Viola in Reel Life (13 page)

Sometimes I wonder if Suzanne is right—maybe Andrew is jealous of Jared. But that’s just too weird. We know each other so well.

When I go home to New York for break, one of the
first things I will do, after ordering in doubles of cold noodles with sesame sauce from Sung Chu Mei, will be to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan to go to Scoop in the Village. After I’ve bought myself one nice thing, I will sit down with Andrew face-to-face and say, “What the eff? What happened to us? Let’s remember who we are and what we came from.” I’m going to say it just like that. And I can’t wait to hear what he says.

The Christmas season was practically invented for people like Trish. She’s the kind of person who has twinkling white lights in her ficus tree year-round and, as soon as Thanksgiving passes, puts a wreath crammed with glass balls on her door and displays her collection of vintage elves on her nightstand. She is
so
into it. Surprise.

The seniors are in charge of gathering and creating evergreen garlands for each floor. They have a hot chocolate party and go into the woods with hacksaws to pick the best greens.

The juniors make the red velvet bows to go on the garlands, which is an easy job because from the looks of it, they just save the bows year to year and pass them down. Basically, they unpack boxes as their contribution to holiday cheer.

The sophomores decorate the tree in the entrance hall,
which is ginormous and has old-fashioned Roma lights in red, green, and blue threaded through the branches. There is an ornate brass menorah in the window, and just to make sure all bases are covered, Kwanzaa candles are lit in the dining hall.

The freshmen are basically the grunts for the sophomores, and we also have to sign up for caroling groups to go into South Bend and sing for the locals.

To top it all off, the school gardener places nondenominational sprays of evergreens on the entrance doors to the main buildings. The atriums have a million pots of poinsettias and webs of twinkling white lights on the ceilings, which are pretty at night. Ho. Ho. Ho.

I go online about seventy times a day to check the status of my flight home on December twentieth with a return on January third. I’m flying out of O’Hare in Chicago. I’m worried about blizzards, malfunctioning engines, and the fine-print problem where the airlines give up your seat without alerting you. If that happens to me, I will pitch a hissy fit. Nothing can prevent me from going home! If I have to go by dogsled, I will be in Brooklyn for Christmas.

Trish is going to drive me to the airport and even two hours of torture stuck in a car, just her and me, cannot for one second quell my excitement at getting home,
back to my neighborhood, my room, and my world.

“Everybody is totally jealous of you and Jared,” Marisol says as we drape the garland down the center of our hall.

“Marisol, getting a boyfriend is not an achievement in life.” I climb the ladder to secure the garland to the ceiling.

“You can say that because you have one,” Marisol says, spotting me from the floor.

“I guess that’s true.” I make a loop with the garland through a hook.

“You were the least likely in our quad to find personal happiness.”

I climb down the ladder. “Why do you say that?”

“You didn’t throw yourself into the PA experience.”

“For the record, I don’t throw myself into much. Except film.”

“I know.” We’re quiet for a few minutes, unwinding more garland. Marisol is unusually quiet. I feel bad. I know I talk about Jared a lot. Marisol doesn’t seem to mind, but still.

“What’s up with you? You don’t seem like yourself.” I watch her face and she just shrugs, looking even sadder.

“I just found out I can’t go home for Christmas break.”

“What?” Now I feel horrible that I’ve been talking
nonstop about breaking out of here for the holidays.

“Mom and Dad are going down to Mexico to be with my grandmother. They think this could be her last Christmas.”

“And they’re going to leave you here?” I’m shocked.

“They can’t afford to bring me home and go take care of my grandmother. So I volunteered to stay here because I knew it would be easier for them.”

The idea of Marisol getting stuck at the Prefect Academy over Christmas vacation practically breaks my heart. “I know! Maybe my folks could drive out and you can come home with me.”

“Do you think?” A smile begins to creep across her face.

“My parents are totally flexible. They’d love it.”

“My parents would be so happy that I wasn’t alone on Christmas.”

“Consider it done!”

As Marisol and I hang the garland, I tell her everything about New York. She’s never been there, and boy, is she in for the trip of a lifetime. Wait until she sees the Empire State Building and the Hudson River and the Saks Christmas windows. I’ll take her to see
The Nutcracker
at the New York City Ballet! She won’t have time to miss her parents. It will be a whirlwind of fun.

The work tables in Hojo’s film classroom are long and deep. Suzanne, Romy, and Marisol sit across from me as I lay out my plans to make a movie about May McGlynn.

“I’d like to thank you all for taking time out of your busy skeds to meet me here.”

“Knock it off, Viola. It’s just us.” Suzanne opens her notebook.

“Sorry.”

“We could have met in our room,” Romy complains. “We have snacks.”

“No, I want this to be…professional,” I tell them. I give each of the girls a printout of my proposal for the movie that I want to make and submit to the Midwest Secondary School Film Competition. Ever since talking with Jared about it, I’ve been thinking and thinking.

As the girls read, I tap my pencil nervously on the work table. I look out on the grounds, where a group of sophomores return from snowshoeing in the great woods behind our school.

“Okay.” Suzanne puts down the paper.

“I’m done,” Marisol says.

“Me too.” Romy looks at me.

“What do you guys think?”

“This is a life story that has it all. May is a young and beautiful starlet,” Marisol says. “Then fate steps in.”

“She dies young,” I say. “Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. She tells her life story at the site of the crash.”

“Cool. I like it,” Romy says.

“I’m directing and shooting the film with my camera. I need a producer to do the budget. I need a costume and set designer and I need actors. This is where you guys come in….”

“I don’t know how I can help. I’m not arty at
all
,” Romy says.

“You don’t have to be. A producer handles the budget. And you’re really good with math.” I give Romy an envelope. “My mom forwarded me a sample budget for a short-subject film, and I thought you could create one for me. I’m going to film on video and cut it on my own Avid, but part of the competition is that you have to show a budget.”

“Okay. I’ll figure it out.” Romy opens the envelope and unfolds the document.

“And Marisol, you have a good eye. I thought you could do costume and scenery. Mrs. Hawfield in the costume shop said that you could pull whatever you needed. Here’s the permission slip.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“So what do I do? Make the popcorn for the premiere?” Suzanne laughs.

“No, you’re going to play May McGlynn.”

“The dead girl? Cool!” Suzanne high-fives Romy. “I never thought I’d be in a movie!”

“Principle photography will commence February first, here on campus. The deadline for submission to the contest is March tenth, so I figure we’ll film for three days, and then I’ll do my edit and submit by the deadline.”

“We’re really going to make a movie? Really? Quad 11 is actually going into show business!” Romy is enthralled. Her blue streaks have practically disappeared from her red hair, and she’s let her bob grow out. I think she’s going for a more sophisticated look, probably to appear older to Kevin Santry whenever they meet again.

“I’ll have a script to you guys by Christmas break, so you can prepare.”

I feel very
Hollywood
promising everyone on my team a script. But like every writer who ever had an idea, I only have the germ of it. I have the character of May—and a life story that ended in tragedy. Is that enough? I hope I will find the story as I’m writing. I’ll be calling on my muses to guide me—including May McGlynn.

FINAL EXAMS FOR THE FIRST SEMESTER ARE ALMOST
over. Grabeel Sharpe delivered toys to needy kids, and I agreed to go with Jared, but at the last minute, with the possibility of failing the ninth-grade bio exam, I decided to stay in and try to pass the thing. We haven’t had another date. So, as of December 9, 2009, I’m in a holding pattern of four kisses, one hand-holding, one date, one cookie, and one book. The IMs and texts are at, like, a record-breaking number at this point. When you add it all up, it’s perfectly great (because I wasn’t expecting anything at all in the social department), but I’ve also learned, with the guidance of Suzanne, to never count on much when it comes to boys, because then you will not be disappointed. So far, that’s become the backbone of my romantic philosophy. My good luck and excellent fortune with Jared
Spencer has lasted longer than Trish’s box of salt water taffy that she opens when you go into her room to discuss “problems.” This, in my life, is a triumph already.

While I’m studying for the bio exam, an email pops up from my mom to turn on the video conference camera. I push my hair behind my ears and sit up, waving to my mom through the computer.

“Hi, Mom!”

“Viola, you look tired.”

“It’s final exams. I
am
tired.”

“Are you drinking your fizzy Emergen-C powder every day?” she asks.

“Yep.”

“Good. That will ward off colds.”

My dad nestles into the shot next to my mother.

“Hey, kid,” he says.

“Dad, you have to shave that beard before I come home. Your face looks like Davy Crockett’s hat.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“No. I want my old dad back.”

“Sorry.” He smiles.

My dad usually grows a beard when he’s filming. My mother also lets her personal appearance go when she’s working. I see a half inch of gray roots on top of the brown with the caramel highlights from early fall.

“So, how are you?” Mom says.

“Well, I think you will be happy to know that I’ve decided to embrace this place for another semester. I’m going to stop bugging you to quit your movie.”

“What changed your mind?” Dad wants to know as he takes Mom’s hand in victory (for now) and solidarity.

“I’m making a movie.”

“I got your proposal. It’s terrific,” Dad says. “I’m happy you decided to enter the competition.”

“Thanks. I think it will be an amazing experience to make my first film here. There’s something to be said for creating works of art in a quiet vacuum….”

“Now, Viola…” Mom begins to correct my lousy attitude.

“Just kidding. I’m getting into it. I have it
slightly
cast—my roommate Suzanne is playing the lead—and I’ll write the script when I’m home.”

“We want to talk to you about that,” Mom says, making a face that sends a web of small lines across her forehead.

“What’s the matter?”

“Honey, we can’t get to the States for Christmas.”

“What are you talking about? Marisol is coming with me—didn’t you get my email about driving out to get us?”

“And we would have, except that now we can’t be there.”

“I can’t believe you’re putting your stupid project before me,” I say, furious.

“It’s not like that at all. This is very painful for us. And we talked to Mrs. Grundman, the headmistress—”

“You told
her
before me?”

“We had to make arrangements with her,” Dad interjects.

“This is just great. You go behind my back and make plans without asking me first?” Tears sting my eyes.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds. We actually have good news in all of this.” My mother looks at my father and then into the camera to me. “Grand is going to go to South Bend and spend Christmas with you.”

“That’s supposed to make up for you not being here?”

“Now, Viola, you love Grand. You’ll have a ball with her.” Dad’s tone is stern.

“She’s starting rehearsals for a Broadway play after the first of the year, and this will be her last vacation for a long time,” Mom says. “She’s dying to see you, honey. And Mrs. Grundman assures me that they have a wonderful Christmas dinner planned, and one of the guest rooms in Curley Kerner is reserved for Grand.”

“You planned all of this without once thinking to ask me.”

“We knew how disappointed you’d be and we wanted to make sure you could have the best Christmas possible if we couldn’t be there with you.”

I think about home. I think about my BFFAA Andrew and how our friendship is basically in tatters, shredded to the point where I may have to drop the AA and go to plain BFF. I think about my room, and the East River at night, and the Christmas moon over Brooklyn and how it feels like I’m never going to see any of what matters to me ever again. I’m a refugee from normal family life. I have no place to go. I’m more marooned now than I was when I landed here in September.

“Viola?” Dad says gently.

I wait before answering him. Then I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. “What?”

“I know you can’t understand this now, and that this is really difficult for you, but in the realm of choices we had regarding Christmas, we chose the best one for you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Our hearts are broken that we can’t be with you.” My mother begins to cry. “You’re our world.”

Well, that’s not exactly true, is it, Mom? But I don’t say that out loud. If I was
your world
, as you say, wouldn’t you leave the one you’re in to be with me?

Jared Spencer puts his arm around me outside Curley Kerner. The maintenance man, Mr. Jackowski, clears the benches of snow. Maybe because some of the faculty of PA are so decrepitly old that he’s afraid they might keel over in the drifts, freeze to death, and not be found until Easter break, if they don’t have a place to stop and rest.

We wander for a while across the campus. Jared got a ride over to PA with an upperclassman who was meeting one of our senior girls so we could see each other before Christmas. Jared Spencer is a good advance planner—it makes me like him more, and of course, makes him an organized filmmaker. Jared’s dad is picking him up at GSA tonight, and Jared will go home for the two-week break.

“What do you think you’ll do for the break?” Jared asks.

“Marisol will be here, so I guess we’ll hang out. And my grandmother is coming. And I have to write the script for my movie.”

“I’m going to write my script over break too,” he says. “Though I’ve already done most of the work.”

“You’re kidding. When did you find the time?”

“I like writing more than just about anything, so I do
it before school work. It won’t be a good scene when my grades arrive.”

We stand by the trees in front of the Geier-Kirshenbaum classroom building and look at each other. The wind carries a clump of snow from the trees that falls on my face, stinging me. Jared quickly wipes the snow off with his gloved hands and then looks at me for a long while. Of all the things I like most about having a boyfriend, and believe me, the list is pretty long, the best is when we’re alone—and we don’t say anything—we just look at each other. Suzanne says every person ever born likes to be adored, and I guess I fit very comfortably into that group.

“Are you ready to exchange gifts?” Jared asks.

“Absolutely.”

Jared and I planned to see each other before Christmas. It’s not been easy, with finals and all the school activities centered around the holidays, but we have managed to get together because he made it happen.

We each pull packages out of our backpacks.

“You first,” he says to me. I open a slim, square package. It’s a black-and-white clapperboard and comes with its own box of chalk. The gift is so perfect and so personal and so supportive of my dreams that I don’t have to fake how thrilled I am. Jared Spencer thinks of everything.

“I love it. Thank you!” I throw my arms around him and give him a hug.

Then he opens his package from me.

“This is great. I really need this,” he says, looking down at the updated two-disc set computer program for the Avid. “I can’t wait to try it.”

“It’s all the bells and whistles. You can even do subtitles and crawlers with it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I can show you how. After Christmas.”

“Cool,” he says.

“Hey, Jared?” Jared’s ride, a GSA senior named Paul, waves from the parking lot. “Gotta go, brother,” he says.

“I gotta go,” Jared says.

“I heard,” I say and smile.

“Sorry.” And then Jared Spencer leans down and kisses me softly, gently—perfectly. “Merry Christmas,” he says. “It’ll go fast.”

“Merry Christmas.”

One dance, one lecture, one outside walking date, five kisses, one cookie, one book, and one most excellent clapperboard for movie production. I watch Jared go as the wind blows more snow onto me. But this time, the snow doesn’t sting my face, my tears do. And I’m not crying for Jared Spencer—okay, partly, I really like him a
lot—I’m crying because Christmas, and my hopes for a perfect one, keep leaving me.

As I walk back to Curley Kerner, I think about all the positive things that have happened to me since I came to the Prefect Academy. I’ve made good friends and I’ve had challenging classes and I’m planning my first movie. I met Jared. There are many good things to be grateful for, so why do I feel abandoned? My parents sent me to PA for the
education
and the
experience
, and I could accept that, if only I were able to go home for Christmas. I wonder if I’ll ever find my way back home. Brooklyn seems like a million miles away.

“Where’s my girl?” I hear Grand’s voice thunder in the entrance hall of Curley Kerner. My grandmother’s loud, deep, and clear voice is truly her signature as an actress and as a human being. It’s the kind of voice that can clear a gymnasium full of people with one well-timed holler of: “
Fire!
”

“I’m on my way!” I call down the stairs. I’m happy that she’s here—three days with only Marisol and six other students with no place to go for the holidays has been boring. I’ve been working on my movie script, and when I’m not writing, I join the girls for down time. We watch DVDs, hang out, and go to the University Park
Mall with Mrs. Zidar in the school van…to shop. For whom? I always wonder as we board the van. But I ended up getting Grand a pair of Isotoner gloves (she’ll need them around here in the bitter cold) and a chic thermos for her dressing room when she’s in a play.

Grand stands in the center of the entrance hall with her hands on her hips. She wears a black cossack hat and a white down coat with small, puffy stitched windows that reaches to her ankles. “There you are!” She beams at me, wide and full just like my mother, who has the same smile.

I skip down the steps and into her arms. “Thank God you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else!” she says.

As she hugs me for a long time, I let her. I really need a good hug from someone I’m related to. Grand smells like oranges and cream, and her skin is soft. She’s always bugging my mom to take care of her skin too, but Mom just doesn’t have the time to follow through with a beauty regimen.

The doors of the entrance hall swing open. A tall, very handsome man carrying a bunch of suitcases pushes through and puts the bags on the floor.

“I want you to meet George,” Grand says, well, grandly.

“Hi, George.”

“Hello, Viola. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He has one of those very white, very bright smiles that you see in the after pictures in dental ads.

“I’ve never heard a word about you, George,” I tell him honestly.

He and Grand burst out laughing. “I told you she was funny,” Grand says to him.

“George and I are friends,” Grand says, dropping her voice about two octaves when she says the word
friends,
like it’s a secret or something.

“I’m nuts about your grandmother,” he says.

“Doesn’t he look like Cary Grant?” she says. “You know, sophisticated and uptown?”

“Viola won’t know who he is,” George says.

“The heck! I taught her everything there was to know about screwball comedies, right, Viola?”

“Yep. My favorite is Cary Grant and Irene Dunne in
The Awful Truth,
and you do look like him.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like his film career,” George says without sounding one bit jealous.

My grandmother (the good news) showed up for Christmas break, but she brought her boyfriend (what?). And this man is, like, my mom’s age, somewhere in his forties, I’m guessing, because he has gray hair at the
temples—or maybe he’s in his fifties and gets facials, I don’t know—but any way around it, he’s a lot younger than my grandmother, who happens to be sixty-four years old exactly. But she doesn’t look sixty-four. She has long blond hair and a trim figure, and she wears very good pancake makeup with a bronze blush that makes her look robust. Grand is described as willowy in theatrical reviews—from her ingenue days until now.

“Go ahead, Viola. Tell George what you know about screwball comedies.” Grand removes her cossack hat and shakes her head. Her blond hair tumbles out onto her shoulders.

“Right, right. Sorry. I like to focus on films made in Hollywood from 1933 to 1943,” I tell him.

“Which ones?” Grand steps back and gives me the floor to speak.

“Well…I like movies about runaway heiresses. Three of my favorites are
It Happened One Night, Midnight
, and
My Man Godfrey
, which had particular social significance because it was released during the Great Depression and dealt with themes of homelessness in the form of the ‘forgotten men’ as portrayed by William Powell. Now, if we’re talking Cary Grant, there’s the aforementioned
The Awful Truth
and
Bringing Up Baby
where he uses physical comedy to express his inner emotional turmoil. And you
do resemble him, George, but I think you look a little more like Rock Hudson in
Pillow Talk
.”

“There’s nothing to sneeze at in terms of comedy with that one,” Grand interjects.

“It was very good,” I tell them. “But
Pillow Talk
came out in 1959, so it doesn’t exactly fit my screwball list. So, are you an actor?”