Viola in the Spotlight (3 page)

I turn over in my bed. It’s strange to be alone in my room after a year in the quad. I never thought I would like sharing a room, but there was something nice about coming in after class and debriefing my day with my friends. I actually miss Marisol whispering every detail about our teachers, the classes, and the people in them. Sometimes I’d fall asleep before she finished, but she didn’t mind. Suzanne liked to study into the night, while Romy, who always had to get up early for field hockey practice, would go to sleep wearing a satin mask with eyes embroidered on it. If only we all lived in the same city. And if only, in the land of my sweetest dreams, that city could be New York.

I follow Dad and Mr. Longfellow into our basement apartment. He doesn’t seem like a famous director, but more like every dad I know.

Our furnished apartment for rent is downright spectacular.

Mom and I cleaned the apartment, changed the linens, checked the silverware and dishes, and made sure all the appliances were working. We even changed out some of the furniture, bringing down a leather recliner easy chair and a pretty floor lamp. Mom thought it would be a selling point, to have a good reading chair for a theater director. Mom also bought some flowering potted plants, red geraniums and white nettle, placing them around to cheer the place up. English people are known for their gardens, so we went for it! It’s officially a cozy one-bedroom garden apartment with a kitchenette, perfect for someone who needs a short-term stay in the city.

“Lovely,” Mr. Longfellow says in his British accent.

“There’s a garden.” Dad shows Mr. Longfellow the way to the slate portico off the back bedroom. Dad hosed down the slate floor and moved small trees in terra-cotta urns to create a wall of privacy between the porch and our backyard. From this vantage point, all you see is green through the French doors from the bedroom. Nice. Mom moved the best of our garden furniture, a wrought-iron table and two deck chairs with white canvas cushions, to the portico. It almost looks like the terrace of a fancy hotel.

“Ah, a garden.” Mr. Longfellow’s shoulders relax.

“Our last tenant even read the paper out here in the winter.”

“It’s peaceful,” Mr. Longfellow says. “I’m going to need a respite during rehearsals.”

Mr. Longfellow is like any of Grand’s theater friends. He uses language as it sounds in books, not as it sounds in conversation. He is dramatic in a gentlemanly way, his eyebrows shoot up and down, and he has very deliberate facial expressions. He has a booming voice and fills a room when he enters it. It’s sort of a star-quality thing. When I used to ride the subway with Grand, we played a game called Star Quality. We would choose people on the train who we felt had cinematic potential. Here’s the list of things you must have to be a star, the SQ specifics:

• Large-size head
  
• Wet eyes (limpid for camera work; nearsighted people often have the best eyes for film work)
  
• Wide-set eyes. Eyes too close together are hard to film.
  
• Great beauty for a woman (full lips, small nose) or
  
• Obvious masculinity (square jaw, high forehead, hair!) with rough edges for a man
  
• Deliberate character features (unique nose, expressive mouth)
  
• When this person enters a room, subway car, or any enclosed place, if everyone looks up at the person simultaneously, that’s a sign of star quality. SQ is a mesmerizing presence that draws attention to itself just by existing. SQ is as obvious as it is rare. SQ cannot be manufactured; it has to exist in and wholly of itself.
  

Les Longfellow looks like one of the guys in the painting of the Last Supper. He has a red beard and short hair. He’s taller than my dad but about the same age. “Do you have a roll-away bed for the bedroom?” he wants to know.

“We do.”

“I’ll need one.”

“You can have as much company as you like,” my dad says. “Let me show you the basement where we do the laundry.”

Mr. Longfellow follows Dad down to the basement. Mom peeks out the back door. “How’s it going?” she asks me.

“He likes it. We have to get the roll-away out of the attic.”

“No problem.”

Dad and Mr. Longfellow come up from the basement. They discuss good restaurants in Brooklyn. Mr. Longfellow likes Indian food. I’ll have to ask Caitlin for up-to-date recommendations. He also likes the occasional Italian farm-table fare (whatever that is).

Dad extends his hand. “It’s all yours, Les. Welcome to Brooklyn.”

“Thank you.” He turns to me. “How old are you, Viola?”

“I’m fifteen.”

“That’s exactly how old my son is. He’s going to spend the summer with me.”

“Viola can show him all the sights.” Dad smiles and looks at me.

“Sure,” I say. The last thing I want is to get stuck with some snobby British boy for the summer, but I’ll agree to anything so my parents get a good renter in here. Besides, he might be cute, and I can practice talking to a boy from a foreign country who will not be able to either glom on or dis me at school, depending on his reaction. Either way, I’m going to be nice to the Longfellows. This is my way of contributing to the family coffers without having to get an actual job. “I’ll even introduce him to my friends. We’ll find stuff to do.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Longfellow says.

Dad gives Mr. Longfellow the keys to the apartment. “I’ll move in tomorrow,” he says.

I IM Suzanne in Chicago.

Me: Don’t tell me you have a summer job too.

SS: I do. Dairy Queen.

Me: Ugh.

SS: I’ll be sick of Blizzards by the end of the summer, but right now, I’m having one a day for free.

Me: Enjoy.

SS: Ha.

Me: Mom and Dad rented the basement apartment to a theater director. He has a son. He is exactly fifteen like us.

SS: Psychic flash: potential new boyfriend for you.

Me: I doubt it.

SS: Your heart belongs to Andrew. I knew it!

Me: You and Marisol should form a chat room to discuss Andrew and me. No, thankfully, he is over Olivia, which gives us time for our BEST FRIENDSHIP. I would never trade best friend for boyfriend. Ever.

SS: OK. OK. I hear you. What’s the British guy’s name?

Me: Maurice. But it’s pronounced Morris. When I met Mr. Longfellow, he called me VEE-OH-LA. I didn’t correct him because I don’t know how much of it is accent related. How’s your dad?

SS: Some days better than others. He sends his love to you.

Me: Love right back!

SS: I wish you were here.

Me: I wish YOU were HERE.

I imagine Suzanne at the Dairy Queen. I remember how we loved going to the DQ in South Bend. Peppy Trish loved a dip cone, and she turned all the girls from the East on to them. You have to go way south like Virginia or way north like Vermont for a DQ. I hear there’s one in Queens, but that has not been verified.

I wish there was a way to have my roommates from Prefect close, and still live here and keep my friends that I grew up with, all in conjunction, and simultaneously. I imagine there’s a world where that could happen, I just have to figure out
how
.

THREE

MRS. PULLAPILLY MAKES A KILLER TANDOORI CHICKEN. Slow cooked, rubbed with spices, and hot, hot, hot, it’s a perfect summer meal. Andrew and I will do anything to score a dinner invitation when Mrs. P fires up the clay pots. She also makes this very soft bread, which she throws on the grill, to serve with it. Vegetables are always delish at their house, as they are finely chopped and there’s a fresh dressing on them. No matter how many times I ask my mom to try to copy the dressing, it never comes out the way the Pullapillys make it.

The dessert is always amazing. And at the end of the meal, Mr. Pullapilly roasts pineapple and serves it with some kind of vanilla yogurt. “To cool the taste buds,” he says.

The Pullapillys live on the outskirts of Bay Ridge in a new Indian section, complete with stores that sell their spices and favorite foods. Their apartment is on the bottom floor of a new apartment building. They have a common garden with the other tenants, which is planted with all sorts of exotic flowers and greens (probably to remind them of the climate they come from). The apartment is decorated in deep green and white, with fabric tapestries on the walls. The living room furniture is low and comfortable. There’s a small gurgling tabletop fountain on a side table in the entry.

“You know, Mrs. P, when I was marooned in boarding school, one of my dreams of home involved your tandoori chicken.”

Mrs. P laughs. “Well, you and Andrew are my biggest fans. I assure you that my sisters and mother make a far better chicken than I do.”

“Let’s hope I never taste theirs, because as far as I’m concerned, yours is the best.”

“Dad made mint tea,” Caitlin says as she pours me a glass and then Andrew.

“Did you miss my mint tea, too?” Mr. P wants to know.

“I sure did.”

“Did you get a job for the summer?” Mrs. P asks.

“I’m working on it.” It seems no adult on the planet will rest until I get a summer job.

“Dr. Balu went to a lot of trouble to give Caitlin a job.”

“I’m very grateful, Mama.” She smiles.

“How about you, Andrew?” Mr. P asks.

“I’m going to camp,” he says, taking a sip of his tea.

“Wonderful!” Mrs. P says as she serves us the delicious chicken from the clay pot. A mist of spices rises up from the pot, and my mouth waters.

“I don’t really want to go.”

“The fresh air will be good for you,” Mrs. P says.

“That’s what I hear,” Andrew says agreeably.

I take a taste of the chicken. It’s very lean, spicy hot, and so tender I can cut it with my fork. The bite is so delicious, I close my eyes to savor it.

“I’m so happy to be home,” I say dreamily. “I missed the international cuisine of Brooklyn.”

The Pullapillys laugh. “You’re so dramatic, Viola,” Caitlin says.

“There are some things in life that are over the top, and this chicken is number one on the list!” I assure them. “The Basmati Palace in South Bend can’t compare, trust me.”

“So your grandmother is in
Arsenic and Old Lace
? I enjoy revivals. I really liked
Arms and the Man
at the…” Mr. P looks at his wife.

“The Classic Stage Company,” Mrs. P says.

“My wife is not only my partner, she’s my memory.”

“We go to so many plays, it’s hard to keep up,” Mrs. P explains.

“And a lot of musical concerts,” Caitlin says.

“That’s how you fell in love with music,” Mr. P says.

“It helped,” Caitlin admits.

“Devica is a lovely flautist,” Mr. P says proudly, gesturing to Caitlin’s younger sister.

“Do you play an instrument?” I ask Abel, who is ten.

“I play the piano,” he says.

“You guys should have your own orchestra,” Andrew says.

“Someday,” Mr. Pullapilly says. He spoons some cool chopped salad onto my plate; there are cucumbers and tomatoes with a yogurt dressing.

“It’s so nice to have you both home,” Mrs. Pullapilly says.

Mr. Pullapilly isn’t kidding about a band. This is a family of overachievers. They don’t just learn an instrument for fun, they aim for Carnegie Hall. Caitlin doesn’t read one book by an author, but all of them. The science projects that come out of this house are something to see. Caitlin didn’t show up with a barometer made out of a milk carton (like me); she made a cotton gin, engine and all. The Pullapillys play hardball, and they play to win.

The rehearsals for
Arsenic and Old Lace
are “chugging along,” Grand says, which is a totally old-fashioned way to describe it, as the play takes place in 1941, the era of the Super Chief and high-speed trans-American trains.

My summer plans have yet to take shape, but I’m working on it. I’m putting together a virtual tour of Grand’s career, a kind of mini-documentary, gathering photographs and bits of film she appeared in and weaving them into a story, which I plan to give her on opening night.

Right now I’m working on Grand’s résumé picture from 1965. I listen to my voice-over:

“Once actors get over the excitement of getting the part, they wrestle with how to play it. The director’s job is to stage the show, but also to bring out the best in each actor. Coral Cerise has worked with some of the greats: Michael Langham, Garland Wright, and now, Les Longfellow.”

I click off the audio and begin adjusting Grand’s image on the screen. I start in tight close-up and pull back until her full face is revealed. In this shot, she looks a lot like Cleopatra might’ve looked, big black eyeliner and straight black hair. She definitely has star quality.

There’s always a story behind any show Grand appears in. There’s always a cliffhanger to the whole thing, and this one is no different—like will or won’t Grand win the part, will or won’t she win the spot on the coveted bus-and-truck tour, and will or won’t the show itself run longer than five performances? Even
Arsenic and Old Lace
wasn’t a done deal until the moment the contracts were signed. Grand and George had already worked with one director, who cast them, and they liked her. She was replaced with Les Longfellow when the play went to Broadway. Usually, the director would recast, but Grand and George were very lucky. Mr. Longfellow liked them enough to keep them.

Big whew.

George plays the leading man, Mortimer Brewster, a drama critic. His family is nuts, including two spinster aunts who live in a house in Brooklyn and have taken to poisoning old men with wine that is laced with arsenic. Grand is playing Martha Brewster, one of the old aunts. George has a young love interest in the play, and Grand is not one bit jealous of her. Mom says that’s one of the things about Grand that makes her alluring. Grand has self-confidence.

Dad and Mom are totally sucking up to Mr. Longfellow. Anything he needs, he gets. Dad even loaned Mr. Longfellow our Bose CD player. The great director is playing CDs of Victrola-style music constantly, which makes me depressed. It sounds like somebody is hand cranking old records from a Norma Shearer movie, scratches and wah-wahs and all. Evidently, Mr. L isn’t listening for pleasure; he is choosing transition music for the play. He is very picky (Grand says), so he’s listening to every tune of that era he can get his hands on (George says).

Grand, like all actresses, is that mix of eternally grateful at having a job on Broadway, which makes her humble, and confident that she will do a good job, which makes her seem a little stuck-up. It takes humility
and
guts to be an artist, as she and my parents are quick to remind me. You have to believe in yourself just enough, not too much, and then push until you get what you want.

Mom is already planning what she is going to wear to opening night, which is only six weeks away. Grand always throws a big opening-night party in her apartment after the official party thrown by the producers. She makes casseroles from her Arlene Francis cookbook (Arlene Francis was famous in the 1950s, and Grand was in a play with her once) and sangria from an old recipe she’s had for years. People sing, laugh, and smoke at her parties, and leave never having had a better time. Sometimes I think Grand loves her opening-night party more than being in the play.

“Viola, come down. Our guest has arrived,” Mom hollers from the bottom of the stairs. I turn off my laptop and slip into Mom’s welcome home gift to me: laceless red Converse sneakers. I look in the mirror on my way out, smoothing down my hair, which has gotten awful pouffy in the summer humidity.

“Viola, I’d like you to meet Maurice,” Mom says.

I size him up politely without staring or acting too interested, a technique that Suzanne taught me. Basically, you just look away a lot, as if you’re aware of everything going on around the boy instead of the boy himself. Using Suzanne’s focus and glance technique, it appears that Maurice is a little taller than me, with blond hair that’s cut super short. He has green eyes and a good face—definitely not as handsome as Tag Nachmanoff (king of LaGuardia High School and the best-looking boy in the coastal U.S.) but pretty cute for a boy from another country.

“Doesn’t Maurice look like Jude Law?” Mom says.

I glare at my mother while Maurice’s face turns the color of my sneakers. I can’t believe my mother is bringing up way older actors. If anything, Maurice looks a lot like Sterling Knight, but Mom wouldn’t know him.

“Welcome to Brooklyn,” I tell him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says politely, which is not a shock, because, let’s face it, the British are known for their excellent manners.

“I’m going to take Maurice down to the apartment. He came here straight from the airport, and he’s very tired.”

“Okay.”

I race back up to my room two steps at a time and call Caitlin. “He’s here,” I tell her.

“What’s he like?”

“Proper and British. And my mother, I almost died, said he looked like Jude Law.”

“Does he?” Caitlin wants to know.

“It wasn’t the first thing I thought when I looked at him. I mean, he
sounds
like Jude Law, but so does every British guy.”

“I wish he looked like Robert Pattinson,” Caitlin says dreamily.

“You are so obsessed with movie stars.”

“I know. They seem so perfect to me,” Caitlin admits. “I saw
Twilight
seven times,” she says proudly.

“Maybe you like movie stars because your mom won’t let you go out with real-life boys.”

“Probably. I can’t believe you have an actual stranger living in your house. A
guy
. My parents would
never
allow it.”

“He’s down in the rental, like, two floors away from my room. It’s no different from having neighbors in an apartment building. And your mom allows
that
.”

“I guess. But you know my mother. It’s all in the interpretation.”

“Well, suck up to her and get her permission to come over for dinner on the roof.”

“Are we ordering in?”

“Yep. Andrew is coming.”

“I’ll ask.”

I get a tired feeling whenever Caitlin has to ask her mom for permission to do anything, because I’m absolutely sure it’s going to be a Big No, and that’s depressing. Then I hear the bell on my laptop. I’m relieved when Andrew’s name pops up.

AB: What’s happening?

Me: Incoming.

AB: Your boarder?

Me: Yep. He’s here.

AB: I can’t come over tonight.

Now I’m totally annoyed. What happened to my friend who couldn’t wait for me to get back from boarding school? Was it something I said? Did I grow out my bangs and therefore lose a friend? I’m going to go right out on a limb and ask him why.

Me: Are you serious?

AB: Have to go to Long Island. My cousin’s house.

Me: You’re leaving me here with a stranger?

AB: Can Caitlin come over?

Me: Not until her mom checks with Homeland Security.

AB: You’ll be okay.

Me: Clear the weekend?

AB: Can do.

One thing is for sure about Andrew—if he says he’s going to show up, he shows up. But what’s bothering me is that he never needed an invitation before, and now it seems like he does. I hope he hasn’t become that kind of boy, and therefore I have to be a different kind of girl. I don’t want to set myself up for disappointment.

Me: We have things to do before you go to camp. Mermaid Day.

AB: Would not miss it.

Me: Have fun on Long Island.

I had this crazy dream when I was in boarding school. New York City was frozen over in my absence under a clear glass shell, like a snow globe. The skyline was just a bunch of tall, empty buildings with no light coming out of the windows.

Drifts of snow covered the streets; all was silent: no cars and no people. The rivers were solid sheets of silver ice, and you could walk across them. It was only when I became frustrated and hacked a hole in the dome of the snow globe with the needle I had snapped from atop the Empire State Building that the city came back to life.

The sun came out, the snow melted, and people began to appear in the streets. Life as I remembered it resumed in full. I had finally made it back home. The world as I knew it was the same. I woke up relieved.

In real life, the city did not freeze, no one waited for my return, and in general, things went on just fine in Brooklyn without me. Our house was the same. Sal’s Pizzeria had the same specials nine months later: one calzone with your choice of two fillings and a soda, five bucks. My friends had a good year. They missed me, and I missed them, but that didn’t stop anything; life went on just like normal.

So much for frozen dreams.

“I can come over! And you won’t believe it! Mom and Dad gave me permission to spend the night!” Caitlin shouts into the phone. Then she whispers, “I think Mom realizes how much I missed you, and she’s being lenient.”

“Great,” I tell her. “Andrew can’t make it.”

“Just us?” she says.