Oscar was supposed to meet with his professor, but the woman was late. She'd told him that she wanted to buy him a drink to celebrate his current success in an exhibit in the Contemporary Art Institute. He'd had four pieces on show; they were displayed along with several others from rather well-known sculptors. The fact that Oscar was a no-name amongst the renowned hardly made him feel inferior; in fact, it gave him intense pleasure to have his obscure moniker equal with those of the pros. People would see Oscar Marcus there with the others and in their minds would place him at the same level of greatness. This was indeed a success, and Dr. Chilton had been the cause of it.

After Oscar's pieces had sold well at that auction a while back, Dr. Chilton had taken a sudden interest in him and his work. She'd been the one to encourage and help design his subsequent pieces and, even though they hadn't been projects that particularly interested Oscar, they'd really gone over well in Dr. Chilton's eyes. She'd gathered them up immediately and come back to him a few days later to announce that he'd been given space in a metal-works exhibit in the Contemporary Art Institute. It had been great news. The Contemporary Art Institute was no insignificant gallery. Next to the Metropolitan Art Museum, it was the most visited art-related attraction in the city. It was known throughout the country for its cutting-edge exhibits, and it was a prodigious feat to get one piece on show there, let alone four! Oscar's show pieces consisted of two steel sculptures and two steel and glass sculptures. He'd attempted to give his pieces some sort of cohesion so that, next to one another, they flowed. Additionally, he'd wanted to show his versatility by using two different mediums. Although he preferred his work to be smooth and shaped off of natural objects, Dr. Chilton had cautioned him against being too soft; he needed sharp edges for this exhibit, she'd said. Angles, corners, points. Cubes and triangles, not spheres. Jaggedness—that's what was needed. It would show that he was bold and unafraid of severity and structure. It would force the important people to take him seriously, she said. And Oscar figured that it was important, at this stage in his pursuits, to be taken seriously. Dr. Chilton had told him it was more crucial that he convince the exhibitors and the other artisans of his talent than it was to impress the viewers; most people wandering through museums and art fairs knew nothing at all about art. They looked at it and made rash comments, but they actually knew very little. They were easily amazed, because they could neither conceive of nor create the sorts of things to which they were exposed, and so their opinions, which were based on little more than whims, mattered little. Whatever the general public thought of his artwork, it meant nothing, Dr. Chilton had said—the judges of whether or not he would break into the art world were those already in the community. That was just how it was with a subject matter such as his. Making money was all based on connections and word of mouth.

Oscar, of course, thought it would be fabulous to make money off his art. He had the notion that he was going to be one of those rare people who not only got to do what he loved but also made a living off of it. There were many artistic people whose art had to be put aside as a hobby because they couldn't survive off it, and then there were the people who attempted to survive off it but lived pretty much in poverty their entire lives. He was going to be neither of those sorts of people; he was determined to make it.

His phone rang. He heard it somewhat late and by the time he found the phone in his coat pocket, voicemail had picked it up. A little flustered, he unlocked the phone and checked the call; maybe it was Dr. Chilton explaining why she was late. He hoped that was who it was—waiting was beginning to annoy him—but it wasn't his professor; it was his mother.

He'd let her leave a message. Oscar didn't feel like talking to the woman right then, partially because he was in a bar and didn't feel like having a conversation audible to everyone around him but mostly because he just didn't feel like talking to her. His mother was most likely calling to see how the show went, and he knew if she got him on that subject, he wouldn't be able to get her off the phone for at least an hour; she'd want to know every detail down to how the lighting had been arranged and how much tickets had cost. Nothing escaped his mother's attention, and that was fine, unless Oscar didn't have the time for details.

Oscar loved his mother immensely. He knew she had put a ton of effort into raising him properly and to the best of her ability. He'd never been much of a problem for her growing up, even during his adolescent years. Oscar had always been a decently behaved boy. At an early age he'd sensed his mother had been dealt a tough lot, and he'd known, somehow instinctively, that it was his responsibility to please her. He'd gone through elementary school with few memories beyond the projects on which he'd worked constantly, hoping that his masterpieces would make his mother happy. He'd spent hours in their little house's backyard, taking scraps of metal and plastic and glass and hot gluing them into bird houses and fruit bowls and flower pots. Things that would be useful to her. In school, he'd always chosen the subject matter of his art projects with his mother in mind. He'd draw a picture of the pond in the park, because he knew his mother liked to walk their dog there. He'd paint tulips and daffodils because he knew they were his mother's favorites. Rarely did Oscar concern himself with what he would have enjoyed making a picture of; his work was always a present to his mother. He had done everything to please her.

As he'd grown, Oscar had distanced himself somewhat from the idea of creating only for his mother's joy. He'd come a bit more into his own with the help of some savvy art teachers. Ceramics and sculpture had appealed to him more than any painting or drawing classes, and it was in such subject matters that he found his calling. Oscar loved working with ugly things and turning them into beautiful objects. Lumps of muddy clay, scraps of rusted metal, shards of glass, bits of wire—all were things others might consider dirty or fit for the garbage, but Oscar reveled in such treasures. He was certain that his obsession with junk had begun during his fourth grade year when his father had come back to visit after being away for years. In fact, he could pinpoint the very night he'd gone out to the neighbor's dumpster and begun sifting through it. He hadn't particularly meant to find art supplies—he'd been searching for something else—but in the process of looking for what he'd hoped to locate, he'd been distracted by the beauty of random broken objects glittering under the moonlight like jewels. That night, he'd gotten rather cut up and had to get a Tetanus shot the next afternoon, but his fascination with scraps had remained and was still going strong. It was the idea of turning something ugly into something beautiful that drew Oscar to his work. There was so much ugliness in the world—too much—and if he could make that ugliness a little less real . . . well, then, perhaps the world's unsightliness wasn't permanent after all. So much of life was uncontrollable, so much of it lost its luster when it was exposed to reality, so much was made into unpleasant reminders that there were no heights to be reached; he felt it not only his obligation but also his only mode of survival to cause the process to move backward. He needed to convince himself that there was something worth living for.

"Oscar, there you are, dear! I've been standing in the lobby for nearly fifteen minutes!"

Immediately upon hearing Dr. Chilton's voice, Oscar blushed. His brain knew it was for three reasons: first, because she'd called him dear as if he was a child; second, because he felt awful for making her wait; and third, because there was something in her tone that just made him nervous (she was his professor, after all, and they were meeting together, alone, for a drink).

"It's all right," the woman assured him before he could respond, making it clear that he wore a sheepish expression.

"Dr. Chilton, I'm sorry," Oscar offered, knowing it was a little unnecessary at that point. "I thought we were going to meet in here." They were at a hotel bar, right across from the university art complex; he really had thought the woman had told him to meet inside.

Dr. Chilton pulled herself up onto a bar stool beside him. "Really, don't worry about it. And you can call me Kate. We're outside of the classroom, you know. In the real world, we drop all pretenses."

She flashed a smile at him and he felt butterflies for some reason; when he noticed them, he nearly flushed again from embarrassment. It was a good thing the woman couldn't see inside him. "Did you want to move to a table . . . or something?" he asked, feeling stupid, like a little boy. It was all the dear's fault. He knew it.

"Oh, no. I like to sit at the bar. Makes me feel like I belong in a place. Like a regular, almost."

She nudged his arm with her elbow and grinned as if they'd just shared an inside joke, and Oscar had to choke down his nerves. Why was he feeling so ridiculous, all of a sudden? He was certainly adult enough to meet another adult in a bar and order a drink to discuss business. There was nothing at all weird about it, and yet he wasn't sure he could call her Kate—not Dr. Chilton. Dr. Chilton who always was dressed up prim and proper in suits underneath her art aprons; Dr. Chilton who kept her hair back tight and her glasses always a little askew like some slightly nutty professor; Dr. Chilton who kept herself constantly aloof and at a distance from her students. The woman was a brilliant teacher, no doubt—Oscar had learned more in her classes than in any of his other art classes combined—but she was definitely no Kate.

"What are you drinking?" she asked him, pointing at the pilsner in his hand.

"Pale Ale," he noted. "It's a wheat beer."

"With olives in it?"

Oscar smiled. Eve always put green olives in her beer, otherwise she couldn't drink it. She liked the salt, she said, and after trying it, Oscar had become hooked. A reminder of Eve had been what he needed. "A friend of mine got me hooked," he responded, feeling the confidence rub back into him. "It's the salt, you know? And then the olives taste amazing, all saturated in beer."

Dr. Chilton didn't look convinced. She signaled the bartender and ordered a martini. "I like my olives in hard alcohol," she commented.

Her classier drink made him wish he'd waited to see what she'd order before he'd gotten his. And had it been rude of him not to wait for her? Did people in her ring—the artist ring—drink martinis? Was his drink choice revealing in the wrong way? He hated asking himself such questions but the confidence he'd just gained wavered again; perhaps he wasn't presenting himself properly.

Dr. Chilton sipped her martini and relished the first taste of it, closing her eyes and smiling just a little. When she opened her eyes again, she turned to Oscar, and the smile remained. "Now," she said, apparently ready to tackle some subject. "To the real meat of the matter. You, Oscar."

"Me?"

"Yes, of course. I'm not going to lie—the popularity of your work has startled me. I hadn't given much consideration to what you'd come up with in class, and I apologize for that."

Her abrupt confession threw him off guard. "Oh, you don't have to worry about that. Not at all."

"Well, yes I do," she continued. "If I am so blind when marketable talent comes along, perhaps I'm not doing my job as I should be. I've been running auctions and organizing showings for ten years, but in all that time, I've only pulled three students aside for exhibition and promotion—you being one of them. I never look to my students for work, never. I can't really say why. Maybe it's because I consider my teaching and my procuring entirely different worlds that should rarely—if ever—mingle. I like to work with artists whom I know have credibility and prestige. I don't like to take chances, really, particularly with my students. You—and all the other students I have—are not yet privy to the harsh reality of what it's like in the art world. It's cutthroat, Oscar. People aren't very nice to one another, and they do what they can to get ahead. My students are precious to me; they're innocent and naïve—in a way that is good, mind you—and I don't want them spoiled too soon because of me. I know that's a little selfish on my part, but I justify it by telling myself I'm allowing you all to keep your dreams for a little longer. Once graduation comes, almost all of you will vanish into the ductwork, and I won't see you again. You'll be gobbled up by a city that doesn't appreciate what you feel you can offer it. Bleak, I know . . . but it is what it is."

She sipped her drink again; Oscar had no idea what to say and was glad when she began talking again, obviously never having expected him to make comment.

"You might be wondering, then, why I've decided to subject you to the world. And it's fair for you to wonder that. You see, I don't like feeling as if I'm deceiving a student, so I knew I'd have to speak with you and make all aspects of the situation clear; then, you'll be able to make up your mind about how you wish to continue and not feel as if you're relying on my good judgment, because I'll tell you, Oscar, my judgment is not always good at all.

"At first, my motive for pulling you into all this was purely selfish: I needed some pieces to fill holes in an auction, and you were the only one there. I needed you, and I knew you wouldn't deny me a few bits of work you didn't care much about anyhow. But when I saw what your pieces went for—and without the buyers even knowing your name!—I knew I would have to sacrifice a bit of my integrity to see where this could lead. You see, Oscar, if I'm right about you (and I think I am), you might be one of the few who will be able to preserve yourself and your ideals and make a name and place for yourself at the same time! You can do what you love and desire while profiting from it. Do you know how rare a chance people have to live off their passion?"

Oscar didn't want to mention to her that he'd hardly been passionate about the pieces she'd used in her auction and at the showing; she seemed so thrilled with what she was saying that he just didn't want to bring her back down. With the light reflecting off her glasses, it looked as if her eyes glittered with tears of joy. He re-phrased what he was thinking and let it come out less abrasively. "But I thought you said that if I was exposed to the behind-the-scenes aspect of it all I'd become jaded and lose my joy in what I do."

"Yes. I did say that." Dr. Chilton removed her glasses and Oscar realized that it hadn't been reflecting light that made her appear to have watery eyes; she really did have them. They looked large and pretty, full of fervor. "That's why I'd like you to consider me your . . . well . . . your agent, so to speak. My proposition to you is this: you do what you love, every day, creating the extraordinary things you create, and let me do all the background work. With my connections and experience, it can't fail." She placed her glasses on the bar and, putting both of her hands atop one of his, gazed earnestly into his eyes. "I will make you famous, and you won't suffer a bit for it."

Her words sounded so foreign to him that he sincerely did not know how to respond. Famous? Him? Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, he knew he wanted fame. But he had never considered it to be offered to him so unexpectedly and from someone like Dr. Chilton. The woman was quite taken with his work, that was no doubt—but did Oscar really want what she was proposing? Did he really want her to be his manager or envoy? He hardly knew her on a personal level, and to put his trust entirely in someone he hardly knew was quite a leap of faith. If she did all the behind-the-scenes work, she'd basically control his success. And yet . . . as much as he felt anxious about the idea, Oscar also felt the rising sensation that it might be quite nice to leave the dirty work to someone else. The schedulings, the press releases, the auctions and shows—all things that would eat into his time to create and limit his capabilities. In addition, he'd be left more time to indulge in his personal life. The stress of immediately finding work after graduation and the strains on his finances would—according to Dr. Chilton if everything went the way she spoke—disappear. He'd be left free to do what he loved to do and enjoy his life. The offer was almost too good to be true.

His heart beat quicker, and excitement must have begun to show in his features, because Dr. Chilton took her hands off of his and put her glasses back on. "Well," she said, breaking the silence of Oscar's competing thoughts. "You let me know what you decide to do. There's no hurry—although as soon as you give me the word, I'll begin making phone calls." So saying, Dr. Chilton downed the remainder of her martini and stood to go.

"Wait, Dr. Chilton . . ." Why was she getting up so quickly? They'd just begun discussing his prospects!

"Kate, dear—Kate." She wrapped her scarf around her bare throat and looked earnestly at Oscar, smiling in an almost condescending manner. "Even if you want to answer me right now, I won't let you. Give it a night or two, and let me know when I see you again."

He wanted to respond but she stopped him with a motion of her hand. Then, realizing her glass was not entirely empty, Dr. Chilton took the olive pick, removed the olive slowly from it with her tongue, and, with one final smile in his direction, left Oscar alone in the bar. All the man could do was stare after her with the general impression that some great wind had just materialized and blown out the door. The only image playing repeatedly through his thoughts was that of Dr. Chilton's—Kate's—tongue wrapping itself around that olive and drawing it between her lips into her mouth.