Broken Strings

Three

Ginger

Art is something that makes you breathe with a different kind of happiness – Annie Albers

As expected, Heather Lacroix was waiting at the kitchen table when her daughter returned home from work. There was a stack of papers resting on the table.

It had become a pattern as of late, something routine. For Ginger, it was mostly a chore. A conversation to dread rather than look forward to.

"Hey, mom," Ginger said as she walked into the house. She kicked off her sneakers by the door and hung her coat up on a hook.

It was nothing fancy – a small two-bedroom bungalow that had been in need of repair upwards of a decade earlier. The porch was slanted, the screen door had been removed from the hinges ages ago, and during particularly bad storms there was a consistent leak above where the kitchen table sat.

Her parents were sometimes prone to raging against those infractions, cursing at all of the painting and sanding and screw tightening that the property needed, but Ginger secretly loved all of the house's imperfections. Some of them had been there since before Ginger was born, as consistent and unwavering as the sun. Like constant companions that were always there to greet her whenever she walked in the door.

"Hi, baby. How was work?"

"Good." She aimed for the fruit bowl on the counter and snatched up an orange. Deftly, she began to peel it open, revealing the segments within. Ginger popped one into her mouth, chewed, and said, "Annie is going to be giving me a few extra shifts over the next couple of weeks. She's got a new hire that she wants me to train."

"A new hire? I thought your staffing rotation was full?" Heather asked, leaning back in her chair.

"It is for now but Marcus is leaving once the high school gets out. He's moving to Florida to live with his grandparents for the summer and then he's starting at the state college in the fall."

Ginger chewed on another orange segment, waiting for the segue in conversation that was sure to arise.

"Speaking of colleges," her mother started.

Here we go, Ginger thought. Right on schedule.

It had become a predictable series of events. Short conversation about the diner or about Ginger's friends or her relationship with Travis Grant before it inevitably ended up here. Talking about her future.

Like Ginger had a clue about what she wanted for her future. She had ideas, of course. Most of which transcended her small corner of Oklahoma. The world was so vast and there were so many things that she wanted to see and experience.

Some days, it was all Ginger could do not to rush to the bus stop and hop on the first Greyhound that pulled up. She had almost done it once – the summer after she'd graduated high school and all of her friends had been talking about what they were going to be doing in the fall. All of them had their futures already mapped out, planned and perfect.

Ginger had been sitting there with them, listening to their chatter, and felt as if she were on an entirely different wavelength.

She didn't want to be an engineer like her friend Michelle or a mechanic like Felix. She had always hated the idea of pursuing medicine or teaching and unlike her best friend Cassie Warner, Ginger was a terrible cook so the culinary arts was definitely out.