LUANNE DENGLER: Look, don’t file me under school friend! I was never her friend. Addison was a bitch, and it wasn’t just me who felt that way about her—lots of people thought she was selfish and a user. I know she’s dead, but that’s the reality.
Me and Addison didn’t go to school together till seventh grade, when South Road School and Matunuck Elementary merged into South Kingstown Junior High. But back in first through fifth grade, she took ballet with me at Stage Door Dance.
Considering what Addison became, and the things she got famous for after she moved to New York, you’d think not being friends with her seems like a mistake, right? Like, she could have introduced me to actors and cool bands and got me into clubs and stuff, the way she did with Lucy Lim. Thing is, I didn’t want to be a suck-up like Lucy. Because Lucy made it her job to take care of Addison, to be the full-time manager of Addison World. Sorry if I have too much self-esteem for that.
Besides, Addison was jealous of me. Sometimes I think Addison’s negativity came down to how she didn’t ever have any of the right things. For ballet, she had one old black Danskin and one pair of tights and a pair of too-small ballet slippers with the ties pulled off.
That first Sunday, I walk into the studio, and she’s in my spot. Front and center. Anyone can see she’s good but has no experience, ballet-wise. Worse than this, Madame Kuznetov has decided that this girl is her new pet. Suddenly it’s “Miss Stone” this and “Miss Stone” that and “Miss Stone, you have flair” and “Look, girls, look at how Miss Stone is tucking in her derriere and how she’s positioning her feet.”
I wouldn’t have cared, I swear, but Addison herself was always chafing me. “Dengler-berry,” she got kids to call me—even Lucy. Addison could bring out Lucy’s worst, especially when she turned into Addison’s puppy dog.
Addison’s mom got her lessons at Stage Door free, because she traded out Addison to do modeling for their website. Addison was pretty in a trendy way, I guess, and her mom wasn’t shy about pimping out her looks. She’d do anything if it meant free crap. Look, I’ve got a baby of my own now. I get it that money doesn’t grow on trees. People’ve got to provide for their kids. You play your cards. But Addison’s mom didn’t even try to be classy about it.
JENNIFER O’HARE MEYERS: Addison never called me Aunt Jen.
“Jen,” she’d say.
“Aunt Jen,” I’d correct.
“Right,” she’d say. But she never made the change.
“Hey, Jen,” she’d say, five minutes later.
My girls always called my sister Aunt Maureen. Charlie calls me Aunt Jen. But Addison never. She said Jen, on purpose and always.
When it came to parenting, Roy was the weak one. I say this on the record because Charlie’s grown, and Addison’s gone, and Maureen and Roy are separated now. You want to know the truth about Roy Stone? He was chased out of Bristol because he was seeing so many other women on the sly. He’s a drunk and a deadbeat. Mostly a cheat. He’s a disgrace to this family. I was always ashamed to call him my brother-in-law.
Maureen used to phone me in tears. “I found lipstick smudges on Roy’s clothes,” she’d say.
“Throw the bum out,” I’d answer.
Then another time she called. “I found a lace bra in the glove compartment.”
“Put a PI on that rat,” I’d say. “When you divorce him, he’ll need to pay through his cheating nose.”
Finally Maureen got smart and listened to my advice, and spent the few hundred bucks she’d scraped to save on her own to have Roy followed. Turned out he was driving night after night to the same seedy Holiday Inn to meet his little honey. Maureen almost left him right then and there. But being that Charlie was a toddler and Addison not much older, it was a vulnerable time for Maureen. Roy never gave up seeing other women. Plus the money troubles got harder every year.
Of course, Len and I tried to help out Maureen and the kids. But my sister was too proud to take a dime. That’s why she sent Addison out for those modeling jobs, and without an agent, some of that print work was pretty sleazy, in my opinion. But when it came to the ways of the world, Maureen could be awfully naïve.
LUCY LIM: In third grade, our school principal, Mr. Hemple, asked us to bring in food for the neediest. We all carted in jars and cans and sacks of potatoes, and this one kid, Jeremy Sullivan, he lugged in a whole case of GuS’s ginger ale that was on overstock since his brother worked at Costco. A few days later I was playing at Addy’s, and I saw that very same case out in their mudroom. It was the first time I’d thought of the Stone family as “neediest.” Poor, sure. There were never any extras at Addy’s house. No treats, no cable TV, no milk in the fridge, and sometimes the heat was turned down so low I didn’t want to take off my winter parka. But neediest?
I never brought up the GuS’s ginger ale case to Addy. She’d have walloped me.
MADDY MEYERS: I’m Addison’s cousin, the one who was closest to her in age, but we weren’t that close. I grew up in Princeton, and now I go to UVA. My dad’s a cosmetic surgeon. I’m not trying to brag about having a comfortable life, except Addison had such a chip on her shoulder about it.
One of my earliest memories of Addison’s issues with my family was when she was about eight years old, and I was nine. It was the middle of summer, and Aunt Maureen had come out to Princeton with Allison and Charlie for a week’s vacation. We’d always gotten along okay, but on that morning I came upstairs from breakfast to find her standing in the middle of my bedroom, wearing one of my Lilly Pulitzer sundresses. Her hands were on her hips, and she had a mean, harsh smile on her face. In her braids, with that smile, she reminded me of, like, crazy Pocahontas. To be honest, she scared me.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “Why are you in my dress?”
“It’s not fair,” she answered me. “You get to have your stupid, fancy private school, and you live in a big house with a swimming pool, and every day your mom buys you new things. And what do I have? Nothing!”
I had no idea what to say to that. I think I just said something like, “Whatever, you can’t borrow my stuff without asking,” and I made a move for the sleeve. “You shouldn’t have touched my dress!”
She yelled, and she slapped my face. I mean, really hard. There was a cracking noise; my cheek was fried blood red.
I cried, but I didn’t tell on her.
When they all left at the end of the week, I knew Addison had packed my dress in her suitcase. But I was too frightened to tell my mom about that, too.
The next time I saw her, at Thanksgiving, she said, “You need to start calling me Addison.”
Addison Stone, age 8, courtesy of Maureen Stone.
“What?” I said. “Why?”
“Because. That’s my name.”
I was shocked. Since that’s almost identical to my name, Madison.
Then she started calling me Maddy Maddy Maddy, and sometimes Mads.
Now everyone does. Nobody calls me Madison anymore. We went from Madison and Allison to Mads and Addison. It’s not like I care that much; as Shakespeare says, “What’s in a name?” It was more about how my cousin took it. Like it was her birthright. She stole it aggressively and for keeps. Same way she took my dress. And just like the dress, I was too scared to stop her.
CHARLIE STONE: When Addison started going out with Zach Frat, one of the first things she told me was that his family had six mansions, all over the world, and the one in California was a replica of a Japanese palace. She’d send me and Lucy Lim these links to magazines where the Fratepietros were tricked out on their sweet yachts or with polo ponies. It was the only time Addison was ever awed. It didn’t last long, of course. But I could see how a guy like Zach would knock you out, when you’ve hardly got anything more than the extra composition notebooks you get free from school.
Selected images of Addison’s early notebooks, courtesy of the estate of Addison Stone.
Funny to think those notebooks are worth real money now. Not so funny th
at most of that money goes straight to Max Berger. That’s a crime. Mom calls him “the hyena.” He’s getting some of Addison’s designs manufactured overseas for his own profit, and I hear he’s calling the clothing line “Addison Is Sleeping” since she always used to take a nap every day. Bottom line, he’s ripping off her life and reaping the profits.
On the other hand, my sister’s talent spilled out everywhere, and Berger was smart enough to see that. I mean, my parents and I had no idea. Berger knew. So what are you gonna do?
Max Berger, controlling executor of the Addison Stone estate, at his home.
August Choksi Burns for Art Home magazine.
MAUREEN STONE: You could get a three-pack of girls’ Hanes T-shirts on clearance. Addison restyled them. She’d deepen the dye for hours to get “her” shade of violet purple, and then she’d do something to the fabric, goodness, something I’d never think of. She’d add an exposed zipper, or a contrast double stitch, or a sliver of velvet, or a band of teeny-tiny safety pins.
I was disappointed when she could work the sewing machine well enough to take over everything. I loved sharing in her work—it was a spot of calm for us, as mother and daughter. But Addison said I slowed her down. Heavens, I couldn’t take it personally. Everyone slowed her down. But she could have been a designer, easily, if the art thing hadn’t worked out. She could have gone on one of those fashion competition television shows and won by a landslide.
LUCY LIM: It wasn’t just art. Addy had geysers of talent everywhere. She’d make up languages, and then we’d use them, dozens of words and phrases just for us.
Like “snerps” meant a sweet loser. But “snerpick” meant a loser with attitude. “Squich,” “squichy,” the “squiching”—those were all different ways to say gross. We had plenty of words for guys, too—“sludgehut” meant a scummy stoner guy. And “lurchmeat” meant a gym rat, a dead-end dude like Mike Gandara who worked the gas pump at Cumberland Farms. “Boingzie” meant crazy cool, “froop” meant so stupid you couldn’t even deal. “Cyclops”—that was about hurting for a guy so bad you were like a Cyclops, get it? Like, as if you had your one dumb eye perma-stuck on that guy.
In middle school, she gave me a picture called Friendship Quilt. It’s us under a tree, everything connected. I thumb-tacked it to my corkboard, and every time Addison came over, she’d make a point to look at it. She liked those little comfort touchstones. Addison was more sentimental than she let on.
Friendship Quilt by Addison
Stone, courtesy of Lucy Lim.
In both eighth and ninth grades, Addy snagged the lead in the school play—Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and Mowgli in The Jungle Book. I don’t think it was because she was the best actress or singer—although she was great. It was more that people just wanted to see her. On a stage, in the art room, in the cafeteria, anywhere.
For me, all that extra talent and charisma on Addy was like perfume. Everyone craved the scent, and nobody could have it. So instead people crowded her, sniffing her. I liked to believe that I was always able to keep my distance and yet be there for her whenever she needed me. That was my talent. I think that’s why she never dropped me. I was careful. I had to learn when to attach, when to be in arm’s reach, and then when to turn invisible.
JENNIFER O’HARE MEYERS: I’d always considered my niece too high-strung. Sensitive to herself and nobody else. But that changed on my husband Len’s and my twentieth anniversary. I’d wanted to do something special, so I threw a party—a real bash, with bartenders and catered food and a jazz trio. I invited Maureen and Roy and the kids up for the weekend. Well, I had to. Maureen is my sister.
Maddy and Addison usually got along okay, and Maureen was being helpful, running errands with me. It was such a night, the doorbell ringing with more people every minute. We were all in the living room having drinks and hors d’oeuvres, when out of the corner of my eye, I see Addison.
I was speechless. All I could think was how on earth could Maureen have let her daughter wear that getup? A thirteen-year-old girl in a fish skin top, tutu, and spike-heeled boots? And did Addison ever know I was flustered! I’d bought my own girls matching ivory linen dresses with fuchsia sashes. They looked fresh as daisies. I think that’s what made her walk extra slow, enjoying her drama, taking her time in these swaybacked steps. So choreographed. In one hand, she held a rolled-up tube—I thought it was a poster at first—but when she finally reached us, she snapped open the canvas.
“Happy twentieth, Jen and Len,” she said. “I made a painting of you both.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
I had to hand it to her; it’s—I mean, there we were, Len and me, captured in a moment that I don’t remember from any photograph, but to this day can remind me of when we’d just moved into our first apartment in Boston, as newlyweds. The painting is who we used to be, back when Len was in med school and I was working three jobs to pay rent. You feel our reliance on each other. You see my uncertainty and even my hope for our future just in the way I’m looking sidelong at Len. You can see his steadiness. His carefulness. It’s amazing.
How did she do it? How did Addison know us, before she was even born? There’s no photo of it that she might have copied. There’s no answer.
When I got Jen & Len framed, I learned the dimensions: 38 × 51. That’s a very big, expensive frame. But we paid for it, even with the museum-quality glass.
On that day, I realized that my niece, so exasperating—infuriating, even—also could do things that other people couldn’t.
Jen & Len by Addison Stone, courtesy of Leonard and Jennifer Meyers.
MAXWELL BERGER: As Addison’s primary art dealer, and the de facto executor of her estate, I am familiar with the painting Jen & Len. Hell, I drove to Princeton to appraise it myself.
Jen & Len is technically part of her juvenilia. Addison hadn’t been studying art at the time. She hadn’t come into her known technique. Essentially, she was a kid. But a genius kid. And that’s why I had to eyeball it. She told me once that in grade school she’d seen a documentary on the artist Alex Katz, and the influence in that painting is obvious—seductive yet aloof. The smooth palate. It might be a work of art by a young person, but there’s nothing childish about it.
I imagine Dr. and Mrs. Meyers are well aware that the hammer-sale of Jen & Len, if they ever wanted to put it up, would exceed the worth of their entire home and everything in it.
MADDY MEYERS: Mom would never say this, but Addison ruined Mom’s and Dad’s twentieth anniversary party. She made it so it wasn’t about my parents at all. Everyone went oooh and ahhh and told Addison what a talented girl she was. Addison is all anyone remembers about that night.
LEN MEYERS: She stole my Rolex that same weekend, I’m pretty sure. She was a little cutpurse, that kid. I could never prove it. But anyway, it’s a great painting. I’d have bought it for some real money. And now it’s worth more than I could afford.
CHARLIE STONE: My sister started to make cash from her art in ninth grade. She was a hustler. She set up an art stand every Saturday in front of the Peacedale movie theater. “Ten bucks a drawing! Come get the best doodle of yourself you’ll ever own!” Then to me, she was like, “Go get me some business, Charlie, and I’ll give you 10 percent.” And I’d do it, too. Addison was fair to the point of over-generous. Usually she paid me about a 25 percent split on the profit if I could pull in buyers.
Addison could get your likeness down in five seconds. More like a portrait than a doodle, but she called them doodles, I think to show that she didn’t take them too seriously. So nobody’d crap all over her if they didn’t look right.
But damn, they looked perfect. Then she’d scribble a random note at the bottom. I actually kept a couple of them, ones she decided were mess-ups but were funny to me. “Everyone wants you, but you want my shoes,” or “I’m less awake today,” or “I’ve got a secret that is also a plan.”
She made real coin till the cops shut her ass down. She had no lice
nse, and she was earning over two hundred bucks a day. Way more bank than your average lemonade stand.
Sketches by Addison Stone, courtesy of the estate of Addison Stone.
LUCY LIM: Addy would never babysit or wash cars or do bake sales or chores or any kid jobs. She earned money by entering art contests. There was this one time when we all had to draw a bicycle for art class freshman year. Addy’s was so incredible that our principal wanted her to donate it, to be on permanent display in the South Kingstown hall. Addy said no donation, thank you very much. If the school wanted it, then it would cost a hundred dollars. And you know what? The school paid up.
Bike by Addison Stone, courtesy of South Kingstown High School.
She needed money so that she could buy top-of-the-line art supplies. But as soon as she had what she needed, she was stupid with her cash—like she’d blow it on some designer jacket or super-expensive gifts. She loved to come sweeping in with presents. She bought my mom bouquets of roses—for her birthday, Mother’s Day, Valentine’s. Once she bought me a Navajo fringe bag I’d been coveting from this vintage shop we loved over in Providence, and another time she got me a pair of moonstone earrings.
Of course when it came to gifts and Addy, you had to be careful. There was always a chance she’d stolen it. She was a bandit, the queen of the five-finger discount. “A clean heist is art,” she’d say. I think that’s why she loved crime movies—Ocean’s 11, the James Bonds and Elmore Leonards. Where bad behavior looks cool and slick.
The Unfinished Life of Addison Stone Page 3
