CHAPTER ONE
FINLEY
I’m currently trying to decide if I should expand my business by renting the recently vacated storefront next to mine. Staring out the Happy Snaps window, I itemize the pros and cons. Pro: the additional square footage would allow me to leave up different backdrops and sets, thereby letting me offer more options to my photography clients. Pro: the bigger my space, the more successful I appear. Con: the cost. I’ll have to work longer hours to offset the expense. Con: there will be more space to keep clean. Con: large spaces make me feel like I don’t have control. Con: I don’t have control. Ever. Anywhere in my life.
My heart rate accelerates to a rapid enough pace that I reach for the cold bottle of water sitting next to me.Sip. Breathe. Sip. Breathe.After repeating my favorite calm-down technique a total of seven times, I finally regain my equilibrium.
Back to my inner debate. A large part of my client base comes to me for sexy—but perfectly respectable—boudoir photos. I don’t shoot porn; I capture true romance and fantasy.
A lot of photographers rely on AI filters to set the mood. I think those are crutches for people of limited creativity. I pride myself on my extensive imagination, and props take up more square footage than I currently have.
Yet I need to be careful because I have a history of making rash decisions that haven’t always panned out. Like the time I convinced myself a black diamond ski run couldn’t be that much harder than the bunny slopes I’d recently mastered. My ankle still hurts when the weather turns.
My attention is briefly diverted by a larger than normal speck of dust dancing along a sun beam. It shimmers exuberantly and sways to a cosmic rhythm only it can hear. I can’t help but wonder why these particles never seem to go anywhere. Imagine being weightlessandairborne and still not making a break for it. If I had the same opportunity, I’d be halfway to Mars.
When I was little I fancied these illuminated wisps were fairies from another dimension. I thought if I concentrated on them hard enough they would impart the secrets of the Universe to me. They would explain things like, why do people always seem intent upon running in a straight line?
I never saw the appeal of rushing for the sake of rushing. For me, running was about the journey. It was about freeing my soul from its heavy confines. An occasion to flail my arms and feel the wind on my armpits—something I imagined dragonflies experienced every time they took flight. Boy, did that make me jealous.
My first course of action before letting loose was to release my hair from its confines—generally a silky scrunchie. The increased motion would make my follicles bob up and down like they were engaged in a Medusa-esque dance of their own. Unfortunately, on the basketball court, there was a strict rule that all hair had to be pulled away from the face. As such, my high post days didn’t allow total freedom.
While that was a definite downside, the upside was that nobody made fun of me when I ran with my arms up in the air. They just assumed I was waiting for a pass. I could jump and prance all I wanted without appearingtooabnormal.
My mom once told me that when I was in preschool, Damian Kirk asked Miss Fettering what I was doing. My teacher contemplated the question long and hard before responding she thought I was running. I don’t think Mom told me this story to make me feel bad about my preferred style. She was probably just giving me a heads up that if I altered my execution a bit, I might be able to eradicate some of the abuse I took in my formative years.
The thing is, I never realized I was being made fun of. At least not until sometime around fifth grade. In my mind, I was friends with everyone. I liked them and they liked me. We were a joyful pack of contrasting personalities living in harmony. I blame Little Bear for my astonishing naïveté. I mean, heck, if a bear, a little girl, a duck, and an owl could all be best friends, why couldn’t a room full of humans?What an innocent little girl I was.
Joelle Stinger was the first to overtly bully me out of my delusions. She would snatch my hat off my head and throw it in a mud-puddle; she would always push me in the hallway; and at lunch, she’d take my sandwich and grind it under the heel of her enormous purple Air Jordans.
I remember being confounded by the way she expressed friendship—because yes, even then, I couldn’t fathom someone not wanting to be my friend. It wasn’t until her mother called mine saying she’d heard her daughter was bullying me that the reality of the situation became clear. I was not universally liked. By the eighth grade, I started to question whether I was the stereotypical weird kid who always showed up in those angstyteenage movies. I was one headgear away from becoming a cliché.
I’m completely lost in my reverie and don’t realize there’s a person standing in front of me until she clears her throat. “Oh, hey, hi.” I stumble over my words while staring at the rigidly prim woman across the counter. Her vaguely annoyed expression says it all—she thinks I’m a silly airhead.Take a number, lady.
“Hello.” Her tone is not only brittle, it’s condescending. “My colleague, Margaret, recommended your services. She said you were the best photographer in town.” While I should enjoy the compliment, from her it sounds more like an accusation.
Margaret and Bob Rogers are my favorite clients. Half the business I currently have is from their referrals. Although, I thought they were both retired, so the “colleague” portion of this woman’s comment is a little lost on me.
Without asking for clarification, I inquire, “Are you and your husband looking for something special?” Margaret and Bob have recently been reenacting covers from those bodice-ripping romance novels sold at the drug store. For the life of me, I can’t see this woman wanting to do the same, but who am I to judge? Maybe her ice queen demeanor hides the heart of a wild woman. I hope that’s the case, for her husband’s sake, anyway.
“I’m not married.” Her left eyebrow arches abruptly, nearly touching her hairline. She brushes the razor edge of her blonde bob aside, hooking it behind her ear.Yikes, even her ears are pointy and sharp.
“Oh, okay. I can certainly take some nice pictures ofyou. What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t want pictures of me. I’m here to book a session for a man named Thomas Culpepper.”
“And you want me to do for him what I do for Margaret and Bob?”
“Who’s Bob?” she wants to know.
“Margaret’s husband.”
“I thought her husband was named Randal.”
At this point, I probably should have considered the possibility we were talking about different Margarets, but I didn’t. Social cues have never been my strong suit and as such I’ve gotten to a place where I ignore half the things that don’t make sense to me. It’s either that or accept feeling like I’ve perpetually lost the plot.
Forcing a smile, I announce with great authority, “Margaret’s husband isBob.” Which in my defense, is true in the case of Margaret Rogers.
With a shrug, Miss Snippy tells me, “Then that’s what I want you to do. If it won’t be too much trouble.” Her half eye-roll is a clear indicator she’s being sarcastic—another indirect use of expression I have a challenging time understanding.
