So, one Monday night, at ten o'clock, I secretly cross a corridor without windows in complete darkness, my fingers passing over the handle of each door as I go. Although it is almost impossible to find my way without bumping into something, the lack of light works in my favor. I have already disconnected the only ancient security camera – the only technological device allowed in the sacred halls of Saint Edith – but there is always the chance that a guard is lurking, and then even the most careful plan in the world would achieve nothing against someone else's outrageous luck.

I stop in front of the fifth door on the right and search my pocket. The lock-picking tools were last year's Christmas gift to myself, and although I have practiced on my dorm room door, until now I had not had the chance to apply them in the real world. A thrill of excitement runs through me as I hold the lock tight with the tension wrench, while pushing each tiny pin with the pick in my other hand. Director Thompson would spontaneously combust if she knew what I have taught myself while everyone else struggled to get accepted into Harvard and Yale, but this quickly becomes the most useful thing I have learned since I arrived at Saint Edith in January.

The lock gives way more easily than I expected, and I almost drop the tools in surprise. I did it! I picked a lock! This, of course, is not going to earn me any awards, but I feel adrenaline flooding through me as I push the door open.