"At the risk of sounding rude," I began meekly, fidgeting with the sleeves of my floor-length robe, "when exactly can I expect---"
"...Payment?" Mr. Clark, the college's drawing professor, finished. I nodded. He wore a kindly smile on his face, and it offered just enough comfort to keep me from running, screaming, from the building. I was all nerves and dread, bottled up like a vigorously-shaken soda and ready to pop at a moment's notice. "Not to worry," he continued. "It's all right here." He withdrew a thin envelope from the back pocket of his woebegone blue jeans, stained here and there from various pigments, and I pinched the edges to chance a peek inside after he pressed it into my hands. Once I spotted the mildew green of the six twenty-dollar bills, I placed the envelope gingerly into my purse.
"Thank you so much." I tried to keep the resigned sigh from creeping into my voice. "You don't know what a lifesaver you've been. I really needed this. If it hadn't been for your ad..."
"Really, I should be thanking you," he assured me. "Our other model dropped out so soon, I was sure I would have to reschedule the class. It would have made a mess out of the rest of the semester. You've done me a big favor by showing up at all. Maybe if it goes well, we can give you a call for the life-drawing class in spring," he added cheerfully, and I felt the color drain from my face.
"Oh, I don't know," I said.
"Well, are you about ready? Did you try those stretching exercises I sent you? I won't ask you to do handstands or anything, of course, but staying posed for so long can be straining..."
"I did, thanks." He inclined his greying head in a grateful nod, and I fell into step beside him as he began to trot towards the classroom door. I suddenly felt cold all over. Something like a scream was building up in the back of my head, and I could hear it just as clearly as if it was erupting out of my mouth. Self-consciously, I found myself touching my lips with my fingertips, making sure my lips were firmly shut. "And how long am I standing again?"
"Two hours. It would be shorter, but this is their midterm. We'll take a fifteen minute break after the first forty-five minutes." The door handle creaked with the rotation of his wrist, and a waft of cool air flitted over my skin from the next room. I caught the waxy, heady scent of paint and the warm smell of old wood. "Are you sure I can't get you some tea?" he asked suddenly, and when I looked back up at him, worry had tainted his features. I quickly tried to banish the dread from my expression.
"I'm fine," I lied. He gave me another warm smile, and I returned it as best as I could before he moved through the doorway and gestured for me to follow.
The room was enormous and furnished only with tall cupboards and a line of wide, white drawing tables, (tilted at varying degrees for the artists), that encircled a raised platform. Each table was inhabited by a student perched in a stool. I tried not to make eye contact with any of them, and I could tell that they were trying to do the same out of courtesy. The lighting was dim save for a few hanging lights that were angled at the platform, bathing it in a warm glow. I hoped that the glare of the lights would blot out their faces, like being on stage. That would make the whole experience go by much faster.
Feeling somewhat like a virgin ascending to a sacrificial pedestal, I wound my way dazedly around the ring of desks and into the middle of the circle. There was a chair on top of it, draped with swathes of orange fabric in a lovely, haphazard sort of way. Swallowing, I clambered onto the platform and stood awkwardly in the middle. First, Mr. Clark would introduce me to the class---something I found completely unnecessary but that he insisted would make all of us feel more comfortable.
And then, off went my robe. I wasn't wearing anything underneath it, and---right then, for the first time, at the
most inconvenient moment
---I wondered frantically how the class would react to my full-Brazillian wax job. The term "nude model" conjured an image of ludicrously stereotypical hipster women who were, doubtlessly, much hairier than I could ever dream of being comfortable with.
I was probably just being ridiculous. I hoped I was.
As if from far, far away, I heard Mr. Clark announce, "This is Lila, everyone. She's been gracious enough to pose for us today, and with very short notice."
"Thanks, Lila,"
the class intoned. The mesh of adult voices sounded eerie in its monotony. Very
Children of the Corn.
I could pick out a few that were trying their hardest to be reassuringly chipper, and I wondered how terrified I looked.
"No problem," I croaked out.
"We'll begin whenever you're ready," Mr. Clark said gently, and I gave him a little nod. "Class, if you haven't prepared your supplies, now's the time to do it. There's tape on my desk if you'd like to secure your paper." A soft scuffle of activity followed, brought upon by a handful of students rising from their desks and making their way towards the front of the classroom. To my dismay, I could still make out everyone's faces, but they did seem a little dimmer outside of the light.
After a few moments, when the rustling had died down slightly, I took a deep, deep breath that seemed deafening in the silence, and then I began to remove my robe.
I did it quickly, despite my trepidation. Taking it off slowly would feel too much like a striptease, and I was already uncomfortable enough. Once I had balled it up and tossed it to the side, I lowered myself shakily into the chair. Taking care to cross my legs, I reclined, and then trained my stare carefully on the rooftop window at the back of the classroom. There was a moment of hesitation from the class as I wiggled slowly to make myself comfortable, but when I finally let my limbs droop, I heard the rustle of paper and fingers and the clatter of chalk pastels.
