fat white columns. It was somewhat smaller than Ericson and pocked with window air conditioners. Once behind Masters, Janet began wandering the muddy gravel between the buildings of Masters Annex. Melinda Wolfe was in something called A40-6.
Janet found F, B, G, R, and Q. At this point she put her head into the Admissions Office and asked directions. Building A was between N and G, but set back; its address was concealed by a good growth of ivy. Room 40 was a small square room with doors opening off it, and one of these doors was numbered 6. There was no name tag, only a little wreath of dried plants: the downy gray-green feathers of southernwood, sage with its blue flowers, spiky rosemary, the carrotlike leaves and yellow flowers of fennel. The mingled smells were sharp and rather jolting. Janet was ten minutes late. She stopped woolgathering and knocked, and when a deep, pleasant voice invited her, she went in.
Melinda Wolfe had a green metal desk, stacks of books and pamphlets, a coffee maker, and a dazzling presence. Janet barely managed not to gape at her. This was the first person from the adult world she had seen in a week. No, that wasn't accurate. The professors who had conducted the discussion groups, the college employees who had provided advice, even some of the RA's, were all adult. The outside world, maybe; or maybe just the world of fashion. Janet vowed to tell Christina all about Melinda Wolfe, who had smooth, short red hair; who wore makeup so artful it made you think twice about your sensible decision not to use the damn stuff; who was slender and graceful and wore a gray wool dress that argued all too persuasively that no redhead should ever wear any other color. She had green eyes, too—or tinted contact lenses.
"I'm so glad you're late," she said. "The last one thinks he wants to be a doctor but he won't take any physics courses. Your file looks a lot more promising. Are you completely bewildered, or do you have some idea of what you want?"
Janet passed her the worksheet provided for this purpose. Melinda Wolfe read it and frowned. "English 10, Philosophy 12, Anthropology 10," she said.
"I want to get started on the English courses, since that's my major," said Janet.
"And I need the other two for distribution. I thought the Philo sounded wonderful and the Anthro awful, so it makes a good mix."
"It's an intelligent schedule," said Melinda Wolfe, "if you're sure you want to be an English major. Wouldn't you like to look around a little first? You've got six credits from your AP course, and you're exempt from Freshman Composition, which is what most of your fellow English majors will be taking this term. You said in your entrance essay that you're interested in languages?"
Janet nodded. She was half impressed and half alarmed that Melinda Wolfe had bothered to notice all this. That was, of course, what good advisors were supposed to do, and all those exams and credits were a matter of public record. She still felt, obscurely, that her privacy had been violated.
"Well," said Melinda Wolfe, with a sharp look at Janet, "you might be better off majoring in Classics. Latin and Greek will give you an enormous advantage in learning any other Indo-European language, and introduce you to much of the work that's the basis of English literature. You could still get a Master's degree in English if you liked." She made these practical suggestions in a voice that sounded like Lady Macbeth urging on her reluctant husband. She couldn't help it, perhaps, any more than people with thin voices could.
"What would you recommend?" said Janet, trying not to sound wary.
"Greek Literature in Translation; that's how we snag most of our majors. Keep the Anthropology; you aren't going to like anything that department offers, and you might as well get it over with. I'd advise against this section of Philosophy—it's our visiting professor, and while his books are brilliant, he has a heavy Czechoslovakian accent."
"But I'm
Janet found F, B, G, R, and Q. At this point she put her head into the Admissions Office and asked directions. Building A was between N and G, but set back; its address was concealed by a good growth of ivy. Room 40 was a small square room with doors opening off it, and one of these doors was numbered 6. There was no name tag, only a little wreath of dried plants: the downy gray-green feathers of southernwood, sage with its blue flowers, spiky rosemary, the carrotlike leaves and yellow flowers of fennel. The mingled smells were sharp and rather jolting. Janet was ten minutes late. She stopped woolgathering and knocked, and when a deep, pleasant voice invited her, she went in.
Melinda Wolfe had a green metal desk, stacks of books and pamphlets, a coffee maker, and a dazzling presence. Janet barely managed not to gape at her. This was the first person from the adult world she had seen in a week. No, that wasn't accurate. The professors who had conducted the discussion groups, the college employees who had provided advice, even some of the RA's, were all adult. The outside world, maybe; or maybe just the world of fashion. Janet vowed to tell Christina all about Melinda Wolfe, who had smooth, short red hair; who wore makeup so artful it made you think twice about your sensible decision not to use the damn stuff; who was slender and graceful and wore a gray wool dress that argued all too persuasively that no redhead should ever wear any other color. She had green eyes, too—or tinted contact lenses.
"I'm so glad you're late," she said. "The last one thinks he wants to be a doctor but he won't take any physics courses. Your file looks a lot more promising. Are you completely bewildered, or do you have some idea of what you want?"
Janet passed her the worksheet provided for this purpose. Melinda Wolfe read it and frowned. "English 10, Philosophy 12, Anthropology 10," she said.
"I want to get started on the English courses, since that's my major," said Janet.
"And I need the other two for distribution. I thought the Philo sounded wonderful and the Anthro awful, so it makes a good mix."
"It's an intelligent schedule," said Melinda Wolfe, "if you're sure you want to be an English major. Wouldn't you like to look around a little first? You've got six credits from your AP course, and you're exempt from Freshman Composition, which is what most of your fellow English majors will be taking this term. You said in your entrance essay that you're interested in languages?"
Janet nodded. She was half impressed and half alarmed that Melinda Wolfe had bothered to notice all this. That was, of course, what good advisors were supposed to do, and all those exams and credits were a matter of public record. She still felt, obscurely, that her privacy had been violated.
"Well," said Melinda Wolfe, with a sharp look at Janet, "you might be better off majoring in Classics. Latin and Greek will give you an enormous advantage in learning any other Indo-European language, and introduce you to much of the work that's the basis of English literature. You could still get a Master's degree in English if you liked." She made these practical suggestions in a voice that sounded like Lady Macbeth urging on her reluctant husband. She couldn't help it, perhaps, any more than people with thin voices could.
"What would you recommend?" said Janet, trying not to sound wary.
"Greek Literature in Translation; that's how we snag most of our majors. Keep the Anthropology; you aren't going to like anything that department offers, and you might as well get it over with. I'd advise against this section of Philosophy—it's our visiting professor, and while his books are brilliant, he has a heavy Czechoslovakian accent."
"But I'm
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