“So, you’re on a roll!” Jen smiled wide. It seemed fake.
“Well, I was yesterday.” Indy’s mood was starting to stiffen. “I haven’t worked on it today yet.”
“You know, I find that discipline really helps my creative practice.” Jen took a deep breath. “Even if you don’t feel like working on something every day, what separates an amateur artist from a professional is the person who digs into the work no matter how she feels about it.”
What the hell? Indy thought. She’d busted her ass yesterday on her project, only to get a lecture that she didn’t make it to the studio today? The last time she’d seen Jen, Indy had barely cracked her idea—now she was supposed to feel guilty about not working on it like a factory slave?
“Well,” Indy said, looking Jen straight in the eye, “I guess that’s not really my process. I work like crazy when I’m inspired, and when I’m not…”
“Then you beat yourself up until you can’t take it anymore?” Jen volunteered.
“Sort of,” Indigo admitted.
“That’s not very balanced,” Jen said. Then she brightened on a dime. “But artists are seldom the most balanced people in the world!”
Indigo, realizing she was no longer in trouble, relaxed and allowed her mind to revisit the happy Nick thoughts that kept her aloft all day.
“So, tell me about your piece. How has your mission statement changed since we met last?” She scribbled notes in the margins of Indy’s chart.
“Well,” Indy said, somewhat dreamily, lapsing into the reverie of her private fantasies about her and Nick, and making sense of them with everything that had happened the night before. Indigo had become such an expert when it came to fantasizing that she knew how to do it in the company of anyone—parents, teachers, doctors, rabbis—without letting on that her mind was on far more intimate matters than what they were actually discussing.
“I guess I’m not sure whether I still want to make a critical statement about pop culture in a society of consumerism anymore, really,” Indy said breezily.
She noticed from the corner of her eye that Jen had looked up from her folder.
“I mean, what’s the point of exploring themes about the superficiality of social networking or how marketing reinforces economic disparity.” Indy felt like she was drunk again on some kind of cheap champagne—or her own tawdry fantasies of Nick ripping off her clothes and ravishing her in some kind of pastoral setting. (A golf course? A barn?) Whatever she had to say about her work right now seemed like the furthest thing from a priority.
“I’m thinking of changing the point of my piece,” Indigo concluded, with no prompt from Jen, who seemed to react to what she was saying like it was some kind of sick joke. “I want it to be about happiness and love.”
“I mean, at the end of the day,” Indigo continued, wondering aloud to Jen with a dopey half-smile on her face, “isn’t there nothing more transgressive than romance?” A long pause followed as Indy came back to planet Earth, her eyes landing back down on Jen’s face.
“What,” Jen said, without any question-asking inflection.
“Well, I’m just feeling really good right now, and I think that maybe there’s something to the idea that it’s humanism, not consumerism, that’s really the central value of what makes the world run. And maybe my piece should be more about that?”
“I guess I’m just confused, Indigo,” Jen said, in a slightly higher pitch. “When we last met, you seemed to be excited about this project. You had a clear set of intentions going into it, and you even made some pretty impressive progress in the studio—even though you didn’t show up today.” Jen adjusted her chair, then brought it back up to where it was. “Now you’re saying you want to change your mission statement?” She fidgeted with her pencil and knitted her bushy eyebrows. “I don’t understand why you’d want to undo the work you’d already put into it. Unless…is there something going on in your personal life that’s distracting you?”
Indigo finally snapped out of a fantasy about her and Nick swimming nude in—was it a lake or the ocean?—and realized that her adviser was basically reprimanding her. She guessed that was how it went—even if you weren’t feeling guilty about getting enough work done, somebody else was always around to make sure you felt a little bad.
“No,” Indy said curtly. “Nothing at all.”
“Nothing going on with the girls at the dorm?” Jen offered.
“Nope,” Indy said, then waited out a long pause to finally throw Jen a crumb. “I mean, I guess I’ve just been in a better mood than usual lately. But that’s not for any reason in particular, really. I’ve just been feeling…giddy, I guess.”
Jen nodded sagely.
“I’ve been there.” She put Indy’s file folder in her lap and folded her hands over it. “You know, this might be embarrassing to share, but when I was your age, I had the biggest crush on one of my dad’s friends.”
“You really don’t have to—” Indy started, but Jen continued on. Indy cringed and braced herself for the impending overshare.
“Around that time, I really felt like I was doing some of my best work—I was drawing and painting and writing all day, all night.” Jen continued, “I was so productive, it was ridiculous. In retrospect, I don’t think the work I was actually doing was all that incredible.”
Jen stood up and looked out the window. This was all a little melodramatic for a dumb adviser meeting. Indy wished she would make her stupid point so she could get out of there.
“Anyway, when I had that crush, around your age, all I could think about was my dad’s friend.”
Ew. She didn’t want to picture a teenage Jen Rant lusting over some old dude, nor did she want to entertain the idea that the two of them had anything in common at all, whether it was a creative streak or a penchant for older guys.
“And while artists are really moody, I guess I wasn’t really prepared to know how debilitating my ‘good’ mood would be to my work,” Jen continued. “All I could think about at the time, instead of getting my work done, was how I could get this man to take notice of me. His name was Herman.” She closed her eyes as she said his name, like she was in pain or something.
Indigo couldn’t listen to any more of what Jen was earnestly conveying from the bottom of her soul without smirking. This story had officially become fucking ridiculous. Herman? Like Herman Munster? Wait until she told Lucy.…
Indigo suddenly remembered one of the things that Nick said last night. He’d mentioned that any rumors about him from last year were totally untrue. There was absolutely no way anything had ever happened with Lucy. She felt warm with the reassurance that Eleanor was what she always suspected—a liar who only wanted to get between her and her best friend, no matter what the cost was of the bullshit she fabricated.
Indy couldn’t wait to come clean to her bestie. She’d tell Lucy everything. About her unfounded jealousy around the concert and the staff meeting…all of it. Then the two of them would laugh at how dumb it all was. Or, really, at how dumb Indigo had been for ever doubting their friendship.
“Anyway,” Jen Rant continued, seemingly oblivious to her mentee’s mind being one billion miles away, “my dad eventually got transferred to another office, and he stopped socializing with Herman. He never came over to our house after that, and though I was heartbroken at first, I found out that not having him around as a distraction was actually really helpful to my productivity. I got a lot more work done once I got over Herman.”
Indy thought to herself that “Once I got over Herman” would be an amazing title for a future piece.
“Then, last summer, I was involved with somebody I was…working with.”
Indy’s ears perked up. She had to be talking about Nick now. She sucked in her breath, hoping her adviser wouldn’t notice.
Jen’s eyes drifted to the window, visibly hangdog and moist all of a sudden. “I was miserable and heartbroken, and even though I tried to work through it—to funnel the pain into my
work—I couldn’t make a damn thing out of it. It was a wasted summer of total misery.” This sounded familiar. But Indigo didn’t want to think that she and Jen had ever kissed the same guy.
Jen snapped back to the task at hand.
“The point is, we all give ourselves emotional inspirations and distractions that can either help us get work done or derail us from the task at hand. Sometimes the stuff that feels good in life can be really bad for our work, and sometimes things like pain, depression, or even plain boredom can encourage us to make art. Your goal between now and the next time we meet is to think about finding balance.” She took a seat again.
“Anything is possible with your talent.” Jen forced a weak smile, and Indigo returned it, relieved that the sermon had gotten “wrap-uppy.”
“See you Wednesday,” Indy said, standing up to leave.
“Yes,” Jen agreed, her eyes seeming to get misty again.
Indigo hightailed it toward Theater Row, where she hoped to see Lucy in a rehearsal or assistant-teaching a class at this hour. But she was nowhere to be found. She peered into the glass-paneled walls of the huge, modernist movement and dance studios, and around the rehearsal spaces.
Finally, she pulled out her cell to type up a quick text. She and her best friend had lot to reconcile—even though their latest awkwardness had been, until now, entirely in Indigo’s head.
As soon as she reached into her bag for her phone, Indy felt it vibrate with an incoming text that was just cryptic enough to be worrisome.
Meet me by the lake. Now.
But it wasn’t from Lucy at all—it was from Eleanor.
15
Against her better judgment, Indigo found herself walking toward the lake to meet up with Eleanor, who’d sold Lucy up the river. She decided to meet her only because she was curious about what her text could possibly mean. And, to be honest, it was also too nice a day for her to consider heading back into the studio just yet.
The spring smells and the sensation of the breeze on her skin only added to the sense of giddiness Indy had felt all day. She took off her long-sleeved button-down shirt and tied it around her waist in defiance. It didn’t matter if anyone saw her bandage. She’d just blame it on her wire sculpture. It just felt good to have the sun dapple her arms and to breathe in the fresh air.
This must be how normal, happy people felt. The kinds of girls who didn’t live at the mercy of their demons and their hormones and their constant desire to make stuff on a monumental scale and leave a legacy behind. Maybe there was something to the notion of balance that Jen was talking about.
Indigo ignored the slight pang of guilt she had walking toward the lake instead of toward the studio, and tried to feel better by telling herself she was going on an “inspirational” walk. Artists weren’t always just inspired in the studio. Sometimes they got their best ideas just walking around and letting their minds wander. Indy remembered when Jim Dybbs, her adviser last summer, had given her that very advice. Nothing like a beautiful day and a good mood to make you more vulnerable to the advice of hippies.
The gravel and stray leaves on the path to the lake crunched beneath Indigo’s moccasins as she found herself noticing everything. The shadows on the trees and the clouds in the sky above her. The group of eight-year-old theater students rehearsing in a grassy clearing, wearing silly wigs and reading lines from Hamlet. The wooden signs shaped like arrows that guided campers toward different parts of the campus. She’d never even bothered to look at those signs very closely, but now she could see that each one was expertly painted with tiny, intricate designs. Her new perspective felt good.
As she rounded the corner past the woods and toward the lake, she stopped in her tracks when she heard what sounded like a rustling in the woods. She’d heard rumors of bear spottings from Yvonne in particular, who claimed (even with telltale blue icing stains on her top) that a teenage grizzly was responsible for clearing out the stash of last summer’s birthday cakes from the pantry. Unsure if the source of the noise was a dangerous animal, Indy stood totally still. She waited for another sound but heard nothing.
So, she continued on, until a familiar distinctive giggle caused her to come to a screeching halt. Indy peeked into the woods, hiding behind a large American elm, and moved aside the giant leaves on a fern in front of her to see where the laugh was coming from.
It was hard to see behind the brush, but Indigo could definitely see Lucy’s back to her. That head of full, dazzling ringlets was a dead giveaway.
She tossed back her curls in another giggle fit. Indigo maneuvered herself so she could see more clearly.
She almost cried out as soon as her best friend shifted her body weight to her right. It was Nick she was talking to, laughing at, flirting with. He was wearing jean cutoffs and a white New York Dolls T-shirt, running his fingers through his thick hair like he did all the time at the studio. As he had just last night.
“What are you talking about?” She heard Lucy giggle.
Just like that, Indigo’s great mood darkened. Her heart sank and her belly ached. Her hands got clammy and her neck began to sweat. But something compelled her to keep watching.
Nick took Lucy’s hand and moved in toward her petite frame—deliberately, and with seductive intention—like he had done with Indy only hours before in the studio, right before they’d kissed. It was now becoming clear that Lucy and Nick were going to kiss, too. Indigo couldn’t bear watching for a second longer.
She turned around like she’d been hit in the face and ran back toward her bunk. The ground—the dirt and leaves and pebbles—all crashed beneath her feet, which was somehow satisfying. Indy was done with being quiet. No more lurking, creeping, observing. That was for pussies. Now that she was betrayed—hurt, furious—she wanted to make as much noise as she could. Let Lucy and Nick hear her escape. Let them worry.
“Indigo? Indigo, Jesus, wait up!” Eleanor’s voice rang out in the distance.
Indy could have been a mile away or ten by the time she let the boiling rage that corked her ears dissipate to allow sound in. She turned when she heard her name to find Eleanor chasing after her, just out of the entrance to the woods by the lake.
“Where did an art student learn to run like that? You’re not even out of breath? You guys are supposed to be fatties.” Eleanor gathered herself and smoothed down her hair and clothes—her composure had been ruffled by all the chasing. “Did you go to the woods? I didn’t see you there.”
Indigo just stared into the space an inch or two in front of Eleanor, her face slack with shock and pain.
“Oh my God, what’s wrong? Did you just see a ghost?” Eleanor’s snotty veneer melted away as she caught the whiff of what could be some potentially juicy gossip that could justify her roommate’s expression.
“I…just…” Indy was so mad she couldn’t even form sentences yet.
“What? What’s going on? What happened?” Eleanor prodded.
Indy tried, but she couldn’t keep it in anymore.
“Fuck Lucy, and fuck Nick! I hope they both die in a fucking fire!” She heard herself unravel at a high, shrill volume to her frenemy. She sounded like a hysterical dork, her voice quivering with emotion. She didn’t sound bad-assed, the way she hoped she’d sound when she got angry and began to swear.
Eleanor’s face lit up like a little girl’s on her birthday, surprised by a cake with glowing candles. Now the good stuff—the real gossip—could finally begin.
“What happened?” Eleanor asked. The question hung between them like a loaded gun. It was Indigo’s turn to talk, but she just started to sob.
Indy wailed and choked on her own angry tears. It seemed to come out of her mouth, not her eyes, which stung with rage. Eleanor just stood in front of Indigo, watching her cry, waiting patiently for the dirt.
“Lucy and Nick,” Indigo said again. “Fuck them both.”
“Yeah, but what did you see?” Eleanor wouldn’t let go until Indy had told her something coherent and repeatab
le about the parties in question.
“They were…” Indigo choked back her tears and hardened a bit. “They were about to make out, basically. He was moving toward her …” Indigo got freshly angry just hearing herself say out loud what she’d just now seen. “Oh, fuck it. Fuck them. Who cares. I’m done.”
Eleanor nodded in rapt solidarity and handed Indy a cigarette. Indigo took it and lit up, even though they were perilously close to campus. She didn’t care anymore if she got caught and sent home. She wanted to get away from camp—she wanted to get away from Lucy. She wanted to make sure she never saw that two-faced bitch again.
“Not to be like ‘I told you so,’” Eleanor said softly, “But didn’t I mention that the two of them had a thing on the first day?” She put her hand on Indigo’s shoulder—her fingers felt like ice.
This is my ally? Indy thought to herself. It was too much to think that this psycho was telling the truth, and that Lucy was the liar all along.
“Lucy and Nick were totally hooking up last summer,” Eleanor continued, piecing together the story as she spoke. “Now it’s just trickling over.” She watched a shattered Indigo stub out her hardly smoked cigarette with barely a trace of empathy. “This must be so hard for you,” Eleanor said, with fake concern knitted into her severely thin eyebrows. “Your best friend basically lied to you.”
Indigo briefly dipped out of the rage-fueled self-pity that swirled inside her head like a mucky tornado and saw Eleanor for who she was—a bottom feeder who thrived on the misery of others, no matter what their allegiance. The only good thing to say about her was that what you saw was what you got. There were no illusions when it came to her character—at no point was she trying to fool you into thinking she was your BFF. Not like Lucy. Indy clenched her fists, imagining pulling her blond ringlets out by the roots with her bare hands.
“See you later, Eleanor,” Indigo said, then walked off toward—toward what? She had no idea. She didn’t want to go back to the bunk, she had no interest in going to the studio, and the direction of the lake was obviously a nonstarter.
Art Girls Are Easy Page 13