Indigo peeked through the open door between the recycling room and the staff room.
“First of all, how are we doing on supplies? Have you all put in your requests in writing for what you need?” Lillian continued. Indy stopped paying attention. Why was she eavesdropping on a boring meeting?
She went back to collecting cans until her bags were heaving with all kinds of brightly colored aluminum cylinders, then headed back out toward the kitchen. As she did, she heard a familiar laugh.
Lucy had a million of them, but this laugh was the one she used when she was genuinely amused at something. It was like a low cackle she couldn’t fake. Indigo used to hear it when the two of them would stay out in the woods after classes were over in summers past, joking about what one of the gross guys from the social they’d just endured would look like getting a blowjob. Indy would contort her face to impersonate Jay in the throes of passion and Lucy would laugh the way she did now.
Indigo peered through the door to try and see what was so amusing. Lucy was sitting next to Nick in the staff room, whispering and passing him a note, just like the two of them used to do whenever they were stuck at a lame pre-meal grace or a terrible one-woman show they had to attend as part of Industry Showcase Weekend. Lucy tossed her head, and her yellow curls tumbled down the back of her chair. Nick put his hand on her shoulder and brought a finger to her mouth. “Shhhh,” he whispered, forming a smile. Then, he exploded into hysterics of his own.
Indigo’s heart sank down into her stomach, then went back up into her throat, like on the Big Drop ride at the amusement park her dad used to take her to. Indy stared at Lucy’s toned, delicate arm resting on the back of her chair, and then looked down at the vulnerable paleness of her own right forearm. It was fat, she thought. She was fat. And ugly. Inside and out.
She hesitated for a moment, then took out one of the empty Fresca cans from the bursting shopping bag. She began to twist the can back and forth until it came apart in a jagged helix. The sharp edge scared and intrigued her at once. She lowered it to the inside of her arm, right between the wrist and the elbow, like she’d almost done so many times before. She wanted to feel something real and be in charge of it.
Keeping her eyes open and feeling as alert as a hunter surging with fight-or-flight adrenaline, Indigo made a shallow, bloody, horizontal cut on her arm. Seeing the rich, velvety red streaming down her arm was surreal. Almost like it was just another day in the studio and she’d spilled some cadmium paint. But it stung; it was real.
Indy gasped—louder than she expected to—and immediately Lucy whipped around to see what was going on. She must have forgotten her friend was still in the room adjacent to the meeting. Lucy stood up, but by then Indigo had grabbed her things and fled through the kitchen and out the door.
She ran, bags of cans in tow, clanging down the hill. She couldn’t think about the shame she felt, actually letting herself cut. She’d almost done it so many times before but had never actually been ballsy enough to go through with it. She couldn’t think about how hurt she was to see Lucy and Nick flirting in the staff room, safely removed from all the camper/teenager bullshit she was still embedded in. And she couldn’t think of how much she hated her body right then, how useless she felt as an artist, as a human being. She was a flabby vessel of nothing but failure and sexual frustration and everything else that made her crush on Nick so utterly stupid. She never had a chance with him. She was foolish to have ever thought otherwise.
Indy didn’t think about where she was running; she just ran. And to her surprise, when she arrived at the studio instead of her cozy bedroom in the Ferlinghetti suite, she felt less blocked than she was when she began her journey.
She entered the studio, helped herself to the first-aid kit by the sink, and bandaged up her arm. Then, like it was just a routine part of the day, she emptied out one of her bags onto a large, waist-high working table. As cans rolled onto and off the surface, Indy opened up her sketchbook and began to get inspired by her mood state. She thought about how pissed she was at Lucy, who’d probably be able to hook up with Nick way easier than Indy ever could, because Lucy was perfect and thin and sweet and had hair that looked like a bunch of Barbie heads fused together from behind.
She grabbed a pencil and began to draw what it would actually look like to melt a cluster of blond Barbie heads together. Then she drew fire around the heads. She added crows, which she knew how to draw from memory, all around the borders of the flaming Barbies. When she was perfectly satisfied with the composition of her drawing, she turned the page.
Her mind was going a mile a minute. This would be the tree’s base. Here is what the ornaments should look like. She scribbled words in the margins as her pencil flew across the page. “Pop-cultured,” “Holidazed and Confused,” “Mary XXXmas.” She scribbled a cartoon of a porn star dressed up like Santa Claus. She drew four examples of what she could do to a soda can to make it look like a flower, a spiral, a bra cup, an elevator.
Then she started making the soda cans into what she wanted them to be. She stacked them, cut them into strips with a box cutter, glued them together, fingerpainted them with acrylics and rolled them in glitter, and otherwise manipulated the pile of aluminum to her liking.
She didn’t realize how long she’d been working until hours later when the sun began to get hazy in the middle of the sky. The other girls, who had filtered into the studio to work alongside her within the last few hours, started packing up and chatting about dinner and being starving and what the evening activity was and maybe it would be a movie.
Indigo stopped working and finally assessed what she’d accomplished that afternoon. It was formidable. Before her laid a pile of beautifully adorned, brightly painted soda cans, each festooned with accessories she’d applied with the help of a hot-glue gun. There was a wire frame for her tree that she’d made with a needle-nose plier and the thick, malleable wire Dybbs kept in a drum under his desk. More significantly than anything else, Indigo saw exactly what she needed to do in order to finish the bigger masterpiece she had in mind for each of these elements. It was clear how everything would fit together. She took what seemed like the first deep breath of her life.
She didn’t bother cleaning up her work, knowing she’d be returning to the studio once she’d had something to eat. Indy even felt a little pang of sadness, leaving her unfinished piece behind—like separation anxiety. But her stomach rumblings were getting distracting, so she washed her hands and splashed water on her face, then grabbed the hoodie she kept in her cubby and made her way back up the hill for her first meal of the day.
13
Traditionally, before breakfast, lunch, and dinner, a staff member led the girls in an introspective song or chant in the dining hall, or read an inspirational quote about creativity, individuality, or another highly regarded upper-middle-class value. Grace was meant to be secular but spiritually nourishing—Lillian toed the line between church and camp every time she advocated the practice of having campers stand in contemplation before they chowed down. But it was an important part of the Silver Springs experience nonetheless.
As it happened, Lucy was leading the dining hall in a rousing version of “Day by Day” from the musical Godspell when Indigo entered the room, sweaty, hungry, and in no mood for show tunes. She crept among her fellow campers, who belted on their feet in confident harmony, like the cast of Glee, minus the diversity.
“To see theeeeeeee more clearly! To love theeeeeee more dearly!” Lucy, who stood in the front of the room behind the standing microphone at which Lillian made morning announcements, had her eyes squinted shut and her hand up to the sky in some gross “Halle-loo!” gesture, like she was doing a drag queen’s impression of Christina Aguilera.
Indy snuck through the hordes of revelers toward her assigned table, and in the process realized she was walking directly toward Nick as well. He stood in the corner of the room next to a staff table, and made eye contact with Indy as she weaved around the other ca
mpers. And Indy, who was already starving, felt even more light-headed when she saw him. He smirked at her, but not like he was laughing at her—his eyes twinkled with a conspiratorial friendliness that seemed to say, “We both get how ridiculous this is.” But was he reacting to the song? Hearing Lucy belt the crap out of that Godspell song, for the benefit of the dinner crowd, was pretty ridiculous and over-the-top. But is that what he was smiling at? What did Nick think of Lucy, anyway?
As Lucy rounded back for the second chorus and held its final note like it was her last chance to make a sound, Indigo realized that Nick and she were still smiling together, across the room. Indy rolled her eyes as the room exploded into applause once Lucy finally finished singing, and then he broke the gaze, sarcastically clapping along with the rest of the room and putting his fingers in his mouth for a loud wolf whistle. Maybe she’d misinterpreted his chumminess with Lucy in that meeting as something more substantial. He was so hard to read.
Indigo dashed to her table and sat down with the rest of her bunk mates in time for nobody of authority to realize that she was substantially late.
“Indy Five hundred! You’re here!” exclaimed Puja. “Where have you been all our lives?”
“Working like a madwoman!” Indy replied as she reached out for the platter of panko breadcrumb–encrusted tofu slabs that one of the servers had just delivered to their table. She helped herself to two and slathered them with red sauce from a sterling-silver gravy boat. “I finally had some sort of breakthrough. Yvonne, could you pass the garlic toast points?”
“Please, take them!” Yvonne said, snatching another one from the platter. “The more you eat, the less I can strap directly onto my FUPA!” She patted her lower belly.
“That’s so great to hear. We could all tell you were struggling,” Puja said with genuine concern on her face. Indy inhaled the plate of food in front of her in what seemed like no time at all.
“Seriously? How? Pass the greens, por favor,” she said, then heaped her plate with wilted kale and more toast.
Puja took a huge gulp of her coconut water. “Oh, you know, you were just generally moping around and stuff…like you do right before you come up with something brilliant.”
“And is wearing hideous clothing also part of your artistic process?” Eleanor quipped, gesturing toward Indy’s full-coverage hoodie. Indigo looked up from her meal to see Eleanor sipping from an ice-cold bottle of Fiji water, judging her. “What’s with all the carb-loading? Running a marathon later?”
“I skipped lunch and breakfast,” Indigo said bluntly, then took another piece of tofu.
“Welcome to my life,” Eleanor responded, picking at her greens. “Though it should be de rigueur to fast on days as hot as this one, even for people not looking to shed a pound or two.” She shot a look over at Yvonne, who was soaking up the sauce on her plate with the crust of a toast point.
“Aren’t you hot in that hoodie?” Puja asked Indy, her big eyes widening beneath her clunky glasses. Indigo realized that everyone at her table, even Yvonne, who favored body-concealing clothes even on nonhumid days, was wearing skimpy, lightweight clothing. But Indigo, who was hiding the cut she made on her arm in a now silly-seeming fit of hysteria, couldn’t risk going short-sleeved right now. The bandage on the wound she created was still too conspicuous.
Soon the Silver Springs girls finished their meals, and some began to queue up at the dessert station—an opt-out part of the meal process that was instated after parents called Lillian to complain about their body-conscious daughters being plagued by sweets on the table. Indigo was not planning to miss the Grand Marnier soufflés that Michel was handing out by the filtered water station. She grabbed a plate and waited on line.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Lucy pulled up behind Indigo, plate in hand and smiling.
“Hey.” Indy played along.
“What’s up with the long sleeves?” Lucy asked. “Are you trying to win a sweating competition?”
“No…I’m just feeling a little feverish, maybe. I might be coming down with something.”
“Oh, that totally blows. I guess that means you’re not coming to the screening room after dinner?” Lucy asked. “Desi’s dad sent her all of his Emmy screeners.” Desi Rosen—the dancer from Eleanor’s class—had a father who was a television agent at a big-deal agency in Los Angeles. There seemed to be an endless supply of screeners available at Silver Springs.
“I think I’m actually going to head back to the studio after this and work some more. I made a good dent in this project today, and I want to keep my momentum.”
“NEXT!” Michel shouted as he doled out mini-soufflés. Indigo turned around and got her dessert, then stepped to the side as Lucy did the same.
“And you were so worried! See?” Lucy asked with sincere kindness and enthusiasm. “Remind me of your project theme?”
“It’s about soda,” Indy said. “And technology. And social networking. And Christmas. And how, like, advertising is an agent of the status quo.” What was she talking about? It seemed unnecessary and obnoxious for her to try seeming so superior and intelligent. Lucy had already embarrassed herself in front of the whole camp singing that dumb song like an X-Factor contestant right before dinner. Why did Indy have to be such an asshole?
“Cool!” Lucy said. “That’s awesome you’re on a roll. I’ll leave you to it, then. Maybe I’ll poke my head into the studio later and check on you. Wouldn’t want you pulling an all-nighter if you’re coming down with something.” She dipped her fingertip into her soufflé and took a small taste.
“Okay,” Indy said, looking toward the dining hall’s southern exit. She had finished her dessert and looked to dispose of the wooden spoon she’d used to get every last bit of its batter off the sides of the ramekin it came in. Lucy extended her hand for Indy’s dirty plate.
“I’ll take that to the kitchen for ya.” Lucy could be so kind sometimes. It made it hard not to feel bad about envying her or being frustrated by her performative side.
“Thanks,” Indy added wearily. “Enjoy the Emmy screeners.” She realized she was drawing out their good-bye, like a couple in a black-and-white movie waving from the platform and the window of a departing train. She must have felt guilty, because she added, “That’ll be you nominated one day.”
Lucy grinned. “Best actress in a drama series?”
“You were made for it,” Indy quipped, only she wasn’t joking.
Outside, it was a starless, hot night. Indy took her time trudging down the hill and back into the sweet, earthy, damp coolness of the art studio. She peeled off her hoodie once she was inside, now that she was alone. It was a huge relief, like unburdening yourself of the weight of the world. The goose bumps on her bare arms felt good, until she looked down and saw the bandage over her cut.
What had she been thinking? Or was she even thinking? It was like she’d become a different person earlier. It was some serious Jekyll-and-Hyde shit. But since the first time she’d toyed with the idea of cutting, running an X-Acto blade dangerously close to the superficial layer of her inner arm, she knew that the pull of minor self-harm was something she’d have to fight. Shrink after shrink had tied Indy’s pain to the loss of her mom at an early age. But Indy sensed deep down the reason she wanted to try cutting came from the same place that motivated her to make art. It was a way she could control things.
She knew that cutting was not creation—it was just defilement. And now she felt awful. The aftermath of the blood and bandages would be an ugly scar, who knew how permanent. A reminder of her weakness. At least now she was back in the studio, where she’d had a successful marathon session before dinner.
Indy settled back into her space, which was cluttered with half-finished artwork, and fussed with her surroundings. She was full of tofu and bread and dessert, and the “comfort” area of her brain was newly stimulated. She couldn’t get started on her art, couldn’t really dive in fully yet, until her workstation was properly organized, her chai
r was sufficiently high or low enough, her pencils were sharpened, and everything she could possibly need was in arm’s length of the wire tree sculpture she’d started earlier. And then she decided she was thirsty. She should really get a glass of water before anything else.
She looked in the drawers around the big sink for one of the plastic cups she’d used in the past for paint or thinner and found, next to a stack of them, an unopened bottle of red wine.
“Uh-oh.”
Indy turned around when she heard Nick’s voice. The sleeves were rolled up on his button-down shirt, his hair was sort of wet-looking, and he stood there unshaven, smiling.
“Are you hitting the sauce already?” He had already seen her looking at the wine.
Indigo blushed and shut the drawer at once. “I was just looking for cups.” She held up one of the plastic cups to show him, geekily, as though she had to demonstrate.
“Well, you found ’em.” Nick walked over to where Indy was, and she could smell that oddly appealing combination of sweat, B.O., and dirty hair that seemed to spill from his pores in the heat. He was close enough to her now that his hairy forearm brushed her bare wrist when he reached around her at the sink. She spun around as though she’d just gotten an electric shock. Nick took the wine bottle from the drawer and removed the corkscrew that lay beside it.
“This is the stash of cheap-o Côte Du Rhône I keep tucked away for art openings and the occasional long night.” He uncorked the bottle and began pouring two cups of dark red wine. “Help yourself,” he said, leaving a cup for Indy. She lamely tucked her “bad” arm behind her back, trying to hide it from his gaze.
“Thanks,” Indy said meekly. She didn’t want to look uncool enough to refuse his offer, even though she hadn’t planned to drink anything stronger than water for a long time after her regrettable shenanigans at the social. She took a sip of wine—it was thick and hot, like blood. It seemed to make her warmer than she was before, and she suddenly wanted to splash water on her face.
Art Girls Are Easy Page 11