“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 that 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.