27
Less than two weeks later, I'm sitting in the program coordinator's office. It turns out that the woman is real, despite all rumors and speculation to the contrary; by some miracle, I got an appointment with her the day after I called, in person.
So here I am. I'd even made some effort to look presentable: I'm wearing jeans that fit and have no holes in them, and a grey sweater that's actually polyester, but looks almost classy. And the only jewelry is my bracelet from Quebec City, peeking chastely from beneath my sleeve.
She's across the desk from me and between us sits my portfolio, a huge black folder with my photos behind plastic covers. She peers at each one attentively through her stylish green-framed glasses. Her hair is cut short and bleached platinum, with a matching green streak. I think I like her.