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“I’m sorry.” I slip the phone into my jeans' back pocket and lower the camera strap on my neck.
We’re at the Washington Saint stadium, of all places, to take pictures for Jasmine’s portfolio. A few days ago, she called me with a surprise. She had been invited to try out for the Washington Saints cheer squad.
In a few short minutes, my baby sister will be on the field cheering her heart out for the assistant cheer coach and wants to have photos to capture the momentous event.
I bring the camera up and assess her through the lens. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. I’m just nervous,” Jasmine admits.
“Don’t be. You cheered through college. You’re an amazing dancer. They’ll be lucky to have you.”
I click several pictures, stopping to adjust the aperture.
“What do you need me to do?” Jasmine asks.
“Do you,” I respond.
Jasmine starts posing, and I start clicking away. The photography classes taken in college pay off when I adjust the lens and position myself and the camera at angles to capture her natural beauty and uniqueness.
A rush of excitement comes over me. I’m finally building a real portfolio. These pictures will be an amazing addition.
The sound of a voice from across the field catches our attention. A woman calls for the ladies to line up.
Jasmine’s eyes widen as she looks at me. “This is it.”
“You’ve got this.”
“I know, but I’m so freaking nervous.”
I hug my sister. “Go over there and be great. You are made for this, so show them who you are.”
She flings her arms around me. “I love you, sissy.”
“I love you too. Now, go. I’ll wait for you right here.”
Once she trots over and lines up, I glance around the stadium, looking for unique images to snap. Camera in hand, I walk around, taking random pictures. I notice a tall, good-looking man in a suit. His sophisticated posture and clothing stand out against his surroundings. He’s far enough to disguise his identity but close enough to make an impressive picture. I capture images of him for several minutes. Then, I stop to check my viewfinder.
The contrast between the dim evening and stadium lighting made the picture better than I expected. I smile, proud of myself.
“Don’t you need a signed waiver or my permission or something?” a deep voice asks.
Shocked to see the man has made his way over to stand before me, I glance up and then up some more. What I thought was good-looking from afar is an understatement. He is a chocolate dream.
I’m about to explain what I’m doing when I notice the teasing look in his eyes. Technically, I should have a signed waiver, but you can’t see your identity in what I captured.” I turn the viewfinder in his direction.
“May I?” he asks.
I nod, passing him my camera.
He clicks through the pictures. In trying not to think about Wayne, I’ve spent the full day taking photographs around town and snapping Jasmine’s pre-try-out photos. The man scrolls through the images without giving any cues as to his thoughts about what he sees. His silence makes me nervous.
Then, he nods and passes the camera back. “Are you a freelance photographer?”
I hesitate for a second.
“Yes,” he answers for me.
I laugh. “Yes, I’m working to build my portfolio.”
