Free Snap by Carol Snow

her.
    â€œGet your bony butt off of me!” she yelled, until Duncan pressed himself against my side to make room for her.
    â€œHey, Madison,” Leo called from the far end of the bench. “You find any more ghosts in your pictures?”
    Duncan said, “Any more what?”
    As I powered up my camera, Delilah told Duncan about the mysterious old woman in my photo.
    â€œIt’s pretty weird,” I said, scrolling through the shots on my display screen until I found the old lady by the rocks. “I’m sure she wasn’t on the beach.”
    â€œMaybe she snuck into the camera when you weren’t looking,” Duncan said.
    I checked his expression. He was kidding, of course. Wasn’t he?
    â€œI can ask my dad about it if you want,” Duncan said. “I mean,we can get together some time and ask him together.”
    Leonardo didn’t even try to hide his snicker.
    Â 
    I’d planned to talk to my parents about our home phone being out of order, but when my dad walked into the room at the end of the day, his face so red and sweaty and his breathing so labored, I was actually afraid he might be having a heart attack.
    â€œAre you okay?” I asked when he stumbled in and collapsed on the bed. I’d never seen anyone so filthy in my life.
    He didn’t answer my question, just looked at me with dull eyes. “Water?”
    I got him a big glass filled high with ice. He winced when I handed it to him, and he held up his blister-covered palm. He took a long, desperate drink before wiping his mouth and saying, “I’ll work hard, and we’ll get back on our feet.”
    He drained the rest of his water and put the glass on the night-stand.

10.
    S ATURDAY MORNING, I SPENT AT LEAST AN HOUR photographing kayaks (Delilah was right: they did look cool), and then I got to the thrift shop ten minutes early. Delilah was already there, waiting in the parking lot, along with what appeared to be half of Sandyland. It looked like the mob at the mall on the day after Thanksgiving—only without the food court, the ear-piercing kiosk, and the nice clothes that had never been worn.
    â€œGet your elbows ready,” Delilah told me, standing at the edge of the crowd.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œIt gets vicious in there.” She narrowed her eyes at the other shoppers. There were all ages: moms with little kids, grandparents, teenagers (girls mostly, but not entirely). One of the teenagers was a girl with striped hair similar to Delilah’s, though the other girl’s stripes were only white. She looked kind of like a zebra.
    Today Delilah wore cutoff denim overalls over a tank top. Nowthat I knew about the thrift shop, I couldn’t look at anything she wore without wondering who had owned it first.
    I really didn’t want to be here.
    But I had no choice. I couldn’t wait to change out of my mildewed black clothes.
    At least this thrift shop, a block off Main Street and next to a pretty white church, was a lot nicer than the blocky, dingy Salvation Army fortress at home. Enormous, leafy trees shaded the little white building with green shutters. Don’t think “used clothes,” I commanded myself. Think “vintage.” Don’t think “poor people.” Think “treasure hunters.”
    â€œYou need to figure out your strategy,” Delilah told me, weaving her fingers together and stretching out her arms. She had her silver rings on, along with a bracelet made out of paper clips. She’d repainted her fingernails, alternating red and black. “Decide what section you want to hit first,” she advised.
    â€œI was thinking clothes,” I said, the taste of my mom’s bitter coffee lingering in my mouth.
    â€œYeah, but which clothes?” Her light eyes widened. “The shirt aisle gets the most traffic, so you might want to hit that first, before all the good stuff is gone. Then, if there’s anything