's entire posse of familiars, I believed myself to be thriving. I went to parties, spent my Saturday nights at backyard bonfires, and even hid away all the labeled cups and plates to have everyone over to my house one night. My phone nearly overloaded from all the group chat messages, and I was never wanting for laughter. Everything was wonderful- except for the relationship itself. After nine months of happiness and six more of vexation, I dumped him. 

And then all his friends dumped me.

I became a ghost, floating through the school hallways, looking into people’s averted eyes, wondering if I was even visible. To be frank, I gave up. 

I entered college as a commuter- no roommate, no hall, no clubs, no friends. I resorted to writing as my only comfort because it was the one way I could talk when I had no one to listen. My English major was an obvious choice, and I found the campus library to be as good as a second home- everything was labeled with details of exactly where it needed to be, and everything had to be returned to its owner. 

The library contains four themed reading rooms with cheerily painted walls and plump oversized beanbags. Most of the time I inhabit a wooden study cubicle, but today I had the misfortune of happening upon the forest-themed reading room. It was vacant (a rare occurrence) and the fat gray LoveSac waited expectantly for a patron. I had a reading assignment for a literature class, so I stepped inside, slung my bookbag to the ground, and shed my peacoat and boots, which were dotted with rain. 

Then I saw that next to the beanbag was a basket, and in that basket was a little stuffed fox. 

He wasn’t in terrible condition, but the roughness of his faded orange fur suggested he had visited the inside of a washing machine more than once. He was neither pristine nor sterile, contrary to what I’d expected from a college library stuffed animal. I liked him very much, with his skinny dangling legs and embroidered black smile. Next to him, a sign read, Please return stuffed animals to basket.

Climbing onto the beanbag, I laid my coat over my legs like a blanket, took the fox from the basket, and snuggled him close as I began to read. The words started to blur before my eyes, and a feeling which I had not yet the words to describe bid me to weep. I found myself shedding silent tears as I clutched the fox. My eyes wandered to his empty basket.

Please return stuffed animals to basket.

I stroked the laundry-dulled fur and watched a teardrop sink into the fox’s head. 

My mind caught up to my emotions and invited me to describe in words the horrible sensation- the fox was me, loved and played with by many over time, yet not belonging to anyone. For now he was my friend, but within the hour he would return to his sad little basket and wait there with his sad little smile for the next lonely student to come along, snuggle with him, and then forget about him, leaving him in the basket once more.

What vanity, to look upon an inanimate object and see one's own heart reflected.

If only someone would do to me as I did to that fox. I long for someone to remove me from my lonely basket, take me along with them, label me as their own, and grant me belonging. But alas, I am but a ghost, forgotten by all but myself. Even now, as I ponder my own reflection, all I can see is a fox.