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Show Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa 112 When we stepped into Mr. Morris' studio, Colby warmed up like a summer morning. I knew he would. He took a long stare and breathed in deep, and I could tell right off that he and Mr. Morris would get along fine. Miss Larkin took me to a dressing closet where she picked out a blue gingham dress with a pinned apron and a straw hat. "Leave off your shoes," she instmcted, and I did. After I was dressed, I looked in the mirror and I saw a farm girl from long ago, someone who'd never seen a television or heard of a computer. I even liked myself in the hat, but Mr. Morris had me take it off and lay it in my lap. After they got me posed up right, Mr. Morris started slashing away at the canvas. Colby looked over his shoulder and never said two words. Mr. Morris mostly whistled low and soft, but sometimes he stopped to give a pointer or two, and when he did, Colby hung on every word. I don't mind telling you that I felt mighty self-conscious, sitting there while those two gawked and discussed every curve on my body. I felt like a cow at a butcher being measured for meat. Mr. Morris was sure nice to Colby. I suspect he was taken with the boy. While the men worked, Miss Larkin flipped through Colby's sketchbook. I had left it on the table and Miss Larkin didn't know it was off limits. She turned pages slowly and studied every one. I wanted to jump up and take a peek myself. When the men finally finished, Miss Larkin whispered something to Mr. Morris and then she led Colby to the gallery. She turned on the lights and Colby never moved, never breathed-like the place was holy, and the slightest breath would bring the visitor shame. I saw Miss Larkin take his hand and they stepped inside. |