Art Girls Are Easy

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Phil

  1

  Indigo Hamlisch stared out the window of her father’s gray Mercedes Coupe and thought about sex.

  It was 5:30 AM, and even though the early summer sun had already risen over the suburban vanishing point where golf course met sky, it was still way too early for anybody in her right mind to be thinking about anything besides caffeine. But Indigo was thirty minutes out of a vivid, if pedestrian, erotic daydream about her art teacher, Nick Estep. She squirmed around in the tight backseat trying to find a comfortable position for her long legs. Up front, Leo Hamlisch merged onto the northbound Taconic Parkway while her stepmom, Yoshiko, futzed with the stereo. Yoshiko had managed to tune the radio to an odd number between the classical station, 888 AM, and the “traffic and weather together” news standby, 1015 AM. Soft, creaking violins whinnied into static, broken up only by the faint announcements of the time and temperature. The effect was far from soothing.

  Yoshiko was probably trying to make some sort of statement by lingering between the two stations, though Indigo had no idea what it could be this time. Maybe she was trying to say something about limbo—being stuck between two places, or something equally as convoluted. Yoshiko, an experimental performance artist, was a little eccentric. Not that Indigo could really judge her. In fact, the whole reason for this very car trip might have seemed strange to any outsider.

  It was the last time Indigo would be making this trip to the bus that took her where she’d spent every summer since she was seven years old: Silver Springs Academy for Fine and Performing Arts for Girls. She was fifteen, the oldest you can be at Silver Springs, and she’d been looking forward to this day throughout the entire school year. When she took that trip to camp it always felt like she was going home, instead of the other way around.

  The crackling stereo grew louder, and Indigo’s dad turned down the volume without saying a word. “How does it feel back there?”

  Indigo shrugged. “It’s all right, I guess. More cramped than the last car. I’m pretty sure I lost feeling in my left foot an hour ago.” She wiggled her toes until pins and needles darted though them.

  “Well, not much longer now, peanut.” Leo smiled and resisted the pull of sentimentality, choosing not to remark on how little Indy used to be when they’d drop her at camp on their way to Nantucket. The Hamlisches were from New York City but always summered with power-WASPs in between Leo’s meetings with the rest of the board of directors of the American Civil Liberties Union and Yoshiko’s experimental art performances. Which were…interesting.

  Yoshiko Hamlisch’s most recent work involved her sitting in a freestanding bathtub filled with lukewarm borscht, while she folded paper cranes and placed them on top of the magenta soup like rubber ducks. It was supposed to be a commentary about mixed marriages and assimilation. It was extremely well received.

  When Indy’s dad married Yoshiko, Indy was pleased to have a kindred artistic spirit in the family, even if she was sort of bizarre. Yoshiko was kind, and she always encouraged Leo to fund his daughter’s requests for new paints or annual memberships to the Museum of Modern Art. But it didn’t change the fact that Indy had always needed nurturing from mentors whose talents were more closely aligned with her own. When Indy was in first grade, Leo had searched online and discovered Silver Springs: it seemed like the perfect place for his daughter’s star to rise.

  Yoshiko twisted the radio dial again, and Leo cleared his throat. Indy shut out the parental distractions and thought about her imaginary make-out session with Nick, the painting teacher at Silver Springs who taught her, in a feat of spectacular irony, how to draw things in perspective. She felt the tingle of what it would be like to see him once she arrived. Even though she’d had a secret crush on him for years, this summer seemed different somehow. Or maybe it was just Indy who was different. Older. Probably better looking. Definitely more mature.

  “So is Lucy excited about her position? Will you two girls still be joined at the hip even though she has those new responsibilities?” Leo asked, making eye contact with Indy in the rearview mirror. It had been a full year since she and Lucy Serrano saw each other in person, and although they were BFFs in the most meaningful way you can be best friends with somebody you see only once a year, Lucy, who spent her last summer at Silver Springs as a camper, was now returning to the Springs as a C.I.T. And while Indy and Lucy’s one-year age gap had never amounted to much, this year would be the first time it made a difference—at least superficially. But Indy didn’t really think much would change. How could it?

  When Lucy and Indigo first met, they clung to each other with a tenacity known only to the very strong and the very afraid. They were seven and eight, respectively, and their first summers away from home met sporadic jags of crying between rounds of being picked on by kids used to spending their holidays away from the safe hearth of their parents’ condos, McMansions, and Park Slope brownstones. What started out as a bond sprung from commiseration soon blossomed into the kind of friendship that came with all the trappings of a love affair. Indy and Lucy were newly head over heels each July, inseparable each August. Each summer they’d eat meals, gaze at stars, gossip about crushes, sneak first cigarettes, and create and cackle at their own inside jokes—together.

  They were a mutual admiration society of two, muses and creators at the same turn. And they weren’t even competitive with each other—even though everyone expected that to change. But it never did.

  While most best friends became entrenched with the thorny trimmings of adolescence—who’s thinner, who’s better at stuff, who’s going to get which guy sooner—Indigo and Lucy seemed to defy stereotypes by just growing closer as the years wore on. Maybe it was because they had the distance of the school year, but maybe it was just because they were both known for being the best at what they did. They were secure in their respective talents, and Indy felt grateful to have Lucy in her life. She knew that she was unlike other artists who felt they weren’t completely alone only when they were absorbed in the act of creating their work. Indigo didn’t feel lonely when she was painting, but she also didn’t feel lonely whenever she spoke to Lucy.

  Lucy, having grown up in a show business family, never doubted her future as an actor (she won’t say “actress” without drawing the comparison to the outdated term for “flight attendant”). And Indy, an art major at Silver Springs, had been developing her voice in all forms of visual media since she was old enough to make a sound.

  When Indigo was only six years old, she lost her mom. At the time, Indy hadn’t completely understood breast cancer, but she’d known that it was something big. Something horrible. As she struggled to make sense of everything, she retreated into herself and ended up finding solace in the watercolor paint set she’d gotten for her birthday that year. Making art didn’t bring back her mom, but once her pain had been transformed into something beautiful, she remembered being amazed at the power of art.

  Since then, Indy had expressed herself best in her paintings, drawings, sculptures, and prints. All the right people had begun to take notice of her work—she’d even been called a prodigy by an art scou
t who’d visited the Springs one summer. Indy wasn’t sure how legit that praise was, but she knew she was good. It was the one thing she had unwavering confidence about.

  As trees flew by in a green blur outside her window, Indigo wondered about what Nick would think, or even do, when he saw her newly voluptuous body. Instead of being a flat-chested pudge, now she was curvy, with freckles spattered everywhere there was skin, and long, straight legs like Big Bird’s that jutted out from generous hips. Her boobs, which she hated, made her look pornographic in a tank top, even with a minimizer bra, and her long, dark hair looked less like the winning side of a compromise with her dad to keep it “princess length” and more like the deliberate decision of a young woman with her own style. Maybe people, namely Nick, would take notice of more than just her paintings this year. The notion was intoxicating. She glanced at her reflection in the rearview again for affirmation that she looked presentable. Her big brown eyes stared back.

  By the time Leo Hamlisch had pulled up to the bus stop in White Plains, New York, Indy’s daydreams had dissolved into pointillist, colorful debris, like pretty dots that make up the shapes of numbers from color-blindness tests. All that was left in her stomach was the flutter of anticipation that came along with the start of something new. This summer was filled with possibility, and like a blank canvas, it was daunting but exciting. She took a deep breath and flipped her long, straight hair.

  “Well, this is your stop, kiddo,” Leo announced. Indigo took a beat to stare at the exodus of kids leaving their parents’ foreign sports cars to board the hybrid double-decker parked in front of them. Then she hoisted herself out of the back of her dad’s Coupe, stretching out her stiff limbs like a newborn colt.

  “You write to us if you need anything, Indy. You still want that bag of rubber gloves I saved for you? For a collage or something? Just say the word, and I’ll have them sent right over.” When Yoshiko was done with her offer, she started crying and snapping photos on her vintage Polaroid camera, documenting the event and experiencing it in tandem. Indigo gave her blubbering stepmom a set of double air-kisses, European-style.

  “Right! Thanks, Yosh. I’ll let you know if I want them,” she said, knowing full well that she would have no use for seventy-five sets of rubber surgical gloves. Not now, at least. But it was still kind of sweet. She felt an unexpected pang of affection for her weird parents.

  Leo awkwardly placed his hand on Indy’s shoulder. His crisp blue button-down was already slightly wrinkled, and sweat stains had begun forming under his arms. Indy fought the urge to recoil, and instead pulled her dad close to her for a real hug, even though she was self-conscious about her breasts smooshing against him.

  “Make us proud,” he said as he shielded his eyes, sizing up the other parents in the lot.

  “She always does, Leo.” Yoshiko sniffled and added, “Go! Create things!” while she shooed Indy away with her toothpick arms.

  Indigo couldn’t help but smile. “Bye, Dad. I love you. Bye, Yoshiko. I’ll write.”

  And with that, she was off, wheeling her TUMI suitcases atop the gravel to the gaping maw of the waiting bus across the lot. The crunch of the pebbles under her wheels and feet felt satisfying, like the first thrust of a shovel into warm, soft soil. It was finally time to dig into what Indy was sure would be the best summer of her life.

  2

  As she made her way down the bus aisle, Indy waved breezily to Puja Nair, the aspiring playwright, and Yvonne Bremis, the frizzy-haired stand-up comedian. Beside them was teacher and adviser Jen Rant, a onetime Silver Springs camper who was now a twentysomething performance artist. Jen won an Obie award that winter for her one-woman show at P.S. 122 in New York City, themed on slaughterhouses and her experience of growing up adopted. And finally, like a blinding turn into a sunny street or a record scratch in the middle of a movie preview, there was Lucy.

  Lucy Serrano, who stood five-foot-two in kitten heels, was a petite slip of a girl, with a heart-shaped face and big, straight teeth. Lucy couldn’t tan—she only burned—and her white-blond hair was the kind you’d see only on dolls and in shampoo commercials. So it was no surprise when Lucy landed the gig as the spokesmodel for Pantene’s new line of tween hair care when she went out for the role last fall. Indigo walked to her private school in Manhattan during the year and often passed bus-shelter ads starring Lucy and her golden mop. At first, Indy would swell with pride when she saw them—she felt the need to snap cell-phone pictures of each billboard and text them to Lucy constantly. But the novelty had worn off after a while, and it got to the point where Indy’s brain no longer associated the posters with her best friend. Plus, it didn’t really replace the experience of seeing Lucy in person. It kind of just highlighted the fact that they couldn’t hang out as much as Indy wanted, which was sort of a bummer.

  But now her famous friend was there in the flesh, standing tall for such a tiny girl, with the confidence of a tabloid mainstay who knew she wore it better. As Lucy floated down the aisle toward her, Indy shoved the army-navy bag she used as a purse under her seat to make room for Lucy.

  “Indy!” Lucy bleated.

  “Luce!” she squealed back.

  Lucy flung her black Dolce & Gabbana leather duffel into the overhead compartment, exposing her navel as she did. Indigo noticed the flatness of her friend’s stomach, and instinctively compared it to the bellies of the statues she’d seen just yesterday at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where she went to sketch every Saturday morning. Indy had become especially interested in drawing the human form lately, maybe because her own body had just undergone such an epic transformation.

  But Lucy was another story. Hers wasn’t a tummy, or belly, or anything else with a y at the end of it. Lucy had abs, a core, a midriff—it was the anatomical shorthand of the term “hard work.” Like a swimmer who shaves his legs to move faster in the water, Lucy had shed the weight she thought was getting in her way on camera. Her ambition was great enough that the vague promise of stardom was enough to make her forget, most of the time, that she hated her life a little more now that ravioli and cake were no longer a part of it. But sometimes art was worth sacrificing things for. Indy knew that all too well, but was relieved hers didn’t involve giving up grilled cheese or anything.

  Lucy scooted over next to Indigo and hugged her like it was the last time she’d ever see her. “Girl, I missed you,” Lucy said. Indy squeezed her back, then playfully shoved her aside. “All right, all right. You’re suffocating me with Pantween fumes. Do you get a free case of that shit with every paycheck or something?” Indy joked as Lucy took off her cropped jean jacket and settled in. Her best friend laughed. “Not with every one.”

  Indigo noticed the bright yellow “Staff” T-shirt Lucy was wearing, which fit her like a worn, broken-in pair of jeans. The sleeves rested at the exact right spot of her slender upper arms, and the fabric was perfectly faded. She looked effortless, casual, and gorgeous. Suddenly, next to Lucy, Indy felt childish and overdressed in her sunflower-print baby-doll minidress. Why hadn’t she just worn her favorite Ramones shirt instead? She hoisted up the front of her dress to minimize cleavage exposure.

  “So,” Lucy gushed, popping the cap off a tube of Carmex and applying the lip balm. “The first thing I have to update you about: remember that guy I told you about on G-chat? Tyler? From Cedarquist?” Lucy’s school seemed to host an endless supply of attractive boys who wanted to date her.

  “Tyler or Taylor?” Indigo asked. She vaguely remembered IM-ing with Lucy in the last month or two and fielding some heartbreak-related exposition about a guy in her class who’d been jerking her around over an invitation to his junior prom. It was one of those chats where Indy could go to the kitchen and fix herself a snack—even toast—and upon her return, Lucy would still be going on and on about so and so’s text and what does it mean, and here’s what she thinks it means, and why. Lucy’s brand of drama did not, on many occasions, need an audience. But usually Indigo didn’t mind typing the appr
opriate responses, which ranged anywhere from “Aww, how sweet!” to “Ugh. Eff that psycho.”

  “Tyler. Not Taylor. Tyler. With the skateboard.”

  “The one with all the head injuries?”

  “Right, him. He’s semipro now.” Lucy beamed before she launched into the complicated saga of their courtship.

  Indy only half listened, relieved to be back in the company of a girl who made her feel like she was the relatively sane one. She was baffled by Lucy’s interest in guys their age. And they were always guys, teenagers that Lucy herself would call “boys” or “kids”—never men. Indy, meanwhile, lusted after authority figures: actors in their forties, friends of her dad’s. She liked the unavailability of older men, and their libido-charged appreciation of her precocity. Indigo couldn’t really take a compliment seriously unless it came from a man who remembered a time before the dial-up modem. Maybe it came from hanging out with her dad’s friends at their cocktail parties growing up, maybe she’d read Lolita before she was old enough to know it was a comedy. Either way, Lucy’s appreciation of boys their age was another of their differences.

  In actuality, Indigo was pretty inexperienced with guys. She’d never gone further than an ill-advised make-out or two, but all of the dirty thoughts and scenarios she’d played out in her mind made her feel ten times more experienced than her bubbly friend. And while Lucy cast a wide net with her romantic pursuits, Indy crushed on only a select few. But when a man she liked finally did come around, Indy fell hard. As she did for Nick. She wanted him like crazy.

  Lucy grabbed Indy’s arm, practically bursting with girlish excitement. “And, oh my God, Indy. You should see his body. It was just sick. I mean, he wasn’t Jersey Shore buff, but he was fit. We only made out, but I swear, I remember thinking I would go all the way with him.” Now she had Indigo’s full attention. Lucy leaned in close and added in a dramatic stage whisper, “I’d never felt that with anybody else before.”