Vida smiled happily at her dearest friend, then looked for admiration from Mr. Klug. His mouth was open, but you could see he wasn't speechless with admiration. His look barely grazed her as he took a drink and turned to speak to Mr. Larson. She blushed and then laughed back at Lucy to show she hadn't been slighted. Who would have expected Lucy to be a friend of the man who wrote book reviews in the Husker-Sun? When he knew her better he'd realize she was closer to what interested him than Lucy, a jazz baby. She'd tell him she always read what he wrote. Sometime tonight. But Mr. Brush was the nicest man there. Wherever had she got the idea he was an old man with a beard? Life certainly was easy for Lucy. All a girl had to do was bleach her hair, be a dancer, and go to New York, to make everyone think she was wonderful and want to paint her. She could not keep her eyes from the paintings on the walls, or from comparing them with their subject.
They are simply wonderful. They don't look like Lucy but they must mean something deep. All those strong lines and triangles and patches of color. Sometimes you can even see Lucy. I don't know which I like best. Perhaps the one over the fireplace with the big black-shadowed eyes and cream skin and little pink mouth. I never saw her wear a bonnet with plumes like that, or a black ribbon around her neck. I could write a poem about it. What if I did and sent it to Mr. Klug? Of course I wouldn't sign my own name. If he printed it I could go and tell him who I really am. I'd say "Remember, we met at a mutual friend's, in Mr. Brush's studio." I wonder whether Mr. Brush gives painting lessons? I think maybe I could paint too.
Mr. Henkel, or was it Mr. Larson, winked at Vida and she stared back as Lucy had because he was being familiar. She felt experienced and foreign to herself, on an equality with Lucy, because of looking so grown-up tonight. She put her hand to her hair and readjusted the hairpin sticking the base of her skull.
What a wonderful night it was. On the walk over, the moon played jacks with the stars. It had been unbelievable when Lucy invited her. Not only inviting but bringing her with them after Mrs. Claudel had undone her braid and rolled her hair to make it look bobbed. As if that weren't enough, especially after Mrs. Claudel made her wear a tight patent leather belt, Lucy had made her put on lipstick. Until then she had given up hope that she ever would see the inside of the studio while Lucy was in Congress. She had thought up schemes for calling on Mr. Brush later. Lucy wouldn't write and so, worried,
