Sasha

Hi readers,

I wrote this for a creative writing class in 6th grade. That was a while ago, but I still love writing! Any feedback or suggestions would be appreciated, please let me know what you think and if I have any potential as a published author. Thanks, and enjoy!

SASHA

Sunlight drifted into my room that Saturday morning. It was 6:42—exactly 18 minutes before my buzzer would go off, wrenching me back into the unfortunately real world I now lived in.
I rolled over in bed. What to do? Soon, I’d have to be out of bed, putting my clothes on, and heading downstairs to help Mom set the table and get the traditional Saturday morning scrambled eggs on the stove. Then, I’d have to drag my three little brothers kicking and screaming out of their cozy bedroom.
That’s the way it was at our house. I mean, get real here, people. The only day that there’s no school and we (excuse me, I) have to be ready at 7:15 sharp. Still!
As I knelt in front of the bookcase to get something to read, I heard a small, tearful voice. My five-year-old brother Blake was standing in the doorway.
“Sister, I can’t find Smoky,” he said, biting his lip. “Can you help me find her?”
“Find her yourself,” I muttered irritably, dumping a large pile of books on the floor. Blake treated Smoky like she was a living, breathing animal instead of a battered gray plush cat.
“Please?”
“Blake, if you don’t leave me alone…”
“I’m telling!”
Oh, great. The last thing I needed was for my brother to go tattling on me, especially during the only time I ever got to do whatever I liked. Mom always seemed to end up taking Blake’s side, too.
Sure enough, Blake had hauled Mom up the stairs. There she was in the doorway, hands on hips, looking at me skeptically.
“Josie, go help Blake find his kitty cat,” she said. “I told him you would.”
“Did you really?” I said under my breath, purposefully stomping into the boys’ bedroom.
Mom snapped her fingers. “Enough with the attitude.”
I sighed, and unwillingly spent my would-be alone time helping Blake find his cat.

***

When I went down to help Mom with breakfast, she gave me a major lecture.
“Josie,” she said, “you are setting a very rotten example for your brothers. At your age, I would expect you to do better.”
“But Mom,” I protested, “does just being the oldest child mean that I’m automatically responsible for everything they do?”
“Partly. Now that Grandma’s living with us, it would make me feel a lot less stressed out if you would keep an eye on them, while I’m taking care of her.”
I stifled a groan. There wasn’t enough money to send my grandmother into a nursing home, so she’d come to live with us. She wasn’t exactly in her right mind, and she didn’t like kids anymore. She wasn’t afraid to show it, either.
“Mom, can’t I have anything I want?” I said. I didn’t even try not to whine.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that. That has nothing to do with what we’re talking about. Anyway, you shouldn’t be complaining. Don’t you have clothes, food, a bed, a family, a roof over your head?”
“And a grouchy grandma, three brothers, a microscopic house and yard, weird neighbors, a big old city around me, no friends, and no pets!” I retorted. “You’d be complaining too, if you were a 12-year-old girl with all that to deal with.”
“What, do you think I like that? Believe me, I don’t. But we need to focus on the positive things that we do have. Why can’t you at least pretend to cooperate? You don’t realize how difficult you’re making things for me.”
“You think you have it hard—”
“Josephine Burns, I do not want to hear another word out of you, or it’s solitary confinement for the rest of the day.”
I noticed that frustrated tears were filling my eyes. I turned away and busily began whisking the eggs. How could life be so unfair?
When we sat down to eat, Grandma promptly began complaining about how my 10-year-old brother Riley always left his car magazines laying all over the coffee table that she had claimed as hers when she moved in. Mom was already hopping mad about me, so she nearly went crazy.
“Oh, Mother, just calm down!” she cried. “Riley, go clean up that garbage this minute!”
“All right, all right,” said Riley, looking confused.
I don’t like to say it, but I wasn’t very sorry for making Mom mad enough to yell at Riley. He acted like he knew everything; he was always giving people advice that they didn’t need or, for that matter, want.
Riley came back, and the whole breakfast-time was spent listening to Grandma complain, Blake chatter, Riley share his latest truck knowledge, and my other seven-year-old brother Wesley share his experiences with the bullies that lived just down the street from us.
After a rather unpleasant meal, I went outside and plunked down on the porch. Two minutes, then five minutes, passed.
Without thinking about what I was doing, I got up and walked down the street at a leisurely pace, twirling my wavy brown hair, kicking pebbles off the sidewalk, and picking up a coin every now and then. After about ten minutes, I came to the end of the street—and saw something that stopped me cold.
In the grass by the sidewalk, I saw a small, skinny dog chewing on a beef sandwich that someone had dropped three days ago. The little dog had big ears, matted reddish-gold fur, a long body, and no tail.
I stood there, staring at it, wondering if it was a stray. I knelt down beside it, and it looked up at me with big brown eyes, which it blinked questioningly.
“Hi,” I said to it. I held out my hand.
The dog sniffed at my fingers warily, glancing up at me every now and then. I reached out to pet its head. It winced and jumped back.
“Hey!” I cried, trying again. “Come on! I’m not trying to hurt you.”
It jumped back again.
“Whatever,” I muttered, and got up to finish my walk.
But when I turned around, there it was again, blinking at me.
“You know,” I told it, “I don’t make friends with puppies who go and leap six feet back when I try to be nice to them.”
And with that, I turned on my heel and went back home.

***

When I got there, my family was finishing up breakfast. Blake was yelling at Riley—about what, I didn’t know and didn’t care. My mind was on other things.
I hurried up the stairs, retrieved Mom’s Ultimate Guide to Dog Breeds book from her bookcase, and dumped the heavy thing on my unmade bed.
I began flipping through the book, scanning the pages for a big-eared, long-bodied dog without a tail.
There it was: Pembroke Welsh Corgi. The pictured dogs had sandy-colored fur, but it said that the coat came in red as well.
I slammed the book shut when I heard Mom calling me to help her with the dishes.
“Just a minute!” I called. I shoved the book under my bed so I could read up on Pembroke Welsh Corgis later.

***

That evening at 10:30, when everyone else was asleep, I pulled the book out from under my bed, clicked on my reading light, and read all about Corgis. The book said that this dog was a “good companion for an active family”. Ha, ha. My family was nothing but active—if doing whatever my grandmother wanted falls under that category.
The book also said that what the Pembroke liked best was a romp in a big yard, followed by a square meal. End of story. (A), there was no yard to romp in, and (B) there wasn’t enough money to feed a dog.
I thought of our yard when we lived in rural Thurston County. That was the kind of yard that could be inhabited by an active dog. We’d had one—Katy—a big German shepherd that loved kids.
I tried not to cry, thinking of Katy. We’d given her to my Aunt Karen when Dad got his job and we moved to downtown Olympia. I still missed her, even though I saw her on my monthly visits to Aunt Karen’s.
Yes, a dog was what I needed. Somebody who didn’t yell at me, boss me around, or make me look for his toys. Somebody who liked me just the way I was, even if I did have flyaway wavy hair and acted grumpy sometimes…
Eventually, I fell asleep.

***

The next day, I woke up early again. There was no angry Mom, no tattletale Blake, no overexcited Grandma awake to bother me. But now, of course, I didn’t feel like reading. I didn’t feel like doing anything, except lying there and thinking about dogs.
So that’s what I did.
As I thought about the scrawny, filthy Corgi, my mind suddenly went to how it had jumped away from me. And what I’d said in response.
I don’t make friends with puppies who go and leap six feet back when I try to be nice to them.
What might the dog have replied, if it could talk?
Well, sorry for offending you, but it’s not my fault that I’m abused.
Abused!
Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Why else would a skinny, matted dog jump away from somebody like me? Somebody who just wanted to be nice?
Of course. The dog’s owner probably didn’t feed it very well. He probably hit it on the head and yelled at it. And so the dog had run away, in search of food and, if it was lucky, a friend who would let it stay in their yard for the night.
I hoped I would find the little dog again.

***

As it turned out, I didn’t have to look far. When I went out after breakfast to water Mom’s flowers, the typical Sunday morning job, the dog was sleeping in the one of the flower-beds.
“What’s up, sleepyhead?” I said. It jumped up and stared at me, looking both startled and rumpled.
“Just me,” I told it reassuringly.
It looked relieved.
I left it there for a moment while I went to hook up the hose. When I came back, it had hopped down from the bed and was standing there grinning at me.
“Abused,” I teased, “yeah, right.”
But it did look abused, in spite of the goofy grin on its cute face. It was still scrawny and dirty.
“Hang on,” I said, dropping the hose. “I need to get something for you.”
I sneaked into the kitchen, where Mom was busy with the dishes, and looked around for Blake’s plate. During breakfast, he had boldly declared that he wasn’t going to eat his sausages. I’d found that annoying at the time, but now…
There was the plate. Mom was chatting with Dad about something, so I made a break for it, scooped up the sausages, and dashed out of the house.
“Here you are,” I told the dog, and dumped the sausages in the grass. The dog pounced on the food and began devouring it, smacking its lips greedily as it ate. When it had finished, it looked at me pleadingly, as if to say, “More, please?”
“Sorry, buddy,” I said apologetically. “There’s nothing else I can give you.”
The words tasted bitter as I remembered yesterday, when Mom had told me that I shouldn’t complain about what I didn’t have. Maybe, I thought, my life wasn’t so bad after all. For every stubborn, ungrateful person like me, there was somebody like this dog, somebody who was truly put upon.
I finished watering the flowers, hating to watch the pleading gaze of the little dog, and hating even more to make it leave so that nobody would come and throw rocks at it or tell it to get lost.

***

Later that day, at lunch, Mom asked me if I knew what had happened to Blake’s sausages. I was so busy thinking that I didn’t even hear her until Riley nudged me with his elbow.
“Oh!” I said. “I took them. “I—I was still hungry.”
“You said you were full,” she said, eyeing me a bit suspiciously.
“Can’t a kid change her mind,” I said impatiently, hoping that if I acted like my normal complaining self, Mom wouldn’t suspect that anything unusual was happening.
After lunch, I went outside to look for the Corgi again. It was nowhere to be found.
Just as I was about to head home, a car pulled up next to me, blasting rap music at full volume. A guy, who I guessed to be about seventeen or eighteen years old, leaned out.
“Hey, kid,” he said, turning the music down, “can I ask you something?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Can you, like, keep an eye out for my dog?”
“Huh?” I said, suddenly interested. “Dog? What kind?”
“I think she’s, like, a Corgi or something.”
My heart started racing. Unable to resist the urge, I blurted out, “A red one?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Sasha. If you see her around, grab her and bring her over. I live over there.” He pointed at a blue house a few blocks down from ours. “Oh, by the way, I’m Rod.”
“Um, I think I might have seen your dog around,” I said, trying to conjure up a story.
“Really? Where’d she go?”
I pointed behind Rod’s car.
“Cool,” he said. “Thanks!”
He turned the music up again and drove in the direction I had pointed.
Less than five minutes later, the Corgi popped out from behind the neighbors’ holly bush.
“Sasha?” I questioned. It trotted up to me.
“Hey, there,” I said softly, sitting down by the dog. “Now listen: you’re gonna have to watch where you show up, or else you’ll be toast.”
Sasha licked my hand, and I patted her head. I had no idea what I was going to do with her, but I did know for sure that I had to keep her away from Rod.
She followed me as I walked up to the house, trying to think of some way to help; something to do for my little friend. I hated having to shoo her away all the time, but it was better than having Mom or Grandma show up and make me give her back and all that.
I ended up by the phone, dialing my best friend Kelley Taylor’s number.
“Look here, Kel,” I said, once I was within the privacy of my own bedroom, “I’ve got this dog that I found, and I don’t know what to do with her.”
“Give her back,” said Kelley. “That’s all you can do.”
“Exactly. That’s all I can’t do. The owner’s abusive.”
“Do you know them?”
“I’ve met the guy, once. He was looking for the dog.”
“Well, then, how do you know he’s abusive?”
“Because his dog is all scrawny and skinny and she jumped away when I tried to pet her. The first time, anyway. Now she kind of likes me, I guess. I fed her Blake’s sausages this morning, and she’s been hanging around the house all day.”
“What am I supposed to do about that?”
“Help me,” I said impatiently.
“I don’t know. You could give her to me. My mom and I’ve been trying to find a pet for me, you know.”
“You?” I echoed. “There’s two problems with that. First of all, my mom doesn’t know about this yet. Second, if I tell her, she’ll make me bring it back. So I can’t do that. We have to think of something else.”
“You could just say that you found this dog and you don’t know its owner.”
“I’m not a liar, Kelley. Just so you know.”
“You must have lied about the sausages, right? And what matters more to you—being honest or the dog?”
“I have to go now,” I said, dodging the question. “Bye.”
“Josie—”
But I had already hung up the phone.

***

Two days later, I was sitting hidden in a corner of my backyard with Sasha in my lap, feeding her half of the hamburger I’d had for dinner.
I hadn’t been able to eat much lately. All I could think about was Sasha and Rod—and now, the question Kelley had asked me. And being accused of lying about the sausages. I should’ve said to Kelley, “Okay, so maybe I’m a fibber. But not a liar.” The sausage thing was small—just a little white fib. Besides, I had said that I’d taken the sausages, just not why. But saying, “No, I don’t know the owner” would be a lie, plain and simple.
Blake’s small blond head peeked around the corner of the house.
“Sister, Mommy wants you to—” He stopped mid-sentence, and his blue eyes got huge when he saw Sasha.
“Mommy!” he cried, turning around and running toward the back door. “Mommy! Sister’s feeding her cheeseburger to a dog!”
“Blake!” I screamed after him, but it was too late. Mom was running to my little corner, looking like she’d seen a ghost.
“Josephine Burns, what in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?” she exclaimed.
I stared at her dumbly, not knowing what to say.
“What are you doing?” she repeated.
“I found her on Saturday,” I murmured. “I guess—I think she was hungry.” I scratched Sasha’s ear.
Mom eyed the dog. “Do you know who the owner is?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly, wanting to get it over with, “but Mom, he’s mean and he doesn’t feed her and everything.”
“I’m sorry, but she’s his dog—whoever ‘he’ is.”
“But Mom—”
“I have other things to focus on right now, Josie. There’s a time for helping abused dogs, by all means, but now is not that time. Right now, I just want you to take her back to her owner.” She wrinkled her nose. “And give her a bath. She’s probably full of fleas.”
Mom headed inside. I hugged Sasha, whether she was full of fleas or not.
“Mommy said give her a bath,” Blake ordered, jabbing a finger at the Corgi.
“You just shut up,” I said bitterly. “You’re the one who got me into this mess, you tattletale. Now go away, and I’m not talking to you. Period.”
Blake seemed startled, but I didn’t care. “Go on,” I barked at him. He scurried away.
I hooked up the hose while Sasha contentedly finished her burger. When I hosed her down, she looked irritated, like she wanted to say, “First you act all nice and feed me stuff and pet me, and now this.”
After drying off for about 30 minutes with the help of a towel, Sasha was perfectly clean, and I realized what a cute dog she really was. All the more reason not to give her back.
I didn’t have a leash, so I had to hope that Sasha would follow me as we walked. She did—until we approached the blue house and she realized where we were going. I actually had to grab her collar and pull her up the steps to the front door. Miserably, I rang the doorbell.
Nobody answered.
I noticed a post standing by one of the bushes. A relatively short leash was attached to it. For Sasha, I guessed, and clipped the leash onto her collar.
She gave me her put-upon look again. I felt so rotten, tying her up like this. Rod probably did this to her every day.
I scratched her ear and gave her a quick hug. Then I left the property as quickly as I could.
I stopped and turned around just as I was beginning to lose sight of the little dog, who was barking and straining on the leash.
“Goodbye, Sasha,” I said sadly. Then I turned and ran all the way home.

***

Weeks passed. Life went on. Blake tattled, Grandma complained, Mom got stressed out, and I was left responsible for the boys. But there was only one thing on my mind: Sasha. I wished I could have kept her. Whenever I walked by Rod’s house, she barked at me, and I would feel bad. She had gotten dirty again and was probably still hungry.
Then one evening, as I was heading out for my daily walk, Grandma called me into the room.
“Josie, your brothers are getting on my nerves,” she said, gesturing to the boys, who were fighting over a toy monster truck. “Take them with you.”
“But—” I protested.
“No buts about it,” she interrupted. “I said take them with you.”
Just as I was about to say no, Mom walked into the room.
“Josie, don’t argue,” she begged. “Just do it. Riley, Wesley, Blake, knock it off. Your sister’s going to take you for a walk.”
Oh I am, am I? I thought angrily. But I grabbed my shoes and put them on while my brothers argued about who should have gotten the monster truck.
They stopped fighting once we got on the sidewalk. I walked ahead of them, hands in my pockets, wishing that they weren’t there.
When I turned the corner, I nearly ran into somebody. It was Rod, the last person I had expected to meet!
“Oh, hey,” he said. “I was just looking for you.”
“What do you want?” I said. I wasn’t feeling very friendly today to anyone—least of all an abusive dog owner.
“Do you want my dog?” he asked, right out of the blue.
My brothers had just rounded the corner.
“Who wants a dog?” asked Riley.
“You know,” said Rod. “Sasha.”
“Me?” I squeaked. “Take Sasha?”
“Yeah. I’m sick of her. Don’t want to feed her anymore. You want her?”
Do you want Sasha? I asked myself. Of course I do! I couldn’t want anything more!
No, seriously. Do you really, really want a dog? The question asked itself this time. Are you up to taking care of her?
The answer was still yes. Sort of, anyway.
“Sure, I’ll—I’ll take her,” I said slowly.
“Here, then.” Rod held out the leash. I took it, hardly able to believe that this was actually happening to me, Josie Burns, the average sixth-grader with the boring—or at least unfortunate—life.
A small, triumphant smile crept across my face as I herded the boys around the corner. I had Sasha! A dog of my own! And it hadn’t cost me much—just an unwanted walk with my brothers, was all.
Something else crossed my mind, something that wiped the grin right off my face.
What in the world was I going to tell my parents?

***

“You wouldn’t let her keep a dog, would you Laura?” said Grandma, scowling at me disapprovingly.
I was sitting in the living room at home with Mom, Dad, and Grandma. The boys were in the backyard, playing with Sasha. As you might expect, the news had not gone over well.
“No,” said Mom. “But if the owner doesn’t want the dog, I don’t know what to do with it.”
“We can either sell it, give it away, or take it to the pound,” Dad said. He didn’t sound very cheerful. He had met Sasha, and it had seemed to me that he liked her pretty well.
“Or keep her,” I said, adding another option to Dad’s list. I knew I was “toeing the line”, as Mom might have put it, but I wanted that dog.
“Haven’t I told you already,” said Mom, “that we don’t have time, money, or space for a dog?”
“Maybe you don’t,” I said. “But I do.”
“Josephine,” Mom groaned. “You have school during the day, except on weekends. And I need you to watch the boys and help around the house. No, you don’t have time. Besides, I don’t even want a dog. Except for Katy, I’ve never been overly fond of dogs, you know.”
“Neither have I,” said Grandma sourly, as if her opinion was of any importance. “I hate dogs.”
“I know,” Mom sighed. “But I guess we’ll just have to keep it until we decide what to do with it.”
Grandma made a face.
“We’ll decide quickly,” Mom said, rubbing her mother’s arm reassuringly.
I racked my brain for ideas, but none showed themselves. I knew what I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to bring Sasha to the pound. She was far too special for something as lowlife as that. I didn’t want to sell her, either. Was a long-time buddy worth any amount of money? No way. So, I decided, I would have to give her away. But to who?
I looked over at Dad, who appeared to be deep in thought. Mom and Grandma had left.
“Didn’t you say that one of your friends was looking for a dog?” Dad asked.
Kelley!
“Yeah,” I said. “Kelley wants a dog.” Then I sighed. “But I don’t want to give her one. Sasha won’t even like me anymore. I was the one who found her. She’s more mine than Kelley’s.”
“She might remember you if you visited often enough,” Dad suggested. “We could do the same thing we do with Katy.”
I frowned. “I have so many dogs that aren’t even mine.”
“Now, is that a legitimate statement?” Dad teased.
I rolled my eyes. Dad was a logic nut. Whenever one of his children said something that didn’t make any sense, he always said, “Is that a legitimate statement?” or “Is that a legitimate argument?”
“Anyway, I just want a dog of my own,” I said impatiently.
“You heard your mother. She’s right. We don’t have time, money, or space for a dog. Especially space.” He softened a little. “Too bad, though. She’s a good little dog.”
“I suppose Kelley would take good enough care of her,” I said, trying for once to cooperate.
“Why don’t you give her a ring?” said Dad. “I’m sure once her parents meet Sasha, it’ll all work out fine.”
I walked over to the telephone, dragging my feet as I went.
“Did you decide on something?” Mom asked.
I explained it all. Then I reached for the phone and punched the buttons harshly as I dialed Kelley’s number.
“Hey, Kelley,” I said when she answered. “I have news for you.”
“News?” Kelley cried eagerly. “About the dog?”
“Right,” I said grimly. “She’s yours.”

***

Almost a month had passed when I woke up on the wet, rainy day we were to bring Sasha over to Kelley’s house. It had all been nicely arranged, courtesy of Mom and Kelley’s parents. Kelley and her family had come over a few weeks ago to meet Sasha, and it was love at first sight. They had decided to take her immediately.
I rolled out of bed, put my clothes on, and went downstairs for breakfast. I wasn’t feeling very happy; I hardly said anything throughout the whole meal. I was focused on using my feet to pet Sasha, who was hanging out under the table (a great place to catch a meal, thanks to the boys).
Finally, it was time to leave. Mom loaded a bag of dog food into the back seat of her car while I got busy trying to catch Sasha and clip a leash onto her collar.
“Are you ready?” Mom asked once I had gotten the dog under control.
“I guess,” I said, coaxing Sasha into the car. But I would never be ready.
“Let’s go, then.”
We got in and Mom started up the car. I waved to my brothers, who were standing in the garage playing with a remote-control truck.
As we drove through Olympia, I stared out the window, thinking what an unfriendly-looking city it was (thanks to the rain) and feeling very gloomy.
Mom noticed my grim mood and tried to cheer me up by talking about the misadventures we’d had with Sasha when she stayed at our house.
“Remember when she tried to steal the ham from the grilled cheese sandwiches?” Mom said, chuckling a little to herself. “That was so funny.”
I tried to smile, but it took considerable effort.
By the time we reached Kelley’s house, the rain had cleared off and the sun was out. Sasha, who had been standing on my lap and looking out the window, jumped down as soon as I opened the door and nearly yanked my arm off.
Kelley had just slammed the back door of her house and was running toward Sasha.
“Hi, little sweetie-pie!” she cried in a baby voice. I nearly gagged, partly because Kelley’s always been more of a mushy person than I ever was, and partly because she was hogging my dog!
Kelley seemed to take the sick look on my face as a sign that I thought she was acting just a bit weird, and finally stopped babbling about poor Sasha.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was, like, ridiculous. I guess I just got carried away. She is awfully cute.”
We went inside the house to deal with the baby voice again, thanks to Mrs. Taylor, Kelley’s mom.
After they had admired the little dog for a while, the adults started talking to each other. Kelley’s dad motioned to us and said to take Sasha out for a potty break and that they’d be outside in a minute.
Kelley and I sat down in partly damp lawn-chairs while Sasha did her business.
“You know,” said Kelley thoughtfully, watching the Corgi wander around in the huge front yard, “I was wondering if—if we should share Sasha. I mean, you found her and stuff, and that kind of makes her your dog. So maybe I could feed her and take care of her, and—if you ever move to a place with a bigger yard, then—then you could have her back.”
Suddenly, I felt a little more hopeful. Since I had hated the house we lived in now so much, I had kind of lost all hope that we would move. But maybe we would. Maybe a future house would have enough room for seven people. Maybe it would have a big yard. And then maybe, just maybe, I would be able to have a dog.
“That sounds cool,” I said. “If you don’t mind giving her up again, that is.” Kelley had been wanting a dog for a long time.
“I wouldn’t mind that much. I could get another dog, and that dog would be specially mine, just like Sasha is specially yours. See what I mean?”
“Yes.” I was feeling so happy that I almost whispered the words.
We heard voices behind us. The adults had come out.
Mrs. Taylor had a camera with her. “Oh, Sasha, baby!” she called. Sasha came running.
“Now,” she instructed us, “you girls set Sasha between the chairs and I’ll get a picture. Oh, this is going to be so cute!”
Somehow, I didn’t mind the mushiness so much now. I was feeling 100 percent better. Well, at least 90 percent better, to be very honest.
Just as Mrs. Taylor got ready to push the button, I kneeled down in the grass and put my arm around Sasha’s neck. So did Kelley.
“Say cheese!”
Everyone smiled, even Sasha. This time, my smile was real.