Camera With Defective Lenses

   The elder couple up ahead was perfect for my collection. I could just see it now Harper Cayenne Van Der Beek Collection. It would include a bunch of candid shots, full of happy or sad memories provoked by them, but also of posed pictures. I told my friends to act natural, but that's not really the same as getting them when they're not prepared. The couple was loosely holding hands, the woman pointing at all the vintage clothes she liked on the street display. They walked up to one of the booths and let the fabrics run through their wrinkly fingers. I heard them laugh from where I was standing. My God, they were so in love.

   I grabbed at my camera which was now swinging from my neck. My camera was my love, my baby, my everything. While most kids had stuffed animals, I had a stuffed camera. While most kids painted pictures with cheap paints or played outside with balls that had smelly rubber, I was outside noticing how the light hit the leaves in my backyard. At school, when the kids were listening to the teacher, I was glancing out the window loving how the wind made the flags dance.

   When I was seven, my parents bought me my very first camera. Sure, it was cheap and an ugly shade of pink, but I loved it nevertheless. It was mine to do whatever I wanted to do with it. I took pictures left and right, up and down until I had reached my limit for the film. That only took about a week or two. My mother happily took me to Walmart to print them out. I waited patiently, my mother squeezing my hand the entire time. When they were done, I got into the car and just stared at them.

   "Do you like them Harp?" My mother asked, looking at me through the mirror.

   "I... I love them Mommy. Thank you for my camera and taking me here!" I squealed, my girlie personality coming out.

   She laughed, "You're welcome Harp. I love you."

   "I love you too Mommy."

   She hardly ever muttered those words to me anymore. She always came from work tired and angry at my father. They were always fighting, blaming each other for the littlest things. When I was twelve, my best friend at the time, Kendall Rolfe, asked me why my parents didn't just get a divorce. She had heard them yelling when she came over. She told me her parents had gotten a divorce and that she was happy she didn't have to hear them yell anymore. She told me she gets more presents for her birthday and even for Christmas. I thought that sounded like a great idea! Because what twelve year old didn't want more gifts?

   "Daddy, why don't you and Mommy get a 'vorse?" I asked him one Sunday afternoon while he was repainting the kitchen an ugly mustard yellow color.

   He looked at me oddly, "Who gave you that idea?"

   "Kendall. She says she gets more presents! I like that idea." I smiled wildly.

   He raised his voice at me, "Harper! That's not how it works at all! You're just being selfish Harper! You don't want that. You would be miserable!" Then he turned back to the wall and began painting once again. I just stood there numb. How could I understand if he wouldn't tell me?

   The next year, the fights got worse. My dad would up and leave and not come back for a couple of days. I got used to this, but I still cried every night. I turned into a hell child. I always made a scene if I didn't get my way. I let Kendall's older sister, Caroline, pierce my ears, two holes in one and one hole in the other. My mom and dad fought about that. My mom told him I was going through a phase and that they needed to just leave me alone. My dad argued that if they let me do whatever I wanted now, I was going to get knocked up by the time I was fourteen. My mom won that fight.

   Later that year, my father lost his job. Something about all the jobs going overseas. It was a hard year for us all. My mom had to work more shifts and had to get another part-time job at night. They fought whenever they came in contact with each other, mostly about how my dad wasn't really looking for a new job. I went up to them one afternoon, a pitcher of lemonade in my hand, saying I would help. They looked at each other, then back at me, then died laughing. I grinned back, but I was confused at what was so funny. I do look back at that memory and smile because my parents actually agreed on something: how innocent I really was.