Viola in the Spotlight (11 page)

We stop while Suzanne takes in the parlor. Romy and Marisol drop the bags by the sofa. Mom put two roll-away beds in the center of the room and placed the sofa and chairs around it.

“Excellent.” Suzanne points to the old-fashioned front windows, with a view of the green leaves of the elms. “Mom and Dad will love it.”

Suzanne goes to the windows and looks out. Marisol, Romy, and I join her. We watch through the window as my dad helps push Mr. Santry in his wheelchair up the ramp we just dragged out from the basement. “The ramp is cool,” Suzanne says.

“It came with the house,” I tell them.

“How lucky is that?” Suzanne smiles. “Let’s go!”

Suzanne, Marisol, and Romy follow me up the front stairs. I show them Mom and Dad’s office, and my desk. Then I take them up to my room. Marisol takes charge and shows Suzanne where the bathroom is, and where to put her stuff.

I watch Suzanne unpack, and just like we were at Prefect Academy, we fall into a rhythm. Marisol sits cross-legged on the trundle, while Romy stretches out on an air mattress. Suzanne goes into a long story about working at the Dairy Queen, and how it took her three weeks to master the dip cone, and the day she did she felt like she had split an atom and isolated a genome to save mankind.
That’s
how hard it is to master a dip cone.

I stand in the doorway and listen and think how lucky I am to have ever met these girls. We move together like a pinwheel, each of the four foil prongs moving in one direction, picking up light.

And I think about Suzanne saying how lucky it was that we had a ramp in the house for her dad, when in fact, it’s unlucky what happened to him—that he has MS and can’t walk. But Suzanne
would
think the ramp was lucky, and that her parents driving her here was lucky, and that tickets to a Broadway show make her luckier still. She wouldn’t for one minute be sad about what she
doesn’t
have, because she’s grateful for whatever she
does
have.

Just like Mom says, and she’s said it more times than I can count:
It’s all in how you look at things
.

The soft yellow centers of the Chinese lanterns dangling from a wire over the picnic table throw light on what is left of our feast. Dad made his red hamburgers and black hot dogs (same grill, same father, same technique, same results). But Mom made a delish Mexican casserole, fresh rolls, and a big salad, so Dad’s grilling was set off by food we could actually eat.

“Come on, Bob. It’s been a long day,” Mrs. Santry says.

“Thanks, guys, this was delicious.” Mr. Santry smiles at my dad and mom. “We appreciate your hospitality.”

“Bob, it’s great to have a guy around here. All I got is women.”

“I wouldn’t complain.” Mr. Santry laughs.

Dad throws open the gate and pushes Mr. Santry up the walkway on the side of our house, to take him up the ramp and into the front parlor. Mrs. Santry follows them out. I’m surprised at how easy it is to adapt our house to Mr. Santry’s wheelchair.

“I’m going to finish up in the kitchen,” Mom says. “Thank you for doing the dishes.”

“You’re welcome,” Marisol, Suzanne, and Romy say.

“Well, it’s a festival of girls,” Maurice says as he opens the gate for Caitlin.

“Hi, everybody,” Caitlin says.

My roommates greet Caitlin as though she is the fifth roommate. I’ve told them so much about her, and she knows everything about them, so there’s no learning curve; it’s just as if Caitlin has known the girls all her life.

“There’s pineapple upside-down cake,” I offer.

Caitlin’s cell phone buzzes. “Excuse me,” she says as she checks it. “Hi, Mom. I’m at Viola’s. Yes, all her roommates are here…. Okay, I’m on my way.”

“You have to go?” Marisol asks.

“Yep. Sorry.”

“I’ll walk you to the corner,” Maurice says.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Romy says, “You weren’t kidding. That isn’t a cell phone—that’s a tracking device.”

“I had a talk with Caitlin.”

“How did she take it?” Marisol asks.

“She won’t tell her parents about Maurice. And besides, he’s leaving after opening night.”

“The director doesn’t stay and watch the play for the run?”

“No. A theater director gets the play to opening night, and then they’re on to the next job. The stage manager keeps the show fresh with the instructions of the director, and also handles the understudies, and the day-to-day of running the show.”

“Do you think the play is going to be a hit?” Romy asks.

“I hope so. I mean, I like it, but I like old movies. And this is an old play.”

“I’m back from the abyss,” Andrew says from the kitchen door.

“Andrew!” I stand up at the table.

“And look, I survived.” He sure did. Andrew has a tan. His haircut has grown out a bit. And I can’t believe it, but he looks (even) taller. “The mosquitoes didn’t kill me.”

Andrew wears his best pale blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt and a pair of jeans. Gone are the days when he wore sweatpants and hand-me-down Gap T-shirts. Now that he’s a ladies’ man, he dresses like one.

I introduce Andrew to my roommates, and they shoot one another knowing looks. The Chinese lanterns may not throw a lot of light, but they can see everything clearly—at least where Andrew is concerned.

“So, tell us about camp.” I cut Andrew a slice of cake.

“It was cool.” He smiles.

“Viola said you were tech director for a play,” Marisol says.

“Oh yeah. I was the only guy who knew how to rig equipment. And I filmed the performance too.”

“Can’t wait to see it.”

“It’s not bad.”

“How’s Mel?” I ask.

“She went back to California.”

“So, now you’re totally free?” Romy says.

“Not really.” He smiles.

“How can you keep it going? She lives in California,” Marisol says.

I could crawl under the table. My roomies have turned into the Bennet sisters in
Pride and Prejudice
. They’re grilling Andrew like he’s a
suitor
, instead of my BFFAA from Planet Platonic.

“Long-distance enchantments never work,” Suzanne says.

Andrew shrugs. “You girls manage to stay friends with each other—and you live in different states. It’s a challenge, but it’s worth it. Right?”

“How would you like to have an ocean between you?” Maurice pushes the gate open. “I won’t see Caitlin for a very long time. Unless Dad gets a job in New York again.”

“Maurice has it the worst,” Romy says. Romy can relate to Maurice because of her yearlong crush on Kevin Santry.

“Well, let’s not think about it. Caitlin is cleared to come on our tour of Manhattan, and her mom says she can come to opening night. So, you have a lot of good times ahead, Maurice.” I try to boost his spirits.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

“It’s going to be fun. We’ll make sure you have a good time. Maybe you won’t get
everything
you want, but you’ll get something wonderful,” Marisol says.

“Walk on the bright side,” I agree.

“I haven’t a choice,” Maurice says.

The Lasko fan throws warm air around my room. Suzanne is on one air mattress, Romy on another, while Marisol is in the trundle. I stretch out on my bed.

“Andrew is
way
cuter in real life than he is on Skype,” Romy says.

“You think so?”

“Viola, he likes you. And I think Mel is a made-up person.”

“No way. He never lies,” I assure Suzanne.

“He didn’t have too many details about her,” Marisol concurs. “When a boy really likes a girl, he can describe her. He never even said what she looked like.”

“For a guy with a camera, he had no pictures,” Suzanne says.

“Andrew would be too shy to show pictures. He’s very private. He never talks about girls to me.”

“He seemed awfully anxious to tell you about Mel when he was at camp,” Romy reasons.

“True. But remember, I had to
pull
things out of him about Olivia.”

“Yeah, but how much did he like her—really? He’s being cavalier. He knows you’ll be in school with him this fall, so all of a sudden, he has to act like he’s not interested in you despite what he’s said and done this summer.”

“What a waste of time,” Marisol says.

“That’s a boy for you,” I agree.

“He’s just insecure,” Suzanne says. “He kissed you, Viola, but he isn’t sure he should have—or that you wanted him to.”

“It was so weird, I don’t even know what to say about it. I think he was leaving for camp and was sad for a second. It’s just one kiss. We agreed to drop it, and never talk about it.”

“You don’t like him like you liked Jared Spencer?” Marisol asks.

“I can’t even compare the two. I’ve known Andrew all my life. And Jared was cute and I met him at a party. It’s totally different.”

“Nothing was at stake with Jared Spencer,” Marisol says.

“
Nothing.
Remember how they herded us up on the bus and took us over with peppy Trish as our chaperone—for that dance? I mean, if you met someone and you never wanted to see him again, no problem—we got back on the bus and went back to Prefect. It’s not like we had to see those guys every day—or at all. With Andrew, it’s different. We go to school together, we make movies together—we hang out.”

“You only like him as a friend?” Suzanne says.

“I need him as a friend. I don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t my friend, and I don’t know how to think of him any other way.”

“Well, then you have to tell him that you’re not interested in him in that way. Then you can get back to normal and being best friends. Otherwise, he’ll keep hoping you’ll change your mind. He’ll keep torturing you with all these stories of made-up girlfriends and have to do his macho act to impress you.”

“It’s so annoying,” I admit. “I liked it so much better when we talked about everything. Now it’s awkward.”

“If I wasn’t in love with Kevin Santry, who I can never have, so forget it, I will never be your sister-in-law, but if I wasn’t in love with Kevin, I would totally go for Andrew,” Romy says. “You know, in the spirit of friendship—to help you out.”

“Riiight,” I say.

We laugh. And just like at Prefect, back in our quad, we never ended conversations at night before sleep, we’d just sort of drift into silence. We’d exhaust a subject and begin another, but one by one, we’d fall out of the conversation entirely and go off to sleep.

The whirl of the fan is comfort. I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, and without a word being said, as my roommates, tired from long days of travel, go to sleep, I imagine that a few days from now, when they go, the loneliness will set in. I have figured out, through all the good-byes, whether it’s my parents leaving on assignment, or Grand on tour, or my roommates returning home after a year at Prefect, that I’m not very good about saying good-bye. In fact, I worry about it long before I have to say the words and live through it. I have a hard time putting aside my feelings.

For a girl like me who was a loner, I like having my roommates around, even when we aren’t doing anything in particular. A room full of friends became a big plus to me as an only child. It’s just nice to see someone studying across the room, or knowing you have someone to talk to, if you need to.

Skyping and texting and writing e’s and IMs—all that stuff is cool, and it’s good to stay in touch, but nothing comes close to us being together in person, where we can talk about anything and everything, and be there for one another. It was the great gift of boarding school that, somehow, chance brought us together, but love made us—and
keeps
us—best of friends.

TEN

“CLEO!
CLEO!
QUIET,” GEORGE COMMANDS FROM the kitchen in Grand’s apartment.

Cleo stops barking and lets out a little wheezy sigh instead.

Grand stands in the open French doors to her terrace, wearing an orchid and navy blue print caftan. Her blond hair is up in a turban. She looks like Suzy Parker advertising resort wear in
Vogue
in 1950. I know about Suzy Parker because Grand has a poster of her in her bathroom.

On the terrace, Romy, Suzanne, and Marisol look over midtown Manhattan. Andrew points out the Empire State Building to the girls, while Maurice and Caitlin are huddled on the chaise lounge deep in conversation (as usual).

If I had to choose one of my roommates who looks like she has the potential to become a future New Yorker, it would be Marisol. She takes the city in like a deep breath. She’s in awe of the skyscrapers, the subway trains, and the people. Marisol is a people person and we have millions of them, so she’s definitely in her glory. She watches the crowds with fascination, as if to remember every detail.

Grand and George have a full house this morning. This is a good practice round for the cast party, where fifty people or more will pack into the apartment. Mom serves coffee to Dad, while Mrs. Santry pours cream into a cup for Mr. Santry.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve got brioche stuffed French toast…,” Grand begins.

“Bacon,” George calls out from the kitchen.

“Bacon. Crispy.”

“Orange juice,” George recommends.

“
Fresh-squeezed
orange juice,” Grand says.

“Fruit cup,” George adds.

“You heard him,” Grand says.

“It sounds delicious, Ms. Cerise,” Marisol says politely.

“Please, call me Grand.” She smiles.

“Corrie, we’re all set.” George opens the butler shutters between the living room and the galley kitchen. He places a platter of golden French toast, surrounded by strips of crispy bacon, on the ledge. Then he gives Grand a large cut-crystal bowl of fresh fruit: sliced mango, chunks of sweet cantaloupe, and red grapes. She places the platter and bowl on the coffee table.

“It’s a buffet. Plates are on the console.”

“Eat up,” Mom says.

“You have a big schlep today and you need the fuel.” Dad smiles.

“I can’t wait to go to the top of the Empire State Building,” Marisol says as she helps herself to George’s French toast.

“You must,” Grand says. “And then, when you watch
An Affair to Remember
, it will mean something to you.”

“Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant. Can’t beat them. My mother made me watch that movie a hundred times,” Mom says.

“And look. It
took
. You grew up and became a film editor,” Grand says.

“Do you like old movies?” Mom asks Mr. Santry.

“Not really. My idea of a classic film is
Meatballs
with Bill Murray.”

“I’m with you,” my dad agrees. “Give me a crowd-pleaser any day.”

Dad and Mr. Santry have become good friends very quickly. They really like each other. Usually my dad goes along with whatever friends my mom makes for them as a couple, but friendship with Mr. Santry is all Dad’s idea.

“For a filmmaker, my husband has very commercial tastes,” Mom explains.

“Nothing wrong with that. Pays the bills.” Grand smiles.

“What are your favorite places in Manhattan?” Suzanne asks Grand. “Like, if you were visiting—what would you not want to miss?”

“I’ll give them to you in order. Viola, make a list….”

I put down my French toast and flip the lens cap off my camera. “Okay, Grand, fire away.”

“These are the places you should not miss in New York City, according to Coral Cerise….” Grand smiles for the camera. I look into the viewfinder. She really is photogenic. Even if she weren’t an actress, the camera loves the planes of her face.

Marisol, excellent student that she is, flips open her notebook and writes down a list as I film Grand.

“Number one: the Cloisters. You will think you’re in a monastery in France.”

“Love the Cloisters,” Mom agrees.

“Number two: Central Park Lake. Romantic. Pristine. The arched bridge is to die for. Very Florentine. Very Italian.”

“My favorite,” Dad says. “I proposed to my wife in a canoe there. And we’ve been paddling upstream ever since,” he jokes.

“Number three,” Grand continues. “The Boat Basin at West Seventy-ninth Street.”

“I’m with you, Grand. A very boho choice,” Andrew says.

“Well, I’m not trying to be au courant, just
interesting
. Let’s not choose the same old, same old. Here’s why I choose the Boat Basin. There’s a sweet restaurant nestled in the underpass, a great jazz spot, but that’s not the point. You can get great jazz in the Village. No, it’s the little community of boat dwellers that makes it unique. There are a few sturdy New Yorker artist types who choose not to live on dry land in apartments but on their boats year-round, and dock them right there on the pier. It’s a fabulous lifestyle choice.”

“If you don’t mind constant motion,” Dad says.

Grand ignores him. “George? Take it away.”

Grand removes herself from the shot and George, holding a plate of French toast, speaks to the camera. “Young lovers”—George looks at Maurice and Caitlin—“should always take the Circle Line. You get a three-sixty perspective of Manhattan, and when you ride the top deck, it gives you three hours of bliss, away from civilization, to canoodle as the skyline sails past.”

“What if you’re not young?” Mrs. Santry asks.

George laughs. “Then I recommend a slow-cooked Italian meal in the Village—at Piccolo Angolo. Four courses in four hours.”

“And tell Renato we sent you,” Grand says.

George continues, “My favorite place to think is the Hudson River Park on the Charles Street pier. Second favorite: Chinatown for dumplings.”

“That’s good if you’re on an eating tour,” Dad pipes up.

“Then, to cultivate your minds: Do not miss the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in particular the Temple of Dendur—you won’t believe the indoor pond; the Frick because it was once someone’s home and feels like it still; and of course, the Museum of Modern Art because it’s hip and fun and cutting edge.”

“Mom, how about you?” I turn the camera on my mother.

“I like the Promenade in Brooklyn and the South Street Seaport.”

“And my aunt Naira likes to light candles in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral even though we are not Catholic,” Caitlin adds.

Grand snaps her fingers. “Forgot that one.”

“Since we’re in midtown, why don’t we begin with Central Park?” I say.

“The zoo!” Grand and George say in unison.

“It’s not just for kids,” Mom says. “But teenagers and…up.”

“Perfect.” I look at the girls, who agree.

I turn my camera off. I look through the French doors. Caitlin and Maurice have slipped out to the terrace and are looking out over the city. They really are star-crossed lovers, even in broad daylight.

I fell in love with Central Park because of Grand. Whenever I would stay the weekend with her, or when Mom and Dad were working, she’d bring me to the park. I loved the jungle gym, the sandbox, and the swings. There are lots of playgrounds inside the park, and Gram would choose a different one each time. And at the end, she would always take me for a ride on the carousel.

As our group trudges through, on the winding trails off 79th Street, my friends get a sense of the size of the park. Andrew points out the puppet theater, a gingerbread house set on a green hillside off the road. “Remember your birthday party at the puppet theater?” Andrew asks.

“I’ll never forget it.
Pippi Longstocking
performed with marionettes.”

“It was cool,” Andrew says.

“And then they let us have pizza and cake in the lobby. And all the characters from past productions, all the puppets, were hanging overhead on the wall. Peter Pan, Cinderella, and Pinocchio.”

“You remember everything, don’t you?” Andrew says.

“That’s because it’s the little things that matter.” I pick up a long stick and walk with it. We follow the group into the admissions area of the zoo.

“I’m going to take Dad to the lake,” Mrs. Santry says to Suzanne.

“I need some romantic time with your mother,” Mr. Santry says.

“Okay, TMI and on top of that,
gross
.” Suzanne laughs.

Mr. and Mrs. Santry turn off to go down the path to the lake. The summer sun comes through the trees in ribbons of gold. I lift my camera and focus in on the Santrys, filming them as they go down the light-strewn path.

Mrs. Santry pushes Mr. Santry. They laugh. Then Mrs. Santry stops and kneels next to Mr. Santry’s chair. He extends his arms to her. She stands, and Mr. Santry pulls her down onto his lap. They kiss.

Usually, when parents kiss or do anything remotely romantic, it’s creepy. But this isn’t. I am far enough away that this is like an establishing shot of some greater picture, the backdrop of the scene of a life—a family life. It’s beautiful, and it seems to be slowing down in real time. I check my shutter speed. No, it has not slowed to a crawl; it’s set in real time.

Mrs. Santry gets up and pushes Mr. Santry down the path, until they disappear behind the hill. Without breaking the shot, I slowly pivot to take in the zoo.

Maurice has his arm around Caitlin as they stand on the ticket line. Andrew hangs back a bit as the girls push through to enter the zoo. I flip the camera off.

“You don’t want to go to the zoo, do you?” Andrew says softly.

“Not really. I came here so much as a kid I could be a tour guide. But the girls really want to see it.”

Marisol hands Andrew and me a ticket each. We follow them into the zoo.

“What do you say we meet back here in an hour?” Maurice says.

“Fine,” I tell him.

Marisol, Suzanne, and Romy look at one another.

“Let’s go,” I tell them. “The otters are hilarious.”

The girls fan out and take pictures of the otters, who lounge in the sun on hillsides of rock, and then dive off their cliffs into a deep pool of icy water. The fence around the otters is clear Lucite, so you can see in and underwater.

Andrew and I sit down on the bench and put our feet up.

“We have to ratchet this tour up,” Andrew says.

“What are you thinking?”

“Staten Island Ferry.”

“Nice choice.”

“There’s something about the return trip when you’re looking at Manhattan from the Jersey side,” he says.

“I agree.”

“Viola?”

“Yeah?”

Andrew looks away. “Nothing.”

“No, what were you going to say?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have
some
idea,” I persist.

“Not really.”

“Okay.” I shrug.

“It’s just that I don’t know how to say it.”

“You can tell me anything,” I say, poking him in the ribs.

“I know. You’re a good listener.” Andrew looks at me and smiles.

“Then fire away,” I say encouragingly.

“I pick the wrong girls.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mel’s getting all weird on me.”

“Already?” Hmmm, maybe Mel is real.

“Yeah. It’s the distance, I guess.”

“That, or you don’t communicate well with her.”

“Could be,” he says.

“Well, work on it.”

“It’s not that easy. It’s not like I know what to say.”

“Sure you do. You have no problem talking to me.”

“Yeah, but that’s
you
, Viola. You’re not a girl.”

“Pardon me?” I sit bolt upright. Defensive.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. You aren’t a mysterious girl. I’ve known you all my life, so I get you. It’s not easy when it’s me, and I’m out there alone and I meet someone new. Mel isn’t like you—and I keep hoping that I’ll be able to talk to her the way I talk to you.”

“It takes time.”

“How much?” Andrew asks.

This is one of the things I find annoying about boys in general. They want results and they want them immediately. Important things take time. You can’t rush getting to know someone. “It depends. When I was dating Jared, we were mostly quiet at first. Just little things came up—usually something to do with our cameras, or something general about school, his or mine. But then, after a while, we found a lot of common things to share. About our families. Friends. Stuff like that.”

“Mel is pretty.”

Hearing Andrew compliment another girl, one I don’t know, makes me feel a little odd. “Mr. Santry isn’t the only one with too much information.”

“Sorry. But it’s true.”

“I’m sure it is. But that doesn’t have anything to do with really getting to know a girl. You have to see beyond that, or all you will ever know is that she’s…attractive. And that’s on the surface. Surface stuff is easy. But you already know that.”

“It’s just that I’d like to find that combination of friend and…”

“Pretty?” I fill in the blank for him. This will come in handy when I take the SAT. Filling in the blanks, that is.

“That makes me sound shallow.” He looks off at the otters.

I want to say,
It’s because you
are, but I resist the easy bait, unlike the otter that leaps six feet into the air for a sardine from the zookeeper. “Oh, Andrew, you’re not exactly shallow.”

“I’m not?”

“One hot girlfriend from camp who you have nothing in common with, and yet pursue, doesn’t make you shallow.”

“What does it make me?” Andrew asks.

“Typical.”

“Where are they?” Suzanne surveys the crowd outside the zoo.

“Maurice said they’d meet us in an hour,” Marisol reminds us.

“It’s now an hour and…sixteen minutes,” Andrew says.

“This is how it is with them. They have no concept of time,” I complain.

“Only of each other,” Marisol says. “They have it bad.”

“Well, we can’t blow our day waiting around for them. What’s next?” Romy asks.

“Empire State Building.” I look down at the list we pulled together.

“Text them and tell them to meet us in the Village later,” Andrew says.

“Where?”