There is a fifty percent chance I will go to jail because of this.

Is this a good idea? No it's not; it's a stupid idea. 

Am I aware it's a stupid idea? Why yes I am. This just shows what a big idiot I am, but don't blame me, blame the also stupid system of societies and their inaugurations -- at least the one in Westray's Community College where you don't need sororities or fraternities to initiate the idiotic behaviors amongst their students.

The door handle clicks and lets me turn it, telling me that the key they gave me was, in fact, the key for the house. This raises two slightly worrisome questions: Why does Anna have a key to a random neighborhood house? And the most important one: Why do the people at the History Club want a fucking fork?

Granted, they might want an old fork, and, I mean, you'd expect an old house to have old, valuable forks, but they weren't that specific. They just told me to get a fork from their kitchen, take a selfie while I was getting it, and then get out of the house — with the fork, of course. All of that to get into the club. It's not even a nationally recognized club, but if it fills space in my resume I'm willing to take the chance.

The Winston's house is not the fanciest, just the oldest, in our town. It's a two-story house, made out of sturdy wood and with a sloped roof, reminiscent of early twentieth-century architecture. Mrs. Winston has a pretty big garden planted in front of her house, although I was not aware that it extended to the back of it as well. She's well into her eighties, so her energy and vitality for gardening always surprised me. I don't know much about them aside from their love for plants and outdoor decoration, my father and I lived in their neighborhood for a while — that was before dad and I had to move from a house to one of the few apartment neighborhoods from the town.

I shake my head, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. If I wasn't being lied to by Anna, the club president, the Winstons go to sleep pretty early, and if the pitch darkness of their corridor does not mean they are asleep, I hope it also doesn't mean they're lying dead somewhere on the floor.

My phone buzzes inside my jeans and I nearly screech in the darkness.

Anna: You've been standing on the same spot for like an hour. Are you doing this or not?

Well, fuck man, do you want to share half of the time that I get in county jail if I get caught? I think, glaring at my phone and simply turning it off. She can think whatever she wants, I'm taking my sweet time doing this if it means I won't leave the property handcuffed. 

I mean, college kids always do stupid stuff like this, right? Besides, white guys always get away with much worse stuff anyways, I should be okay. Forget the fact that I'm not even a white guy — or white for that matter.

I'm so fucked, so terribly fucked.

Straightening up, I hold up the small flashlight I brought with me, the hallway coming to life with portraits of people I don't know. The narrow hall leads to a small living room where more pictures and a couple of plants adorn nearly every surface possible. A fat cat is sleeping on one of the couches, and it actually perks up when I slowly step around the sofas, though it simply goes back to sleep like nothing happened.

The house itself simply smells like old people. I can't describe that perfectly, go visit your grandparents or (in case they're no longer with you) a local retirement home, and you'll understand. They'll appreciate the company, too.

The living room is connected to a dining room via a small foyer that also faces the stairs, which composed the side of the hallway I just walked through. The dining room consists of a table with six chairs and a small fruit bowl with fake fruit in the middle of it. An archway leads to the kitchen, where yellow predominates as a color, a vase of what appears recently cut sunflowers rest on the smaller table, and the counters are all pristinely cleaned. Not even when Dad and I both clean the house at the same time does it end as clean as this place.

Hovering precariously above the refrigerator is a small painting of a town, probably in Europe — because let's face it, American cities never look as picturesque as Italian or Swiss ones in post-impressionistic style. Next to it, and right beside a door (possibly leading to the garage), is a set of a decorative spoon and a fork that are large and sturdy enough to knock out a man. Though, while it would make a nice gag to simply take a picture with those and skedaddle the fuck out of here, I'm pretty sure the people at the club will bitch at me for it.

I toe my way to the drawers and open the closest one to me slowly, but there are only big spoons for soup and other stuff, not what I'm looking for. Closing this one as silently as possible I move for the next one, closer to the sink, and open it. Forks. Not only that but spoons and butter knives are also stashed inside the small drawer,  making me feel like I'm in an Indiana Jones movie and I've just uncovered a treasure chest (minus the fake glimmering light that lights up his face).

I grab one of the bottom forks, those that don't have a specific design and that your aunt Lucinda might give your mom for mother's day — and that your mom sees as a jab, because she is kind of telling her she doesn't cook often, so she gives your aunt a fake smile and either re-gifts the box of cutlery or just doesn't use it as much. Why am I so specific? Because my mom used to do that.

Taking out my phone (and turning it back on), I open up Snapchat and quickly take a selfie with the "flash" on before slipping both, my phone and the fork, in the back pocket of my jeans. Then, thinking about it, I take out the fork and hold it in my hand. Knowing the people I hang out with, they won't believe that I didn't just take a fork from my house and use it to take the selfie.

I know what you're thinking: Why didn't you do that?

Because think about it: I still have to break into a domicile and risk getting caught, or worse, shot at, so what's the point of making it less illegal?

I waiver for a second while I look at the open drawer in front of me. There are at least twenty forks in there. Looking over my shoulder and ensuring there isn't a startled eighty year old ready with a pickaxe, I reach down into my boots and extract a fork from it, one I bought at the dollar store earlier. It does not feel or weigh the exact same as the fork I'm stealing, in fact, the one I got is more decorated, but I will feel like an impostor if I take a fork actually from the house and don't replace it.

Who do you guys take me as? I think, placing the dollar store fork inside the drawer, I won't steal from the elderly — not outright. I ain't going to hell for that.

Closing the drawer, I begin walking back the way I came from.

As I'm exiting the kitchen, though, something happens.

Someone turns on the light in the dining room.

I freeze fork still in hand, staring at the guy standing under the arch between the foyer and the dining room, one of his hands still partially removing the coat he was wearing, the other resting over the light switch.

Then, as if we haven't been looking at each other for five full seconds, he screams.

This, of course, scares the fuck out of me, and I shriek back.

I duck just in time to avoid whatever he chucks at me (though I'm pretty sure that was his phone) and push a chair his way as he rushes forward. I begin running the same instant the guy falls down with the chair, rounding the table and turning sharply to the left.

My breath rushes out of my body when my stomach slams against the railing of the staircase.

I forgot that was there.

"Hey!" The guy shouts, followed by some scrambling too close to be safe, so instead of trying to run on the first floor and find the door where I came in through, like any sane person with common sense would, I begin climbing up the stairs two or three steps at a time.

I glance over my shoulder once I'm at the top and see him beginning to climb the first few steps.

My father will host a funeral tomorrow.

Sprinting to the first door on the hall, I cross myself — praying there's no eighty-year-olds sleeping inside, and enter, quickly closing the door behind me and bolting it locked.

Turning on my flashlight, I sigh out of relief.

It's a guest room...or at least an empty room. There is a messy bed in the middle of the room, with a duffle bag close to it, but other than that the room looks safe.

And there is a window.

A strong force nearly makes me jump out of my skin, and it takes me a second to realize the guy has reached the top of the stairs.

"Hey, open the door!"

He's angry, he's angry. I think with a fake Crocodile Hunter accent.

"Look I'm not here to steal anything!" A lie, but not quite. Slowly, I back away from the door, getting closer to the window.

"Like hell you're not!" He yells.

"I swear, I just needed a fork." I move to open the tight latch of the window, my fingers protesting in pain as I do so.

There is a pause of the loud slamming on the other side of the door. Seriously, why aren't the Winstons awake already?

"What?" the guy sounds winded.

With a grunt, I push open the window, there is a tree nearby, not entirely next to the window, but I can survive a jump to one of the branches I think. "What what?"

"What did you just say?"

To be honest I kind of forgot about it because I'm playing the Mission Impossible song in my head.

"I just came for a fork," I blurt out when he hits the door again, the frame rattling, "like, literally that's it. I even replaced it with one of my own. It's decorate—"

"A fork?"

"Yeah that thing you use to eat with, pointy and —"

"I know what a fork looks like!"

"Then why the hell do you ask?" There is a small potted plant just out of the window and then the slanted roof follows, aside from jumping to the tree I could slide down, but that will more likely end with me getting a leg in a cast.

Come on Sol, your mother didn't use to call you a spider monkey for nothing.

There is a sudden click, and I turn around to see the guy standing by the door, a screwdriver in hand, the doorknob on the floor.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck. I look down at the fork I set down on the ledge when I opened up the window and hold it out for the guy to see.

"Look, I'm just taking the fork, I swear." Reaching to the window I put a foot over the ledge and climb up.

"Woah, woah, woah, what are you doing?" He begins to come closer and I freak out, taking  a step back and nearly falling out, if it wasn't for the fact that I managed to grab the inside of the window.

"Stay back!" I swing the fork around like a weapon. "I am going to fall and die, and it'll be your fault."

"You broke into my grandparents' house!"

"For a fork!"

"What do you want it for?" It's not until now that it seems like he is starting to believe I'm not lying.

"I'm — that's none of your business," I say.

"You broke into private property, are you aware of that? Is this some stupid high school prank?"

I gasp, nearly losing my grip on the window frame.

"High school? Do I look like a high schooler?"

"You sure act like one."

"You little—" I look at the tree once more, the jump isn't too far away from me, "this conversation is over."

Shoving the fork into my back pocket, I take in a deep breath and move out of the window, taking advantage of the momentum and using it to partially slide down the roof. When I get close enough to the edge, I push off the roof and jump, using the drainpipe as a step.

This, of course, sounds fancier than what I actually did, which was screaming the whole way until I jumped and body-slammed one of the branches of the tree, finding footing between a split in the branches.

I'm not even sure whether oaks are safe enough to be planted so close to houses, considering how big they grow, but taking in mind Groot just saved my ass, I'm not complaining.

Ignoring the shouting from the window, I take the largest branches of the tree and look down to check how far I am from the ground. There is a part where a branch was pruned that I can put my foot on while holding the branch above it as leverage.

"Oh good, you're not dead." Looking up, I finally see the guy is looking out of the window, his curly hair moving slightly with the breezy night. "I thought I'd have to wake up my grandparents to tell them there was a corpse in the garden — now I'll just have to tell them their house was broken into."

"Here's the deal," I say, feeling my arms are about to give out, the bark biting into my skin, "you never saw me and this didn't happen."

His eyebrows dip in together, still confused. "Are you taking the fork?"

"Yeah," my voice is filled with surety, "I'm taking the fork."

And then my foot slips away from the step I was resting my weight on, a scream ripping out of my throat as my hands fail to keep me up and going down some good seven feet or so. All I can remember as my body hits the ground is rolling to even out the impact, though this doesn't stop the pain in my side once I stop rolling.

"Oh shit...are you alive?" the guy asks.

Carefully, I flex my fingers, assuring myself that nothing's broken and then get up. My left leg mildly protests when I move it, but it's not a searing pain. Patting my butt, I can still feel the fork and my phone are in place. I just hope my screen didn't crack because I can't afford a new phone.

"Yeah," I'm not too sure why I answer him.

"Serves you right."

"Being alive?"

"Nah, falling down."

Scoffing, I lift up my hand, showing him my middle finger. The guy raises both of his hands, flipping me off, too.

"This never happened," I look behind me, there is the gate I used to enter the garden, leading to the gravel alleyway behind the house.

"You already said that," he leans against the window ledge, looking thoroughly entertained.

"I mean it this time."

"I'm going to call the cops."

I begin to limp my way to the gate, trying to ignore the laugh coming from the second floor when I remember something. Halting halfway through my journey, I look up. The guy is still watching me from up there.

"Can you close the backdoor, by the way, I think I left it unlocked."

"Wait, you have a key to the house?" Turning away, I begin running, ignoring the pain ebbing off my leg. "Hey!"

"This never happened!" I think he's shouting something after me, but I don't pay attention and instead push the gate and step into the alleyway.

As soon as I do so, though, someone grabs my arm and yanks me away from the fence. I would scream if it wasn't for the fact that I catch sight of the handler's blue hair as we run down the alleyway, steps quickly filling the sides of the street as more people join our small entourage.

We turn sharply to the left, sprinting on the sidewalk until I see the black soccer-mom van that got us on this side of the city a mere half an hour ago.

Anna pushes me inside the back of the van, while the other members of the club climb in on different spots. The driver is a guy named Scott, who works at Pizza Hut — which explains the faint scent of marinara and mozzarella cheese.

"Why were you screaming?" Anna asks as soon as Scott gets the van going, More than a Woman by the Bee Gees coming back to life on the radio.

"Why was I screaming? You sent me on a suicide mission for this!" I take out the fork from my back pocket, shoving it into her hands. "And didn't tell me the Winstons had a grandchild. Why do you even want a fork? This doesn't even look like a hazing."

"Do you want to be hazed?" Carlos asks from the seat behind us.

"Callate, Carlos," I hiss at him. He's in my history class; he's technically the reason why I'm here, to begin with.

"I'm just saying, at least you didn't have to take a picture on top of the city founder's shoulders," he shrugs.

"You didn't have to break into a house."

"Did he call the cops?" Anna brings my attention back to the matter at hand, and I turn to her just as she's putting the fork inside her bag. She has a dark orange jacket on that she really should not have worn if she was planning on breaking the law.

"No...at least I don't think so." It was obvious he was letting me get away once I fell from the tree.

"Then you should be fine — how old did he look?"

"I don't know, between seventeen and twenty-two, I guess?" I hadn't had much time to chat him up, I thought I'd be stabbed to death with a screwdriver.

"Oh," she raises her eyebrows, "when you said grandchild I thought of, like, a six-year-old or something."

"Dude, why would I be screaming for my life? If it had been a six-year-old I could have lied and told him I was the tooth fairy and that I was there because his grandpa lost his tooth or something." There is a unanimous 'ahh' among the passengers in the van as I sit back against my seat and reach for the seat belt.

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore, just send me the picture and you should be all set," Anna pats my shoulder, though I can't help but still feel irritated.

"Why do you guys even do this?" It feels a bit stupid, to ask this after all I did, but this night has been nothing else but stupid so far.

"It's fun," Scott calls from the front.

"And, it's been done since the club started," Anna hits my leg with hers, "you'll be fine."

As long as the guy doesn't sue me. I think, biting the edge of my thumb's nail, anxiety pooling in the pit of my stomach.

"By the way," Anna adds, "remember next Saturday we have our welcome party at the club room, dress up as your favorite historical character."

This doesn't even feel like a college organization.

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