(the next two chapters were written by the enigmatic Member-- his talent is greatly appreciated :) )
On the phone, Ms. Polluck sounded as pleasant as she ordinarily looked, and Megan had only to bring up the subject of the ‘Freshman Portraits’ to be drowned out in a flood of politeness.
“Oh my goodness, Megan! I am so sorry!” she said. “Barbara should have contacted you and arranged something, but I’m afraid she’s new, poor thing, and my memory just isn’t what it once was! Of course, you’re wondering why all the other students and faculty have had their Freshman Portraits and you haven’t!”
“Uh, yes,” said Megan. She would have explained that she took no offense, and really just wanted, as the art teacher, to meet the artist, but Ms. Polluck continued to speak in her breathless, rambling manner, which left little space for clarification..
“We will set up an appointment for Miss Porter right away, won’t we, Barbara? Maybe this afternoon, if dear Mr. Basil can, hm-hm, pencil you in! Oh, my dear, to think you had to call me to bring it up! How unforgivable of me to forget something as important as the Freshman Portrait! Why, it’s a central part of the whole Buttercombe Experience!”
The conversation did not end for another fifteen minutes, during which time Megan accepted approximately eighteen apologies, an invitation to dine at Ms. Polluck’s quarters in two weeks, and an appointment with local artist “Mr. Basil Remington” for 2:00 that afternoon.
“I’ll send a cabwagon around at one-forty-five?” asked Ms. Polluck. Souped-up golf carts with extra comfy seats (called, inexplicably, “cabwagons”) were the favorite means of transportation for most of the faculty at Buttercombe. Megan failed to see why they were necessary, and had the feeling that they contributed to the...shape of life on campus as much as anything else.
“Um, that’s okay,” she said. “If you tell me where the place is, I can just walk.”
“Good for you!” said Ms. Polluck, laughing. “Do you have a pen?”
---------------------------------------------------------
Walking was good for her, she supposed, as she made her way through the woods on the East side of campus at one-thirty. But she’d simply always enjoyed a stroll through the country (or, for that matter, through downtown Atlanta, where she’d gone to college). She’d never walked simply to stay thin.
Ms. Polluck’s comment, though, made her feel strange--as though it would somehow be impossible to enjoy the smell of the woods, the flaming trees (less vivid now than they had been a week ago), the crackle of leaves underfoot, the bustling squirrels, and the small, white sun preparing (already!) to go down, if not for the thought that it would somehow be good for her health. Megan was an aesthete as well as an artist. To think too much about her own beauty--her pink, pimple-less skin (perhaps less tanned than she would like), her ringlets of dirty blonde hair, her slender middle and long legs, and her large, grey eyes--to dwell on her own qualities would be to turn herself from an artist into a subject.
And even, she thought, if this Basil or Mr. Remington, or whoever was perfectly harmless--which she was ninety-nine percent sure he would be--she didn’t like the idea of being anyone else’s subject. And that was why--perhaps a bit impertinently--she was trudging the mile or so through the woods with canvas, paints and brushes in tow. He would, hopefully, have an extra easel there. If he was going to paint her, then, very well--she would paint him as well.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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