@page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } 9 “Does this mean I’m off the paper?” I asked meekly. Tasha scowled and turned the camera over in her hands. “The lens is cracked,” she murmured, shaking her head. “The whole camera is soaked and bent.” Her voice trembled. “It—it’s wrecked.” “It really wasn’t my fault,” I said softly. She angrily blew a strand of red hair off her forehead. “You’ll pay for it!” she cried. “You’ll pay for the camera, Ricky. If you don’t, my father will sue you!” “But, Tasha—” I pleaded. “You know it wasn’t my fault!” “Go away,” she snapped. “Just go away. Nothing is ever your fault—right?” “Well… it wasn’t,” I insisted. “If you’d listen to me, Tasha—” “You’re just bad news, Ricky,” she said, scowling at me again. She examined the broken camera one more time, then dropped it onto a desk. “You don’t take anything seriously,” she accused. “You think everything is a goof.”
