“Well, did you?” Lucy asked.
Indigo was quiet.
“Are you there?” Lucy asked again.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Look, Indy—whatever happened, there’s no way they can do anything to you. You’re the hardest-working artist at this whole stupid place.”
“Not lately.”
“Is this about Nick?”
“Nick didn’t force me to burn his painting,” Indy said.
“Holy crap, Indy. You didn’t!” Lucy laughed incredulously, then added, “I hate him.”
“So do I,” Indy said quietly. “Look, I have to run. I’ll find you after the committee and tell you what happened, okay? And listen, Lucy—”
“Don’t say it,” Lucy said, cutting her best friend off. “I’m sorry, too.”
Indigo ended the call and looked at the time—her trial would start in two minutes exactly. She climbed the steps up to the main house and caught her own reflection in the bay windows on the back entrance side of the mansion and smoothed down a flyaway strand of hair that obscured part of her pretty face. She was ready.
As she put her hand on the knob of the door that led to the Harpsichord Room, she couldn’t help but notice how quiet and still the house seemed. Only her sandals creaking on the wooden floorboards made any noise at all, and part of her wished that she had the wrong day or the trial was called off or that the whole affair had been a vivid dream. But as she twisted the brass handle and pushed the heavy door in with all of her weight, she realized her judgment day was all too real. Behind the door, sitting in a semicircle of Ray Eames chairs, was her personal jury. Lillian, Jen, Jim Dybbs, and, for just an extra little dose of “fuck you,” Nick, all sat patiently in front of the harpsichord, waiting to hear what Indigo had to say for herself.
“Come in, Indigo,” Lillian said. “Have a seat.”
The camp director gestured to the piano bench that sat opposite their makeshift coven. Indy, taking a moment to pull herself together and being sure not to rest her eyes on Nick, who was wearing an all-black ensemble of a black Talking Heads T-shirt over black jeans. Indy pulled her head up high and walked over to the bench. She kept her facial expression as neutral as she could and looked to Lillian without saying a word.
“Well,” Lillian said, “none of us want to be here. But we’ve convened today to discuss the serious allegation of vandalism against Indigo, which is something that, if proven to be true, is punishable by suspension from the rest of camp, including all Industry Showcase events, as well as future ineligibility from the Silver Springs C.I.T. programs. Jen, why don’t you begin?”
Jen Rant, who sat between Nick and Jim, cleared her throat. Everybody looked uncomfortable besides Indigo, who looked oddly calm and at peace with what had already begun. There was no stopping it now.
Jen finally began. “Well, a couple of weeks ago, I met with Indy regarding this summer’s final project. And it did seem like she was not only distracted with personal matters, but that she was too busy making excuses and lying about her progress to actually produce any art.”
“But there’s no rule that says how you have to pace your work, is there?” Nick interrupted Jen.
“No,” she responded, her face souring. “I was just saying, I’m concerned about Indigo for reasons beyond the vandalism.”
“Well, she’s on trial for vandalism, right?” Nick said. “Then let’s just talk about that. There’s no need to make things more complicated than they have to be, Jen.”
Indy noticed as her adviser’s face flashed from anger to sadness. She looked at Nick now, knowing his eyes were on Jen so he couldn’t stare back, and she saw a bizarro version of the guy she’d loved forever. This Nick was selfish, disloyal, shallow, lecherous—somebody who’d seduce a girl who was barely sixteen into the woods so that he could have his way with her. Indigo quieted whatever instinct caused her to still be turned on by that abstract idea, and pushed down her rising feeling of jealousy as well. She’d trusted Nick with her feelings, and instead he lied to her and hit on poor Lucy. Indigo hated him in that moment. But it was indifference, not hatred, that was the true opposite of the adoration she’d felt for him just weeks before. It was going to take some time to get to that point.
“Fine,” Jen said curtly. “Let’s discuss the vandalism.”
Jen reached into her purple messenger bag, which was, a bit immaturely, adorned with punk-rock stickers, pins, and badges. She removed a folder filled with glossy images of the studio fire, like it was a crime scene on Dexter. She removed one of the pictures—a close-up of Nick’s burnt canvas from the garbage can. The skulls and paint were melted into the remains of soda cans from Indigo’s pop ornaments, and the whole thing was covered in white foam. Jen held it up for the room to see and then passed it to Indy.
“Indy, does this look at all familiar to you?”
“Yes,” Indigo said, holding the photo on her lap.
“Can you do me a favor and tell us how it got to this point?” Jen asked.
“I’d rather not.”
The committee got quiet.
“Excuse me?” Jen said.
“I said I don’t want to go over it.” Indigo looked down. “I’m really sorry.” She handed the photo back to Jen.
“It’s okay if you go slowly, Indy,” Jim Dybbs piped in. “You know, when I was a boy, I had a debilitating stutter and it was always humiliating whenever a teacher would call on me in class. All the other kids would laugh at me. I’d like them to see me now, married to a beautiful woman like Rebecca!”
There was a long pause.
“Indigo, why don’t you want to tell us what happened?” Lillian broke the silence. “If it was some sort of accident…we could try to go easier. Starting a fire on camp property is a very serious offense in itself.”
“I told you I did it,” Indy replied calmly. “Just, please—tell me what my punishment is.” She wasn’t sure where all this brutal honesty was coming from, but it felt good.
“So, you purposely set out to destroy Nick’s painting?” Jen continued, pursing her lips together.
“I mean, not exactly. But it was my responsibility that it was ruined, so I guess I’m guilty of vandalism.” Indy looked down at her feet. What did Nick think of her now? She ruined his piece! If anybody had torched her artwork, she’d never forgive them.
Lillian spoke up. “Indigo, please explain to us what you mean. What happened?”
Indy paused. She could very well throw Nick under the bus—tell them that he was the one who was the root of all of her problems this summer. She could tell them about how he’d gotten her drunk, kissed her, then left her out to dry. How he’d made a move on Lucy, too, who was still underage, even if she was technically a staff member. But none of it really seemed worth it. She had had her fill of drama. Now she just wanted to make art.
“I made a mistake. I’m sorry.” Indy reached up into the bun she had on the top of her head and loosened the bobby pin that kept it together. Her long hair came tumbling down her shoulders, and she shook it out with her other hand. She felt less vulnerable, she decided, with her hair everywhere. “I regret how I spent my time this summer. I regret this whole fire fiasco. I didn’t mean to ruin anyone else’s work. I screwed up. It’s not like me. It’s not like me at all. I’m so sorry.”
There was another silence as the Fairness Committee took a moment to realize she was done speaking.
“Well, I think we’ve heard enough, Indigo,” Lillian announced. “Please step out into the hallway while we discuss among oursel—”
“Wait!” Lucy burst into the room mid-sentence. The door slammed shut behind her.
“Lucy? Why are you here?” Lillian asked. “Shouldn’t you be setting tables with the other junior staff?”
“I had to say something,” Lucy said, walking over to Indigo with a look of intention in her vivid blue eyes. She was out of breath and visibly shaken. Indigo noticed as Nick’s expression changed. He shifted around uncomf
ortably in his chair, trying to seem casual. No one seemed to notice.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you all, but I can’t do nothing while my best friend is being accused of something she would never do.”
“But she did do it,” Nick said, stony-faced. “She just admitted it.…”
“Lucy.” Indy looked to her friend. “Don’t take the blame for me. I did it, not you.”
“I didn’t ruin anything in the studio,” Lucy responded, “and neither did Indigo Hamlisch.” She gave Nick a cold look. “I know she says she did, but the person who vandalized wasn’t really her.”
Where was she going with this?
“Look.” Lucy struck a pose in the center of the room like Mariska Hargitay on a Law & Order poster. “Being an artist means that you have to be tapped into your emotional state, which changes wildly from day to day, from mood to mood. All of us in this room are artists in one way or another, right?”
“I used to…play the trumpet.” Lillian said quietly.
Indigo watched Jim Dybbs nod from the corner of her eye.
“Well, we artists are majorly psychotic people.” Lucy looked at each committee member. “Like, one day we could be on the top of the world. We’re starring in a play or we’re halfway through an awesome painting we’re feeling really jacked up about. And the next thing you know we have a fight with our parents or we run out of money or the person we’re crushing on ends up being a total a-hole.”
Jen shot Nick a dirty look.
“Or maybe nothing happens at all!” Lucy continued. “But we feel like shit, and all of a sudden we can’t make art anymore. Whether or not we show up at the easel or the studio or whatever.” Indy looked at Jen, who suddenly looked embarrassed. “And that’s when we can go nuts! And we can become people we don’t even recognize. But you can’t blame us for acting the way we’re only acting when we’re not ourselves. Because that’s not who we really are all the time. It’s just who we are sometimes.”
“Are you finished?” Jen asked Lucy impatiently.
“No. I have one more thing to say.”
Indy felt herself smile without trying to.
“Indigo Hamlisch is the hardest-working, most talented person I’ve ever met.” Lucy looked at her friend. “For as long as I can remember, I wanted to grow up to be exactly like her.”
Indy felt overwhelmed by the pins-and-needles quality of Lucy’s sentiment.
“And whatever happened in the studio was an honest mistake she made. Everyone makes mistakes. And if I know Indy—and I do know Indy, longer than any of you in this room and better than anybody in the world ever could—she’ll not only make up for this mistake. She’ll do a better job on her project for the show than anybody else at this camp. Just please let her participate. And don’t do anything dumb, like sending her home, or banning her from Silver Springs next year. I don’t want to spend next summer—or any summer, really—without her. I mean, we just made up after fighting this long over a stupid misunderstanding about a boy.”
Jen’s face pinched up into a scowl. Nick turned red. Lucy smiled at Indigo.
“Besides,” she added quickly, “it’s not like the piece in question was all that amazing, anyway. It was just a dumb practice canvas. The artist told me that himself. When we were walking in the woods.”
Nick clenched his jaw nervously.
“Are you done, Lucy?” Lillian asked. “It’s almost eight thirty, and breakfast is starting.”
“I’m done.” Lucy nodded.
“Then please go to the dining hall. And Indy, you can go to breakfast. We’ll let you know our decision by noon.”
“Thanks.” Just as it looked like Jen’s face was about to explode, Indy and Lucy walked out of the Harpsichord Room together.
Suddenly, things didn’t seem so bad.
23
“Oh my GOD, did you see Nick’s stupid face?”
“Nick’s face! What about Jen’s?” Lucy exclaimed, outside the dining hall. “She looked like Violet Beauregard from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, all puffed up like that! Only she was bright red instead of blue.”
“I still can’t believe she and Nick ever had a thing.” Indy winced.
“I know. Gross.”
“Gross!” Indy echoed.
They walked into the dining hall together as the younger campers from the French New Wave Cinema cabins filed in and took their seats at their assigned tables. “Lucy!” a cute seven-year-old drama major with cornrows squealed as she ran over and hugged her counselor’s legs. “I practiced that Neil LaBute monologue again just the way you taught me to. Can I do it for you later?”
“Of course, Anjelica.” Lucy smiled at the girl, who did an excited twirl and ran off to brag to her friends. Indy laughed. It was hard to believe she had doubted her loyalty all summer.
“Are you staying for breakfast? It looks like they’re serving Balthazar scones.…” Lucy looked at one of the platters going around the table to her right.
“Actually, I think I’m going to head to the studio.”
“Yeah?” Lucy’s eyes brightened.
“Yeah,” Indy said. “I have an idea for something.” Her eyes trailed off to the back of the dining hall, where she watched Eleanor arrive, looking haggard. “But first I have to do a little bit of materials-gathering.”
It wasn’t hard for her to find a hammer. Indigo remembered seeing a tool box in the recycling area next to the staff break room. She crept in and snatched it, making a mental note to return it later in case Lillian needed to hang another framed Variety, ARTnews, or New York Times rave review of a Silver Springs alumna’s project.
Indy tucked the hammer into her purse and snuck out the pool entrance of the main house, successfully avoiding any potential encounters with older campers who had by now likely heard all about her Fairness Committee trial. There was no way she would willingly wear a scarlet letter in this situation. She was too absorbed in what she was about to do.
Indigo practically soared down the hill toward the cluster of mod, ski-lodge-looking chateaus that made up the staff housing. She arrived on the “Men’s” side of the villa, which was easily identified as such from the stink of socks and Barbasol shaving cream from the first cabin, and the size fifteen jazz shoes outside of the next one, which must have housed Rashid.
She was still a little curious about which château was Nick’s, but she no longer burned with the hatred of him that consumed her before. After she rejected the idea of snooping around to find his cabin, Indigo felt a quick pang of hurt that soon dissipated.
A stately weeping willow divided the cluster of men’s housing from the women’s, and soon she was tasked with finding which of the mini–ski lodges belonged to Lucy.
She peeked into the circular window on the front door of the first suite and saw a bottle of absinthe liquor, various pointe shoes, and a series of ancient black-and-white head shots of what looked like a very young ballet teacher named Renée Cornillion. The cabin next door looked like a mess from the front window that Indy could easily see into—the staffer hadn’t bothered to draw her blinds. Indigo peeked in to see her Dead Kennedys T-shirt on the armchair in the front room. She didn’t even need to confirm that the château next door to Jen Rant’s was Lucy’s. Even from the outside, the cabin smelled like her hair. That Pantween stuff was not messing around with its signature blend of herbs and spices or whatever.
Indy opened the front door to find a large studio with a made bed, a dresser like the ones in her own room, and a wall adorned with photographs. Pantween products and dog-eared copies of plays were everywhere.
Before she got down to the task at hand, she took a minute to look at all the pictures Lucy had on her wall and was touched to see how many were of the two of them from years ago. There they were in their awkward headgear-and-braces-with-rubber-bands phase. There they were on the camp lawn, dressed up as sexy cats at age eleven for the “Halloween in July” event five summers ago. The same weeping willow Indy had just
passed drooped in the distance behind them, snugly positioned between their cat-ear headbands.
Remembering the time and what she was there to do, Indigo shook off her sandals and climbed onto Lucy’s bed. She used the claw-end of the hammer to pry open one of the wooden ceiling panels and, standing on her tiptoes, looked inside.
Bingo.
Indy reached in and retrieved the nanny cam that Eleanor had mounted right where Indigo had suspected, judging from the angle of the tape they saw of Lucy by her dresser. She quickly stashed it in her bag, replaced the panel, and stepped off the bed. As she slipped her gold sandals back on, she smoothed down Lucy’s bedding then left the same way she came in.
By now the sun was getting hot, and Indigo took off the white blouse she’d borrowed from Eleanor and wrapped it around her waist, freeing her arms and exposing the tank she wore underneath. By the time she arrived at her second destination—the area near the lake where she had seen Lucy and Nick—she felt comfortable in her skin. The mark on her arm was starting to fade a little now. It was a reminder of what she’d been through—not who she was. Even if the Fairness Committee verdict came back guilty, she could survive anything.
Indy found nanny cam number two dangling off one of the branches of a lusty Japanese maple, like a futuristic birdhouse right under the rock where she and Lucy had smoked that joint. She leaned the branch down to her height and untangled the copper wire that kept the camera fastened.
Finally, she walked over to Theater Row, past the fountain and the swing set and the benches and the pines, and found Lucy’s rehearsal studio. It was in the Tudor housing that held about five or six mirrored cubicles in each space. Somebody was tap-dancing in one of the cubes and someone else was singing scales along with a piano. Last-minute preparation for Industry Showcase Day was obviously in full swing in all corners of the camp. Indy kept her eyes on the tops of the cubicle dividers, which ended far before the ceiling did. When she landed on what looked like a teddy bear perched on top of one of the dividers, she walked through the maze of sounds directly toward it.
Art Girls Are Easy Page 19