Photographs

Part I

     The last period bell rings, and my two best friends, Kelly and Leslie and I run to our lockers.
     "Want to come over today?" Leslie asks Kelly and me.
     "Sure," Kelly says, putting her books into her locker.
     "I can't," I say, also unloading my books from my bag. "I'm going to the pet shop with Camila today."
     "Well, then, what about tomorrow?"
      "Can't. Tomorrow's her birthday."
       "What about Wednesday?"
     "Nope. I want to get frozen yogurt with her."
     "Then on Thursday do you want to come to the park with me?"
     "If I can bring Camila."  Leslie looks at me, her hands on her hips. "I love your little sister, but do you have to do everything with her?"
     "No," I say, closing my locker. "But I want to."
     Leslie and Kelly close their lockers and sling their bags over their shoulders. "So, see you tomorrow then," Leslie says, and they walk down the hall, out of the school building.
     I put my book bag on both my shoulders and walk over to room 601, Camila's third grade class. I wait outside the room until the rest of the third grade class leaves and open the door to see if Camila is there.
     If my sister was a normal third grader, I could just look through the window to see if she was there, sitting in the classroom, waiting for me. But, unlike the other third graders, Camila is five, and not eight and nine, so she doesn't really reach the part of the door where the window is, even when she's standing up.
     "Camila," I call, not seeing her in the room. "Camila, are you there?"
     "Here I am!" she cries, standing up, her short brown hair pulled into a ponytail, her glasses askew on her face.
     "Where were you?" I ask, bending down to my little sister.
     "Reading on the rug." Camila is incredibly smart. None of us really know why, so we just call her special.
     "Ready to go?" I ask her, walking out the classroom door.
     "Yes!" she cries, runs to catch up to me, and slips her hand through mine. Together we walk through the empty hallway, Camila's Hello Kitty sandals making a pat, pat, pat noise against the tiled floor. Soon we reach the double doors and I push them open, leading Camila out into the New York City sidewalk. We walk to the corner, and as we wait for the light, Camila asks me where we are going.
     "You don't know?" I ask her. "I thought you said you were ready to go."
     "I was," she says, and we start to walk as the light turns green. "You don't have to know where we're going on order to be ready." (See? I told you she was incredibly smart for a five year old!!)
     "I guess you're right. But do you still want to know where we're going?" She nods and I cry out, "The pet shop!!"
     "For my birthday?" she asks hopefully, beaming up at me.
     "Yep! But we're just looking at the pets today. You'll get him tomorrow," I say, looking up at a crossing light and taking out my instant camera. Before the light turns green, I snap a picture of it with my camera and wait as the photograph makes it's way out of my camera. I then shove it in my pocket and we keep on walking for two more blocks until we get in front of the door of the pet shop.
     We walk in and see our parents there, looking at the dogs.
     "There you are!" my mom cries, hugging us.
     "You guys are late," my dad says, ruffling my hair.
     I shrug. "We walk slow." I turn to my mom.
     "Oh, Mom, I need more film." I take out the photo of the crossing light I just took and wiggle it under her nose. "Last piece of film." Photography is my favorite hobby in the entire world. I got my first instant camera when I was seven, and I have an entire shoebox filled with photographs of Camila and me.
     "What about the pack in your bag?" Mom asks me, and I rummage through my bag, looking for my Fujifilm camera film pack.
"Aha. Never mind," I say, taking the old, empty cartridge of film out of my camera and putting the new one in.
I walk over to Camila and put my hands on her shoulders. "Do you see anything you like?"
She nods eagerly and points to a little puppy, with a coat of white fur that looks like one big giant-
"Cottonball," Camila says. "If we get it, can we name it Cottonball?"
"Sure," I say. "It's your birthday present, after all."
The soon-to-be Cottonball runs and jumps around behind a little Plexiglas window. I leave Camila looking at her birthday present and walk past my parents, who are looking at bowls and beds and blankets and chew toys for the dog, and up to the cashier.
"Can I help you?" asks a teen-aged blonde girl. She peers over her iPhone, looking at my empty hands. "It doesn't seem like you're buying anything."
"Well, that's because I'm not. I need help with something."
"With what?"
"I want to pet one of the dogs behind the window. Is that possible?"
She studies my face for a minute, which confuses me, because I'm pretty sure the answer isn't written on my face. She then gets up, grabs a keychain from behind the cashier and walks over to the window, where Camila still is, looking at the future Cottonball.
"The cotton ball one," I say, pointing at the soon-to-be-Cottonball.
"You mean the white Pomeranian puppy?" the now seemingly snobby girl asks, as if it's obvious that the cotton-ball-looking-thing is a white Pomeranian puppy.
"Is the one I'm pointing directly at a white Pomeranian puppy? Because if so, then yeah, that's the one."
She glares at me, unlocks the lock that locks the door, and takes out the white Pomeranian puppy, thrusting in my hands. The dog makes sad, high-pitched urrrr, urrrrrr, noises, and I stroke the thing's head, my eyes slits, glaring at the girl. I hand the puppy to Camila and she squeals as Cottonball licks her face, squirming and wriggling in her arms.
"So that's the one?" my dad asks, walking over.
"I think so," I say, looking at Camila, who is still preoccupied with the dog.
"Is it a boy or a girl?" Mom asks the blonde girl.
"You can ask the vet that," the blonde girl answers.
"Well, we'll be picking this one up at around noon tomorrow," my dad tells the girl, looking annoyed.
"Great. See you tomorrow then," she says, picking the puppy back out of Camila's arms. It squirms in her hands, making the high-pitched urrrr, urrrrr noises again. She drops it back behind the glass and locking the door. "Bye!"
Mom, Dad, Camila and me walk to the door and leave the pet shop, very uncertain.
"Did she just kick us out?"