Becoming His Muse, Part Two

BECOMING HIS MUSE

I’ve been shaking ever since I left Logan O’Shane’s office. All afternoon, all evening, all through my tumultuous torrid dreams, and now this morning, as I sit sketching on a bench under a partially denuded oak tree. My whole body vibrates with fear and excitement, a sense of daring and danger, of being myself and risking being someone else. What has he done to me?

Nothing yet. And something… He asked me to be his muse.

Yesterday, in his office, after twisting my wrist, he kissed it, on the inside. Other than that he didn’t touch me again, didn’t kiss me again, though I was dying for him to. Like the other morning in the studio, he seems to know how to work me up into a lather and then keep me waiting. It makes me crazy, and frustrated, but it also whets my desire to a sharpness I’ve never felt before.

He promised that we would meet soon. To begin to inspire each other. He said he could teach me things about art and sex and life. He said he wants me to be his muse. What exactly does that mean? He said he would break me open. What does
that
mean?…

Yet he hasn’t sought me out. I know it’s only been a day (a day that feels like a week) but what if he’s changed his mind? Or what if he thinks I’ve changed mine? Since I didn’t give him a straight answer to his unusual invitation to be his muse.

I always thought muses inspired from afar, though it’s obvious he wants a 'hands on' experience of inspiration. And, truthfully, I can’t help wanting to be what’s under those searching, creative hands. But I know the risk I’m taking if I say yes. I can’t feign ignorance. He’s a professor and I’m a student. With the new College Board policy, I risk expulsion before graduation and Logan risks getting fired.

I could still say no. And I probably should. But am I strong enough to say no? Would he even take no for an answer?

I wish we’d at least exchanged phone numbers. I have no way to reach him. Though there’s a good chance I’ll run into him tonight at the art department’s meet-n-greet cocktail party, but that’s not until this evening and it isn’t even noon yet. I sigh and set my sketchbook aside.

Sketching has calmed me down somewhat but I am still confused and uncertain. To distract myself, I go to the studio to prime half a dozen canvasses. Then I go to the gym and run three miles on the treadmill.

After showering, I hear my phone ring. I dash, dripping, to answer, hoping it’s Logan— maybe he’s used his professorial access to the student database and has looked me up? — but no, it’s only Ruby.

“You’re coming tonight, right?” she says.

“Yeah. I promised Dr. T I’d be there.”

My favorite teacher, Dr. Tennenbaum, has organized the event. He asked the senior visual arts majors to come. Ruby’s invited, too, as a senior in the creative writing department.

“It looks like our whole department is going,” she says. “At least all the seniors and staff. So you know what that means… O’Shane will be there.” There is a singsong suggestive lilt to the last bit of her sentence.

I’m tempted to tell her about Logan’s proposition, just to get the weight off my chest, and I know the mere thought would thrill her beyond belief, but it is suddenly clear to me how untenable the situation is. It would be too hard to keep such a secret, and too much to lose if such a secret were exposed. Even now I find it hard not to tell her and nothing’s even happened yet.

I laugh away her suggestive tone, deciding in that very moment that I will tell Logan, 'no', I can’t be his muse. At least not the 'hands-on' type. My heart sinks a little with the decision.

Ruby tells me she’ll walk over early with the other writing students. I tell her I’ll meet her there a bit later and then hang up.

Despite making my decision, and I know it’s the right one, I take extra care getting ready. When I do see Logan, at least I want to look good. I choose to wear a mid-length, clingy skirt, ankle boots, and a fitted v-neck sweater. The fall air has turned cool but my skirt’s long enough that I don’t think I’ll need tights or even nylons.

Once I step out into the evening, it’s cooler than I thought. I might regret bare legs, but only my calves are exposed and I don’t have that far to walk to the Faculty of Arts Commons Room.

On the way, I see Ronnie Larkin coming up the path from the student parking lot. I wave and he waves back, jogging to catch up with me. Ronnie’s a sculptor and shyly gay. He’s already picked out the street he wants to live on in New York’s East Village. I’m hoping one day in the near future we’ll be visiting New York art openings and reminiscing about our college days over strong coffee. Ronnie’s wearing his thrift store black pea coat, skinny black jeans, Doc Marten’s, and a hint of eyeliner.

He looks at my heeled boots and long jacket when he gets close enough to compare outfits.

“Oh, no. Maybe I should have dressed up more,” he whines.

“You look great.” I give him a hug. He smells great too. “Is that new hair gel?”

He nods. “Maybe I should have worn a sports jacket and Hush Puppies instead.”

“You’re an art student, you can wear whatever you want,” I say.

He looks me up and down. “So can you, but you could get into a country club looking like that.”

His comment tells me I look more conservative than I was aiming for.

“Unless we’re both going home to change, let’s forget about what we’re wearing, okay?”

By now we’re only a few yards from the double doors of the faculty building anyway. I take a deep breath. I’m acutely aware that Logan is probably inside and I feel my resolve to tell him ‘no’ begin to falter.

“Third floor, right?” says Ronnie, leading us toward the elevator.

“I think so.” A wave of nerves flows through me. I’m not sure how I’ll react when I see him. I will myself to remain cool, calm, and collected.

When the elevator doors open onto the third floor we hear classical music coming from a big room at the end of the hall. A crowd mills beyond the open door labeled Faculty Lounge. Inside, people are walking around with wine glasses and crackers layered with cheese or lounging on slightly dated furniture and engaged in vivid conversation. I take a deep breath and try to relax. My first instinct always is to turn around and leave or find a quiet corner where I can observe everyone else. At heart I’m an introvert, and on top of that I like observing people and places because it’s a process of composing and studying color and light and shadow. I am never not a painter when I go out in public and so I always need to make an extra effort to be sociable.

A Teacher’s Assistant, I think her name is Gwen, is taking coats at the door and stacking them up on a couch pushed against the wall. Ronnie hands over his pea coat and takes mine from me.

“Ooh, Burberry. Sweet,” he says, fondling the soft wool. I feel self-conscious now because I know Ronnie is here on bursaries and student loans, while I’m riding the wave of my father’s conditional generosity.

“Gift from my parents.” I say. “So I can get into
their
country club.” I sound sarcastic and Ronnie calls me on it.

“Count your blessings, Ava. Don’t knock your lot in life. You pulled the lucky cards. Looks, talent,
and
resources.” He helps himself to two glasses of red wine from a long table and hands me a glass.

“It’s just that I don’t really want my parents’ help. I want to make it on my own.”

“Spoken like a girl who’s had a lot of help in life.”

“Are you saying I’m spoiled?”

“No. Not at all. Just that you can only knock help when you’ve had your fair share. When you haven’t, you take all you can get, no questions asked.”

“Sorry, Ronnie. I didn’t mean to knock it. I guess I just wish it didn’t have strings attached.”

“What kinds of strings?”

“Like finish up this “silly art business” and apply to law school.”

“Ouch. What about New York?”

“They don’t know about that yet. The strings will snap when they hear about those plans. I’ll have to make it on my own then.”

“You’ll do it, Babe. I believe in you.” He smiles and clinks his glass against mine. “And when you’re in high places, you’ll give me a hand up.”

“Life is unpredictable, Ronnie. I wouldn’t be surprised if you end being the one to give me a hand up.”

“In that less-than-probable reality, you can count on it. But don’t you worry, your parents won’t abandon you. They love you. They bought you Burberry, after all.” He winks and gets a smile out of me.

“We’ll see. I guess I’ll find out after Thanksgiving break.”

We both sip our wine and casually survey the room. I can’t see Logan anywhere. Even though it’s crowded, I’m sure he’d stand out to me. Like a beacon. For days I’ve felt a pull toward him, and the feeling is strongest tonight. I have to be strong and resist it.

I see the Dean of Arts, Wilson Ascott. He nods to me. He’s good friends with my father, who, in addition to being alumni, is a major benefactor to the college. I don’t think Dean Ascott looks at me without seeing my father’s checkbook, which means he doesn’t really see me. I can’t wait to get out from under my father’s shadow and away from his expectations, but that’s not going to happen until after I graduate. Thankfully, that’s less than a year away.

A cute guy across the room waves at us. Actually, not at
us
, at Ronnie. I raise an eyebrow in his direction.

“That’s Owen,” says Ronnie. I swear I see a hint of a blush grace his pale skin. Owen looks as pale and skinny as Ronnie, but I don’t recognize him.

“Is he in the art department?”

“No. Urban Design.”

I wonder if he knows Jonathan? Poor J-man. He was so pissed at Ruby he decided to forgo tonight’s event so he wouldn’t have to be in the same room while she flirts with other guys.

”Mind if I abandon you to go talk to him?” says Ronnie.

“No strings between us. Go right ahead.”

I survey the room again hoping to spot Ruby. That’s when I hear Logan’s voice. That slow, languid, dreamy voice. It seems to be coming from over by the cluster of couches. My whole body responds to the sound of that voice... What is it I’m supposed to tell him? Something to do with “No, I can’t…” but I can’t quite remember the details now… Just as I’m about to walk over to the couches, like a moth to a flame, Madeleine Hare, who teaches Religious Art and Symbols, approaches me. I took her class last year and ever since my paper on Bosch, she’s had a particular fondness for me. I look past her, all my senses homing in on Logan’s presence, but I can’t be rude when she starts talking to me, so I drag my gaze away and focus on her petite frame, mousy brown hair, and black-rimmed glasses.

“Your final year, Ava. You must be excited.” At the moment, my heart is fluttering with excitement to see Logan, but I nod politely and try to chitchat.

“Are you teaching the same classes this year?”

She shakes her head. “A few. I’ve got a bit of a lighter load this year due to changing life circumstances.”

I glance at her strong, athletic build half expecting her to announce that she’s pregnant but instead she sighs and says, “My husband and I split up this past summer.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Isn’t that too much personal information coming from a professor to a student? An ironic thought considering how
personally
interested I am in Logan right now. And I’m dying to cross the room to see him. It’s definitely his voice over there, and I just heard Ruby’s high-pitched laugh coming from the same direction. But I can’t ditch Professor Hare. Not when she’s just told me something so devastating. It’s clear she’s sad. Tiny glimmers in the corners of her eyes tell me tears are close at hand.

“I’m really sorry, Professor Hare.” And I do mean that, even if I don’t want to stick around and talk about it right now.

Perhaps she senses that because she dons a false smile.

“We all must carry on, mustn’t we? When the shit hits the fan be prepared to scrub yourself off.”

I almost laugh. I’ve never heard her swear before. And now I remember how fun she can be, how approachable.

“And, Ava, I told you last year to call me Madeleine. Now that you’re a senior, I insist on it.”

She catches me glancing across the room as I shift from foot to foot.

“Go on and enjoy the party,” she says. “But don’t be a stranger. Stop by my office sometime for a chat.”

“Sure. I’d like that.” I smile, relieved to escape, but also touched that she wants to maintain our connection.

She turns and heads toward the group of professors milling around Dean Ascott.

I take a few steps in the direction of the couch and finally see him. Logan O’Shane. He’s in the middle of the couch with several senior students, mostly female, on either side of him. And now I spot Ruby. She’s right in that midst. She waves when she sees me. Logan notices her waving and looks over. When his eyes lock on mine he stops speaking in mid sentence. His green eyes slice up and down my figure. I feel as if I’ve been branded by a fire-tipped sword. I quickly look away and hope he’ll do the same. This is not the place to throw sparks. A day away from him had me doubting our chemistry. Now, standing twenty feet away, his simple look has rendered me breathless. And we haven’t even
done
anything yet. I remind myself that I’ve decided to nip this attraction in the bud, that I’ve come here to tell him ‘no’, but being in the same room with him is making me lose sight of my earlier reasoning. I feel as if I’m restraining every cell in my body from their joint effort to make me go sit on his lap. I never should have come. I don't trust myself in public with him. I should have told Dr. T I was busy.