“Like me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know her?”
“No.”
The girl looked confused.
The Cashier smiled.
“Long story.”
The twelve-year-old stared at the doll.
Then asked:
“What can I pick?”
The Cashier did not celebrate.
Did not smile too widely.
“Anything within the budget.”
“How much?”
She told her.
The girl thought.
Then whispered:
“I want a camera.”
The Cashier nodded.
“Okay.”
“A real one.”
“Let’s see what fits.”
They shopped online.
The girl chose a small beginner camera.
Black.
Not pink.
No princesses.
It arrived three days later.
The girl opened the package in the office.
She held the camera carefully.
Then looked at the Cashier.
“I have to give it back if I move?”
“No.”
“If I break it?”
“Then you’ll own a broken camera.”
The girl almost smiled.
“What if foster parents say it stays?”
“They can’t.”
“It’s yours.”
The girl looked down.
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
The Cashier heard a deep rough voice in memory.
For a girl who deserves something brand-new and only hers.
The girl lifted the camera.
Pointed it toward the Cashier.
“Can I?”
The Cashier laughed.
“I hate pictures.”
“Please.”
“Fine.”
The girl took the photograph.
Click.
Then looked at the screen.
“You look like you’re gonna cry.”
The Cashier wiped beneath one eye.
“Allergies.”
“It’s December.”
“Winter allergies.”
The girl did not believe her.
Good.
Years later, that girl became a photographer.
One of her first gallery exhibits focused on objects foster youth carried between homes.
Duffel bags.
Stuffed animals.
Shoes.
Letters.
Journals.
One image showed the blue-dress princess doll.
The Cashier had finally allowed it.
The title beneath the photograph read:
FIRST.
No further explanation.
At the exhibit opening, the Cashier stood beside the photographer.
A visitor asked:
“Why is the doll important?”
The Photographer looked toward the Cashier.
Then answered:
“Because sometimes a child needs proof that something was chosen for them before they can believe a future can be.”
The Cashier stared.
“That’s better than my explanation.”
The Photographer smiled.
“I’m an artist.”
“Annoying.”
“Also true.”
On the eighteenth anniversary of the Biker’s death, the Cashier visited the cemetery.
She brought no princess doll.
He would have hated that.
She brought a toy-store receipt.
Why?