Art Girls Are Easy Page 4

  “Hey guys. How’s the game hen?” Indy plopped down in her chair. “I’m starving.”

  “Best I’ve ever tasted. Seriously. I even got seconds!” Yvonne shook some salt over her polenta and poached white asparagus.

  “So,” Puja began, turning to Indy, “we need to talk about the social with the Kinnetonka boys. Is there anybody new there this year? Have you talked to Jay?”

  “Gross, no.” Indy pulled a face.

  “Can’t you e-mail him or something?” Puja whimpered. “We want to know who’s coming this year.” It struck Indy as funny that the prospect of interacting with boys transformed even the incredibly talented, driven, and otherwise mature young women of Silver Springs into drooling, giggling idiots. Sort of like the puddle of quivering porridge she herself turned into every time she saw Nick.

  Suddenly a plate of food appeared in front of her, set down by one of the kitchen staff. “Bon appétit,” said a server she didn’t recognize from last year.

  “Thanks,” Indy said, digging in and grateful for an excuse to change the subject. “Oh my God, this is so good.”

  “Right?” Yvonne took a forkful of game hen and raised it in mock-salute to Indy. She spent the rest of the meal catching up with the girls, occasionally glancing over at Lucy, and scanning the room for Nick. For some reason, he was missing from the Welcome Dinner so far.

  Lillian’s booming voice over the dining hall P.A. system halted everyone’s conversations. “Attention, campers! We’ll be serving a locally sourced hypoallergenic dessert at the front of the hall. Please line up, ladies—then meet us in the Harpsichord Room for our campfire activities.”

  Indy trudged toward Lillian, who distributed dairy-free single serving portions of panna cotta to the campers. She smiled dutifully when she met the camp director’s gaze.

  “Indigo, you look fantastic.” Lillian couldn’t help complimenting Indy on her newly buxom figure, even though she tried her best to avoid any mention of a camper’s shifting weight or body shape.

  “Thanks, Lillian.” Indy took a panna cotta and a wooden mini-spoon. She followed the queue of campers shuffling down the hallway, and soon she was in the Harpsichord Room—a former ballroom furnished with Victorian accoutrements, both real and faux, and adorned with framed articles about alumni achievements in the world of stage, screen, art, film, and beyond.

  The Harpischord Room and the dining hall were all part of what was known as the “main house”—the Victorian mansion that Lillian and her partner, Debra Fishpaw, inherited years ago and converted into a summer camp. Inside the Harpsichord Room, shelves of sheet music stood alongside music stands carved from teak, and cases for wind instruments of every size and shape lined the walls, which were papered with sumptuous wine and mustard patterns.

  That night, the instruments and chairs were cast aside, and a simulated campfire made out of orange crepe paper, Christmas lights, and leaf blowers sat in the middle of the space. The fire simulacrum was a Silver Springs tradition, born of the avalanche of complaints from the campers and their parents about mosquito bites and ash-laden wind after Lillian hosted an authentic outdoor campfire. Since then, the welcome ceremony for new and returning campers was held indoors, under the blissful hum of central A/C and the pleasant glow of dimmed track lighting.

  As the other girls settled in, Indigo sat cross-legged on the antique floorboards and chewed on her cuticles until Lillian walked in, wearing a head wreath of discarded lei peonies. She stood in front of the “campfire” and spoke into a wireless microphone she produced from one of her cargo pockets.

  “Silver Springs women! It is a blessing to be back in the powerful presence of your creative spirit!”

  After that came a smattering of applause led enthusiastically by Debra, who stood to the side with a whistle around her neck. Indigo surveyed the sea of familiar and strange faces she’d be spending her final summer as camper alongside.

  “Okay, ladies!” Lillian continued into the mic. “Let’s get on our feet and get ready for some bonding games!”

  Indigo groaned in dread. Silver Springs had its own version of fuzzy, getting-to-know-you crapola. It happened only on the first night of camp, when Lillian decided to pretend she was a traditional camp director and that girls came here for reasons of friendship, and not because their parents wanted them to demolish the competition in their fields of choice.

  “Here we go, everybody!” Lillian practically sang with delight. “It’s time for…Graham and Pollock!”

  Indigo winced as Debra hit play on the Bose sound system on top of the actual harpsichord in the corner, which the room was named after. Soon, Philip Glass music filled every rococo crevice around her.

  “Tree in the wind!” Lillian shouted, and the girls all halfheartedly lifted their arms like branches and swayed in the imaginary wind, a lame homage to legendary modern dancer Martha Graham. It was so fruity and theatery. Indy felt ridiculous pretending to be a tree or anything else.

  After making her campers pretend to be pebbles, butterflies, and fetuses for the game, Lillian led everyone to an adjoining room, where several large blank canvases lined the floor. It was time for Pollock, which was exponentially more fun because it involved making a mess with paint. The girls were split into groups, each group was given a canvas, and they were all instructed to splatter jars of paint in the style of the famous abstract expressionist artist Jackson Pollock. It was the Silver Springs version of Color War.

  When everyone was finished and their white clothes totally ruined by a kaleidoscope of wayward paint splatters, the staff would judge which piece was best, and the winning painting would be displayed in the dining hall for the rest of the summer. It was a pretty high honor for an arts camp, where paint-covered canvases were a dime a dozen.

  Indigo loved playing Pollock, but this year she was tired of all of it before it even began. Maybe she’d outgrown it.

  Still, once Indy got started splattering violet tempera paint against the blinding white canvas, she got into it. Their canvas looked good. Her teammates, Puja and Yvonne, shrieked and squealed as they flung paint at one another. Indy eventually joined in, laughing at how inane this all really was.

  She’d stop every so often to distribute polite hellos to all the instructors she remembered from summers past, from Sydney Fogel, the hard-edged Atlantic Theater Company veteran who begrudgingly taught drama to the advanced acting majors, to Renée Cornillion, the beautiful, angry, and broken ballet instructor, who lived every day like it was her last chance to punish her students for being younger than she was. And there was Jen Rant from the bus, looking dour in an off-white minidress with yellow stains on it, paired with knee-high striped socks with black flats. There were so many different shades of bitter on the faculty rainbow.

  Lillian had handed over emcee duties to Harry Glibbe, the chipper musical theater director whose enthusiasm was so fierce, it seemed like he was making fun of everybody. Indy loved Harry Glibbe. He was sarcastic and warm at the same time—a balance that so many of the other staff members lacked. It really was too bad she didn’t get to take any classes with him—he was always super-sweet when she saw him at meals and at Lucy’s shows.

  Indy ended up near the front of the room as soon as Harry took the mic from Lillian. They were obviously about to announce the winner, but she suddenly felt suffocated by the paint fumes and the crowd. Everybody was chattering and still play-fighting. She needed some fresh air.

  “All right!!!” Harry said, with extra exclamation points. “It’s time for the biiiig winner!” Indy pushed through the horde of rainbow-splattered girls, teachers, and C.I.T.s milling about. She was almost to the exit when she stepped into a massive puddle of slippery mauve paint. Slipping and falling, Indigo skidded through the paint. And there she went, flip-flops and all, falling backward like Alice through the rabbit hole for a scary and awful half-second.

  As Indy fell, a moment stretched into eternity, as things seem to do when you lose control. She wished she c
ould take that last step back, but all she could do at that point in time and space was to try her best to fall gracefully.

  And then she felt the sturdy relief of a man’s hands catch her from both sides, holding her up from under each arm, supporting the back of her head with his chest.

  “Careful, there,” Nick whispered to Indy, his stubble brushing up against her neck. She felt his breath get under her shirt. She smelled him on her skin. Feeling him next to her was like trying to embrace the suds in a warm bath so you have a collection of them in your arms for the time between when they exist and disappear.

  Indigo exhaled in full for the first time all day.

  Nick propped Indy up and let her go. “You okay, Indy?” He smiled at her.

  “Yeah, thanks,” she managed to squeak in response, cursing herself for being so clumsy and then so awkward. And then, just as suddenly as he came, Nick was gone.

  Indigo steadied herself against the wall, inspecting the soles of her flip-flops to make sure there was no paint left for her to slip on again. But the official activities were breaking up now, and spontaneous choruses of everything from Lady Gaga to Porgy and Bess began to erupt among the music majors. They even started to bring out the odd uke or harp to strum, and Indigo figured that was her official cue to sneak out to her bunk, change her clothes, and start getting settled in her studio.

  She slipped out the French doors leading to the Esther Williams Pool, which shimmered with the reflection of the sconces that lit up the inside of the main house. She passed the terra-cotta planters around the back of the mansion and the big elm tree that shaded the East Wing, clicking on her mini-flashlight, and made her way alone down the pebble path back to Ferlinghetti. The trees made the walk seem cooler, and the sky dazzled with stars that seemed to be pluckable from her reach. It was so quiet, Indigo could hear her own breath.

  “Hey! Indy! Wait up!”

  Indigo turned her head to shine her flashlight on Lucy, who squinted in its beam behind her. Lucy bounded toward her on the path.

  “Oh, it’s you!” Indy exclaimed. In all the madness, she’d completely forgotten about their scheduled after-dinner chat.

  “Hey, stranger. Blind me much?”

  “Sor-ry, Princess.” Indy shoved Lucy playfully, leaving a faint violet handprint on her shoulder. Lucy had somehow managed to avoid getting splattered during Pollock. “You bitch!” Lucy squealed, erupting into giggles. Lucy had this way of flirting with everybody, or at least it seemed that way. Maybe that was just what friendly, outgoing girls did to make themselves seem prettier. Indigo smiled to herself as they walked together.

  “So, what’s new? Whatcha been working on?” Lucy asked, her turquoise-jewelry eyes gleaming with interest.

  “I think I’m going to do something about technology for my final project this year,” Indigo explained. “I saw a special on MSNBC about the influence of the Internet on the human brain, and it really fascinated me. My piece could be themed around social networks and texting and stuff, and how even though we’re more connected than we’ve ever been before, we’re also somehow more out of touch.”

  “You mean how you and I IMed all year and I still have no idea how you really feel about that fellowship you won? And whether you’re still worried that it’s too late to be a prodigy?”

  Indy blushed and Lucy grinned back. She knew her so well.

  “The fellowship was awesome,” Indy said, nodding. “It meant a lot to my parents, too. God, they place so much stock in that stuff. Grants, scholarships, you know?”

  “I know what you mean. When I got that Pantene spot, it was like I’d finally proved to my dad that I could one day, possibly, with the right series of lucky breaks, maybe, working a part-time day job, support myself. He’s always so concerned about my acting ambitions not being commercial enough, and I’m like—hello! I’m in a commercial.” Indigo nodded along in agreement, but sometimes she had trouble relating whenever Lucy got “actressy.”

  “Yeah, I mean—I think your career is doing all right if you’ve got your face plastered around half of Manhattan. And not in the, like, come-to-this-Gentlemen’s-Club-on-Fifty-fourth-Street sort of way.”

  They both laughed.

  “Anyway…” Lucy continued. “What’s this big, juicy secret you wanted to tell me?”

  “Oh, it was…” Indy began, kicking a clump of dirt on the path. Her toe was still mauve from the paint slip. “It was nothing.”

  “Aw, man. It sounded so good. You sure?”

  “Yeah.” Indy shrugged. “Really, it was nothing.”

  Part of her still wanted to tell Lucy about the e-mail, but she decided to wait a bit longer. As much as she wanted to confront Lucy about her alleged interaction with Nick just in the hope of hearing Lucy contradict the rumor, Indy decided to withhold this little nugget of information for now. She wanted to observe Nick and Lucy from a safe distance before making any silly accusations that might hurt her friend’s feelings.

  “Hey, listen,” Indigo said and sighed. “I’m going to go to bed. I’m pretty spent, you know? It was a long day. See you at breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Yes!” Lucy exclaimed. Then she marveled aloud, “God, it’s so weird to be at the staff table. I missed sitting next to you tonight.” Indy knew Lucy had added that last part only to make her feel better—but it worked. She smiled.

  “Well, I thought it looked pretty fun,” Indy said, offering her own little permission for Lucy to have fun without her. She shone her spotlight toward the path anew. “Good night, Luce.”

  “Night, Ind.”

  By the time Indy reached the Beat cabin, the stars had reached a nearly obscene level of brightness. Indigo crept into Ferlinghetti to shower, change her outfit, and grab her art supplies, stealthily avoiding any interaction with a sleeping Eleanor, who’d evidently spent the dinner hour rearranging their room to her liking. Indigo threw her paint-splattered campfire clothes in the laundry basket and found her favorite navy hoodie, then began packing tubes of oils and brushes and pencil cases into her backpack. Just as she was about to head out of the bedroom, she overheard Puja and Yvonne across the hallway, cackling like cartoon witches.

  “Did you see how he looked at her?” said Yvonne, her speech muddled by what sounded like openmouthed bites of snack crackers.

  “Oh, totally. Like he was a dog and she was made out of bacon.” Puja laughed.

  “It’s…bacon!!!” Yvonne imitated that commercial for dog treats, then howled.

  Indigo couldn’t help hearing Nick’s name in their conversation, even though they hadn’t mentioned anyone specifically. Had Yvonne and Puja seen Nick rescue her from her fall? Had they picked up on any sexual tension between them? Or was it all in her head?

  “Well, we don’t know for sure whether or not they really did it,” Puja surmised. “I mean, Eleanor makes up as much shit as she spreads around.”

  Her paranoia was only half-founded. They were talking about Nick and Lucy. Weren’t they? What else could it have been? And Jesus, were they loud. How was Eleanor sleeping through this? Indy pictured her roommate turning her head slowly, like a mannequin in a horror movie, and smiling back, eyes open and blank. Her heart began to race.

  Indigo strapped her backpack to her shoulders and popped her sweatshirt hood over her damp ponytail. She silently closed the door behind her suite, then made her way out the squeaky front door, leaving Puja and Yvonne to wallow in the sweet rush of schadenfreude.

  As the screen door flapped behind her, Indy realized she had forgotten her flashlight. She didn’t want to go back inside and risk interacting with her bunk mates, so instead she walked into the darkness around her cabin. Slowly but intently, and with the muscle memory of her many summers embedded within her sense of direction, Indigo made her way west toward the art studios, which were kept illuminated by the small, bright lamp of somebody else, working into the late night.

  5

  As soon as Indigo stepped into the paint-splattered floor of the art stu
dio, the smell brought her back to summers past. The aroma of thinner and clay dust made her feel before she could think—the emotional nostalgia from just standing there raised the hairs on her arms and gave her goose bumps, along with the chill of the night air, even inside the industrial space that was Silver Springs’s main art studio. It was electrifying to be back where she belonged.

  “Well, hello.”

  Nick’s shaggy head peeked around the giant easel that bisected the space. He looked intense, distracted—like he was caught working on the piece of a lifetime. And he probably was. But he didn’t look annoyed at the interruption. After a moment, Nick lent the same gaze to Indy that he had to the canvas he stood in front of. All five-foot-two of her, standing in front of the glass door, strapped to a backpack, holding an armful of pads and two huge tote bags bursting with supplies.

  “Hi,” Indigo said shyly. Her voice echoed in the vastness of the empty room.

  “Hey, take a load off! Look at all the crap you’re schlepping. Lemme give you a hand.”

  Nick walked around the easel, wiping his paint-smeared hands on his jean shorts. Then he reached out for Indy’s bags. “Jeez,” Nick said. “You’re going to end up a hunchback if you carry all this stuff around. Don’t you know this is too heavy for a little girl like you?”

  Indy’s cheeks flamed up at the term “little girl,” but not in offense. It was kind of hot the way Nick said it, like she was thin, or young, or fragile.

  “I’m good, thanks,” Indigo said, struggling to transfer her sketchpads onto the long wooden table in front of her. She looked around at the familiar space—there were the slanted drafting tables, the corner with the pencil sharpener and the cutting board, the wall of massive aluminum sinks behind the garbage cans for recycling and trash. Off the main space was the sculpture studio, with welding equipment and ceramic supplies, including a working kiln that Lillian had commissioned from a team of Amish lesbians out of Pennsylvania, who crafted the thing from naturally occurring stone and organic mud. The whole place felt cold and homey at the same time—like you could get work done here for hours on end, but you wouldn’t want to take a nap in any of the chairs.