Chapter 23: The Way She Is

What makes a model?

What qualities imbibe the psyche? What composes the facade?

These types of questions cannot be answered with fact or by empirical means. And it is this reality that makes those questions infinitely more fascinating than say, some arbitrary stoichiometry calculation. Ginger’s understanding of this principle is, quite singly, what drove her as she modeled.

It was not for a lack of intelligence that she deferred to the seductions of fashion; quite the opposite. She was a younger Carla Bruni, a model of the European calibre. The facet of her personality which dominated was unquestionably her intellect. One wondered– when she flashed her smile and flipped her hair over her shoulder while her legs carried her to the next position– what had she been reading the night before?

The answers would have surprised anyone. By the time she began carrying a purse, it always contained some paperback. She read Salinger & Fitzgerald, Easton Ellis and Tartt. The vapid sorts of boys who drooled over her were quickly shut down when she began to speak. There came a time, eventually, when she found herself interested in one of them. He was a douche: arrogant for no reason, interested in meaningless hobbies such as memorizing sports stats, preoccupied with his cliche and unoriginal thoughts.

When admirers of Ginger — and there were many — saw her with him, the reactions were wholly shrugs and nods. They really did not expect it to be different. See, despite Ginger’s intellect, no one really believed a promising young model could possibly fall for anyone different than she did.

“That will come later,” her mother said.

“What will? Some sense?” her father replied. For his cool head about all things, it surprised everyone that her father disliked this guy. There is one thing for a father to see a man not very much like himself and dislike that man. This happens often with fathers and suitors. It is quite another thing to see not just the absence of himself, but the absence of that which is inspiring. Far from appearing evil to Ginger’s parents, the young man just seemed about the equivalent of vanilla ice cream. No spice. No spark.

And Ginger needed the spark.

Ginger spent some time with this tool for a while, and he abruptly dumped her a few months into it. Her mouth clamped shut, pouting lips pressed tightly together into a thin line, far less attractive and far more off-putting. She spoke little after that, and this reality pained those close to her. She always had such joyful words, bouncy and full of life and expression. But at once she was near-mute, much more the model of America: stoic, turned inward, ungrateful.

The chick she’d been dropped for? She was not much: big breasts, thicker thighs. Faux blonde hair. Nothing special. But she was a slut, and sluts have infinite, universal appeal. If only Ginger had known this. If only Ginger had known her worth lay independent of all these things.

For Ginger, like all young men and women of our generation, there was only heartbreak. The funny thing about breakups– no matter how trivial or serious– is that no one ever thinks about anything except what they are leaving. What a different Ginger it would have been, if she had only imagined the possibilities. What a different Ginger, if she had believed what remained still to come would so easily and completely eclipse that which had been left. Instead, she remained stoic, refused to eat, and retreated to her room.

But her books came with her.