Broken Strings

Three

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There had been one class that Ginger had taken at Murray. The year after graduating high school, with her friends all departed and pursuing their dreams, Ginger had enrolled in a photojournalism class.

She had kept it quiet from her parents, paying the admission fee without either of them finding out or learning where she disappeared to for a few hours each week. Ginger had inherited a decent camera from her father's brother when they'd gone to visit Uncle Lucas in Florida for Christmas when she was a sophomore in high school. He'd upgraded to a newer, flashier model with all of the bells and whistles.

Uncle Lucas hadn't cared about the old Olympus, though it still worked well. It had inherited some of the tell-tale signs of age. It was slower than it used to be and the shutter no longer worked as well as it once had. The button had a tendency to stick and the flash worked only half of the time.

But Ginger loved the damned thing. She had toted it with her almost everywhere in high school, documenting the monotony of teenage life. She had been the primary photographer for the yearbook and took photos for all of the clubs and teams. Once, Ginger had even been offered fifty dollars to take headshots for a few girls entering some prestigious beauty pageant.

Over time, Ginger began to hone her craft. She spent hours reading photography blogs and watching online tutorials for editing the photos she took. Ginger learned how to shoot landscapes and people, animals and inanimate objects.

When people asked her what she wanted to do with her life, the first thought she always had was of that Olympus camera. It was sitting on a shelf in her room now, no longer her main camera but one she loved to pull out and use on occasion.

It had been after the photojournalism class at Murray that Ginger had upgraded to a newer model. Not new, of course. Not when cameras were so damned expensive – but a second-hand model that had come at an excellent price.

Ginger had bought it from the professor of the course. Emily Sweeting – in her early thirties – was younger than what Ginger had expected a college professor to be but Ginger had loved the class. Emily had pushed her students to think critically about the world and what they could record with a camera.

The classes had flown by quickly and Ginger had felt as if she'd found her calling there. Emily had picked up on Ginger's passion and natural talent, the way that she could frame and edit a shot to exactly how she had envisioned it in her mind.

Ginger had looked up to Emily, had regarded the woman as a mentor more than a professor. She'd been ecstatic when Emily announced that she was selling her camera – a Nikon that was a major upgrade from Ginger's well-loved Olympus – in place of a newer model. She had sold it to Ginger for such a low price that Ginger knew Emily had likely done it just to help Ginger get a better camera. A small signal telling her to continue with the photography, to not give up on it.

In the three years since, Ginger had continued adding to her camera and lens collection. Never new equipment but old gems at flea markets and yard sales. She'd once snagged a perfectly usable fisheye lens for an eighth of what it retailed in stores. It had been one of her better deals.

The only person who really knew about Ginger's dream to become a professional photographer was her best friend Cassie. Truth be told, Cassie only knew because she'd worked with Ginger during their junior and senior years on the yearbook committee together.

Ginger's parents certainly didn't see it as a viable career. To them, it was a cute, but silly, little hobby. Certainly not something she could make a living off of. They saw it as a side-job, something she could do on the weekends. Like photographing weddings or baby showers.

Ginger had no desire to become a wedding photographer. No, she wanted to explore the world with her camera in tow. She wanted to showcase what she saw, wanted to bring light to issues that struck her as important.

Most of all, Ginger wanted to see for herself what life was like beyond the state lines of Oklahoma.

But Ginger didn't have the slightest clue about how to start going after that dream. She'd looked into a few art schools in New York and California, ones that offered prestigious photography programs. Programs that were way out of her budget. Unless she wanted to work at the diner for the rest of her life, Ginger would need to find another job to bankroll that kind of program. It seemed like an unattainable dream.

Ginger stared at her feet and popped another orange wedge into her mouth. She chewed slowly and said evasively to her mother, "I've looked at Murray. Nothing there really interests me."

Heather sighed. "Listen, I was chatting with Mr. Kaufman at work today. He came in for a cleaning with Dr. Becker." Heather was a dental hygienist at the local dentist's office. "Do you remember him? He's the accountant who handles the accounts for the grocery. Anyways, he was saying that he has no one to take over his business and he wants to retire within the next five years or so. He's starting to think of next steps and might want to sell it off to a capable young person if they are so interested and qualified."

"Okay...?"

"You always were very good at math, honey. Why don't you think about going to school for accounting? I could talk to Mr. Kaufman for you to set up a meeting or something so you can learn more. He's scheduled in next week for a root canal. I'm sure I could put the bug in his ear that you're interested."

That's exactly what Mr. Kaufman wants to talk about before a root canal, Ginger thought with an edge of wry humour.

She almost said no but her mother was gazing at her expectantly, eyes bright. It was the eyes that did Ginger in. She had inherited most of her looks from her father – the slightly too-big nose and the wild mass of curls that her father had hated dealing with so much that he'd shaved his head at nineteen and had been bald ever since. Even her ears were the same shape as his.

Her brown eyes, though, were her mother's. Same shape and colour exactly.

Ginger had a hard time saying no to her mother when she looked at her in that way. She sighed, "Sure. I'm not making any promises but I'll talk to Mr. Kaufman. At least to find out what an accountant actually does."

Heather beamed. "Excellent! I'll talk with him next week."

"Great." And because it seemed expectant, added, "Thanks."

Ginger through the peel of her orange into the compost and went to pass through towards the bedrooms at the rear of the house.

"We're having dinner around seven," Heather called. "When your dad gets home from work. He's gonna grill those steaks we got the other night. How's that sound?"

"Sounds good, mom."

Alone in her room, Ginger shrugged out of her Annie's uniform – which was a simple white shirt and jeans beneath a green apron from the diner. She had brought the apron home to wash that night, something that was necessary only because an adorable little six year had spilled an entire cup of apple juice on her towards the end of her shift.

Feeling sticky, Ginger showered and changed into a fresh shirt and pants. As she towel-dried her hair, she looked out the window and saw a red-bellied woodpecker nesting in a tree in the backyard.

Smiling at the bird, Ginger reached for her camera and snapped a picture.