They strolled back into the town, and her grandmother walked over to a small café where a couple of drivers sat. Saint moved on, stopping beside the stone fountain as a cluster of kids balanced on the brim.
She shopped the windows of a dozen stores, almost stopped when she saw a replica colonial cob coin she knew Patch would die for.
In the Central Camera Store she spent a while looking over FD lenses, Super 8s, and autozooms. The guy at the counter wore a blue smock and a wide tie and talked aberrations and resolution, color balance and flare reduction with a customer.
Saint liked the smell, somewhere between chemical and new, the leather cases and brown canvas bags. When it was her turn the man noticed her camera, pointed to a name badge that told her he was Larry, and then flat out asked if she’d like him to take a look at her work.
“It’s not work,” she said.
It was as she waited for him to ring up her film that she saw the noticeboard beside the counter, spilling with ads. People selling old equipment, just a series of numbers that meant nothing to her.
And then beside it.
She walked over, left Larry with his hand out as she stared at the poster.
Eli Aaron Photography
Saint took it down and looked at the girl in the advertisement.
Misty Meyer smiling a little shyly, arms crossed over a long knit vest.
“Don’t believe all that about making you a model,” Larry said, wiping his hands on his smock. He cleared his throat, like he’d misspoken. “I mean…if you wanted your portrait done there’s better on the board. I know girls like you, you all want to be models, right?”
Saint looked down at her overalls and her faded sneakers.
“You go try Sandy Wheaton, he’s good.”
Saint placed the paper on the counter. “This man—”
Larry shifted a little, uncomfortable. “We’ve developed for him a couple times.”
“And?”
Larry dropped his eyes. “Listen, kid—”
“Please,” she said, so tired now.
“No one made a formal complaint, but I heard some things. Not enough to give to the cops. Or to stop him placing his ads all over town. Put it this way, I have a daughter your age, and I wouldn’t want her handing money to this guy.”
Saint slipped the paper into her bag and walked out without her film.
Larry caught her at the door with it. “There’s something else. Ain’t really my place…”
“But?”
“He’s the photographer for half a dozen schools around here. You tell your friends not to go wasting their money.”