I slowly take my place in line, hoping the class period will be over before I get a chance to take my turn. No such luck.

Apparently none of my classmates share my fear, because they hop into the room, shutting the door behind them, super happy. They’re in and out of the room in about two minutes, ruining my chance at postponing what is certain to be horrible.

When it’s my turn, I take a deep breath, walk into the blackroom, and leave the door open just a tad, letting a small beam of light shine onto the floor. No one will notice, right? I start to load the film onto the reel, concentrating on doing it quickly so that—the door shuts. Hard. SOMEONE ON THE OTHER SIDE HAS SHUT THE DOOR. I’m so surprised that I drop the film in my hand. Shit.

Okay, don’t panic. I fall to the floor and run my hands around desperately, trying to find the strip of film. I’m in there for so long that someone knocks on the door, asking me if I’m all right. I hear someone else say, “I think she fell.”

“I’m okay,” I yell back, thanking God the cameras are not allowed in class. “I just, um, dropped my film. But don’t worry.” I slide my hands over the floor faster, groping desperately for the film. All I can feel is the grit and grime of the floor. I’m about to start having a panic attack when the door to the blackroom opens.

“Oh my God, she’s fainted!” a blond girl at the front of the throng screeches when she sees me.

“No, I didn’t,” I say, spotting the length of film. I scoop it off the floor and stand up, brushing my hands against each other in an attempt to dislodge some of the filth that’s transferred itself onto my skin.

“Now this,” Professor Lutkiss says, sweeping his hand toward me—I’m assuming that by “this” he means me and my current situation, which, as anyone would agree, can only be characterized as unfortunate—“is why people need to be very, very careful about loading their film onto their reels properly. Young lady, what is your name?”

The whole class stares. “Ally,” I mumble, looking at the floor.

“If Ally had been loading real film, pictures she had spent hours taking and creating, she would have done all that work for nothing. Dropping her film on the floor could have made scratches on the prints, or distorted the images. Opening the door would have ruined the film altogether.” I look down at the strip of film in my hand, which is covered in dirt and has several creases running through it. Thank God it wasn’t real pictures. Although I can’t imagine spending hours taking a few snapshots. I mean, point, click, there’s your picture. Even with picking your angles and all that, why would it take hours? I think Professor Lutkiss might be acting a tad over-dramatic.