Viola in the Spotlight (8 page)

Grand says that I’ll learn about lighting once the tech rehearsal is underway. That’s when the lights are focused with the actors onstage and cues are set. The sound design is also implemented during this time, so all that wah-wah music Mr. Longfellow has played all summer will, at long last, have a purpose.

Today, there is nothing glamorous about the Helen Hayes Theatre. It’s a factory. Without an audience, it’s a black cave filled with rows of empty seats lit by bright, bare bulbs that dangle from the ceiling. This is the first day of load-in, where the sets for the play are brought from the warehouse where they were built. The work doors on the upstage wall are opened wide for the load-in. Daylight pours into the darkness. The sounds from the street are muffled, but the occasional siren cuts through, reminding everyone that the theater is not a sanctuary.

A semitruck is parked outside, filled with walls, joints, cornices, and steps that, once assembled and mounted, will become the set for the play. The components have been wrapped in fabric batting, marked for placement onstage like giant puzzle pieces. The large flats will become the actual walls of the living room of the Brewster home in
Arsenic and Old Lace
.

The theater has the same scent as the space in Phyllis Hobson Jones Hall at Prefect: paint, wax, and the last notes of old perfume, as though the matinee audience left in a hurry.

The air-conditioning is on, but the hot air from outside blows through and creates a gust, causing me to shiver. The stagehands work in an organized fashion, as though they have done this a million times before. Occasionally they shout directions to one another or joke, but they never stop moving.

The crew head, Timmy Donovan, a man with muscles wearing an AAOL baseball cap, directs the guys as they carry the delicate stuff: strips of painted crown molding, windows, and stained-glass transoms of the era. Four men carry a set of assembled stairs, hollow on the inside, reinforced with cross braces, downstage left, where they place them carefully on the floor.

Through breaks in the batting, I can see that the walls are covered in vintage wallpaper, similar to a scroll of vines that I remember from my piano teacher’s apartment in Brooklyn. Robin Wagner, a world-class set designer (George says), captured the authentic details of homes of the 1940s, right down to the doorknobs.

The production team, the designers and their assistants, confer with one another and occasionally look up and watch the proceedings from the house seats. They’ve created a temporary office with a makeshift folding table, propped over two rows of seats in the center of the orchestra. The table is littered with coffee cups from the Greek diner.

Neil Mazella, the set builder, has his long hair pulled back in a ponytail (he would have survived about ten seconds at the Grabeel Sharpe Academy with that hair-style). He types into his laptop, lit by a makeshift work lamp with a bright bulb. He looks up and issues orders from his perch.

“Timmy, hoist the scrim.”

A large black velvet drape attached to a long pipe hanging by hooks like those on a shower curtain is elevated by the stagehands from the upstage floor on pulley weights until it is suspended high and out of sight against the back wall.

“Looks good,” Neil says.

If I squint, the load-in of a Broadway set is a lot like the Egyptians building the pyramids. There’s a lot of hauling, lifting, placing, and levels to the action. I am watching the living room of a home being built from scratch; it really is like magic, which is the purpose of theater: to instill wonder and awe while gripping the audience with a good story.

Caitlin and Maurice join me in the aisle.

“Here’s a surprise. How’s rehearsal going?” I ask Maurice.

“It looks great. Dad is on edge, but he’s always nervous at this point in the production.”

“How’s Grand doing?”

“She’s hilarious. Brilliant,” he says.

“No Dr. Balu today?” I ask Caitlin.

“I’m playing hooky,” Caitlin says. “I hope you’ll cover for me.”

“No worries.” But I am worried.

“I have to give this note to Mr. Mazella,” Maurice says as he goes. Caitlin watches him go down the aisle to the work table, and I swear, the look on her face is
sad
. Maurice walks ten feet into the distance and she already misses him. Love is like the flu.

“I can’t believe Maurice is going back to England when the play opens.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I finally find someone who I can’t live without and I have to live without him.” She sighs.

“Viola, take these schedules and place them in the dressing rooms,” says the production runner. “I’ve got to get back to the studio.”

“No problem.” I turn to Caitlin. “Come on, I’ll show you backstage.”

Caitlin follows me down a side aisle and backstage. Charlie, the attendant, sits by the exit door on a stool working a crossword puzzle. “Barry told me to paper the dressing rooms,” I tell him. Charlie doesn’t look up. “Uh-huh,” he says, looking at his crossword puzzle.

Caitlin follows me through the wings to the stairs that lead to the dressing rooms. The actors’ names are already on the doors. George has his own dressing room with a tiny attached bathroom because he’s the lead. I leave a schedule on his makeup table.

We climb the steps to the second floor. Grand shares a dressing room with Mary Pat Gleason. I leave them each a schedule on their makeup tables.

“This is so cool,” Caitlin marvels. “There’s a whole life happening backstage. Not like an orchestra. We basically show up with our instruments, take our seats, and warm up. Actors have a home.”

“Hopefully this one won’t be temporary. Grand and George are praying for a long run.”

Caitlin helps me paper the rest of the dressing rooms with schedules. The Brewsters, Mr. Witherspoon, Dr. Einstein, and the rest of the cast of
Arsenic and Old Lace
are about to move in. Opening night is becoming very real very fast.

“Hey, Viola,” Barry hollers from the bottom of the steps. I go to the landing. “Good, you’re sticking around. I need you to take a set of keys to Julius. He’s at the production office on West Forty-second Street.”

“Sure.” I turn to Caitlin. “You want to come?”

“Okay.”

Caitlin and I head out of the theater. “He can be a big grouch,” I warn her.

We get into the elevator at 1511 Broadway and get off on the fourteenth floor. I hear Julius’s big laugh coming from the conference room. I have learned not to linger and wait around outside when he wants something. I just get the guts and go right into a meeting and leave the envelope next to him. I tell Caitlin to wait outside for me, not that it would matter. He never looks up at me or says thank you.

The conference room table is filled with the designers and crew heads for the play. I leave the envelope next to Julius and turn to leave.

“Violetta?” Julius says. The room goes quiet. I turn.

“Do you mean me?”

“I don’t see another Violetta around here.”

“I’m Viola.”

The designers and crew heads erupt in laughter.

“Julius gives his crew nicknames,” Jess Goldstein says. Clearly, he can see that I’m mortified at having been singled out.

When I reach the door, Julius says, “Thanks, Viola.”

“You’re welcome,” I say as I go out the door. The meeting resumes once I’m in the hallway.

“What happened in there?” Caitlin asks.

“I think I just became part of the team.” As I press the elevator button, I smile. After my running all over the city and northern New Jersey, Julius Ross actually knows I’m alive. Now I know what Grand means when she says the theater is one big family. I think I just officially joined it.

The phone rings. I’ll let the machine get it. Or Mom.

“Viola?” Mom calls up. “The phone is for you.”

“Thanks!”

“You know,
you
can pick up the phone when it rings too.”

“Sorry!” I shout.

“Hello?”

“Viola, this is Mrs. Pullapilly.”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. P.”

“Is Caitlin there?”

“I’m expecting her any minute,” I lie. “She stopped to pick up some sunscreen for me at CVS.”

“Do you mind telling her I need her home by three o’clock? I have an appointment and her father is expecting a delivery, and we need her home to sign for it.”

“Home by three. No problem.”

“Thank you.”

I hang up the phone and grab my BlackBerry to text Maurice.

Me: Caitlin has to be home by three. Her mom just called me!

ML: Will do.

Me: She thinks Caitlin is with me. Tell her that I told her mom that she picked sunscreen up for me at CVS.

ML: OK.

Me: You guys should come over here. Cover my lie.

ML: We’re in Central Park.

Me: Get on the train. Now.

ML: OK.

I know it will break Caitlin’s heart, but I can’t wait for Maurice to go home to the UK. Enough of this
Summer of the Sneak
. I’ve had it. I do not like being the peanut butter in the Caitlin/Maurice sandwich. I’m holding their entire romance together with excuses, providing a place to meet and a sympathetic ear for both of them.

If Mrs. P knew anything about acting, she would know I just gave a killer performance on the phone. But thank goodness she works in finance and can’t read anybody’s signals. Otherwise, we’d all be in big trouble.

SEVEN

SUZANNE HAS ARRANGED ANOTHER FOUR-WAY SKYPE from her mom’s office. I log in.

“Hey, guys.”

“Where were you?” Marisol asks.

“Mrs. Pullapilly called, and I had to cover for Caitlin.”

“Still?” Romy shakes her head.

“I’m totally tense and freaked,” I admit. “Sorry. Anybody have good news?”

“I do,” Romy announces. “I can come to visit! My aunt is coming down to the city on business and can bring me with.”

“And I’m taking Amtrak in and Romy’s aunt is going to pick me up at Penn Station!” Marisol says.

“Fabulous! Suzanne, we wish you could make it. But we totally understand,” I reassure her.

“Don’t write me off yet.” Suzanne grins. “I’m coming—with my parents.”

“What?”

“Yep, my dad is feeling a lot better, and he wants to come too. Mom is going to email your mom. We’re going to drive in.”

“I’ll get the orange cone out
now
and reserve your space.”

“You’d better. We want to see everything. Dad especially.”

I think back to the Santry family when I visited them for Thanksgiving. They made me feel so at home. We saw so much of Chicago: the museum, Lake Michigan, and Grant Park. As hard as it was to be away from my own family for an entire school year, they stepped in and made the holiday fun. Now I get to return the favor. I’m going to make a list (points of interest, shops, restaurants, and parks) and a map (Brooklyn, Manhattan, the Bronx) of everything I want to show them: my New York City, the Viola Tour.

A full moon, pink and perfectly round like a Necco wafer, throws light onto our roof. Andrew and I have just polished off cold sesame noodles and are looking up at the sky over Brooklyn. We angled our chaise lounges for maximum planetary viewing.

“Where are Maurice and Caitlin?” Andrew asks.

“I have the night off from covering for them. Maurice is in the city having dinner with his dad, and Caitlin is home. She has family visiting. And I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

“Look at it this way. When you get nervous, remember you are on the side of true love.”

“I feel like those guys who walk a tightrope between skyscrapers. One false move and
bam
.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“The
very
worst could happen. The Pullapillys could find out that we’ve been lying all summer, and that they can no longer trust us—and just as we enter tenth grade, they ban Caitlin from hanging with us. We could lose Caitlin forever. Her mother would love an excuse to send her to a convent school in India. Believe me, she
would
if she ever found out about Maurice.”

Andrew leans back and looks up at the moon. “I don’t want to go to camp.”

“You’ll make friends. You’ll have fun. You’ll lose a quart of blood a day to mosquitoes.”

Andrew laughs. “I wish you were kidding.”

“Why does Stewart’s make the best root beer?” I ask, holding it up to the light.

“It comes in a glass bottle. Plastic containers kill flavor.”

“Do you know everything?”

Andrew blushes. “Not even close.”

“What did you sign up for at camp?”

“Theater tech.”

“That’ll be fun.”

“I went through the list of stuff to do that they offer, and one thing was more lame than the next. I don’t want to learn how to make lye soap, nor do I like woodworking.”

“Hope the food is good.”

“It won’t be. It’s a
camp
. I’ll be eating wilted lettuce and shepherd’s pie. That is, if I’m lucky.”

“Look at it this way. When they cook out, it will be better than Dad’s,” I remind him.

“No stretch there. What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

“Well, I have my internship. I’m told I’ll really learn something about theatrical lighting during tech week at the play. Barry says he’ll make sure I’m a part of everything. At this point, all I really know about lighting is that Julius Ross has a lot of crap that needs to be delivered.”

“That’s what an intern does, Viola.”

“Right. I don’t mean to complain. At least I’m observing the master,” I agree with a sigh.

“Pretty soon it will be the end of summer. And then your roommates are coming. Your mom is turning this place into a hotel.”

“I’m surprised she’s not putting an air mattress on the roof. Every room has a couple of beds in it. My friends can’t wait to meet you.”

“Really.” Andrew shifts his long legs and props them on the fence.

“They think you’re cute.” I decide it’s okay to tease him, just a little.

Andrew laughs. “How do they know? Oh, right, when we Skyped.”

“I told them you look better in real life.”

“I look bad on Skype?”

“No, not terrible. A little pasty.”

“Oh man. Pasty? That’s gross.”

“Well, maybe pasty isn’t the right word. You look blue…ish.”

“That’s even worse. You’re saying I have the skin tone of the underbelly of a lizard.”

“It’s not
that
bad,” I say with a laugh. I’m glad Andrew and I are back to normal after the other day.

“I’ll get a tan at camp.”

“Good idea.”

“So, I
do
look pasty.”

“You are awfully sensitive.” I swig my root beer.

“I guess I better go. The bus comes at six in the morning.” Andrew gets up to go downstairs.

“How awful.”

“You’re telling me.”

I place my bottle of root beer on the table to get ready to walk him out. I plan to come back up and call Marisol after I walk Andrew out. It’s her night off from Target, and we get a lot of gabbing in.

Andrew turns and looks up. “That’s a really bright moon.”

“It’s as big as the sun,” I say, following his gaze.

“It just seems that way because it’s close to the earth.”

“The sun?”

“No, Vi, the
moon
.”

“Why does it seem closer over Brooklyn than anywhere else?”

“I don’t know.”

“The moon seemed so far away in Indiana. But there, you could see the stars. Here, you hardly ever can.”

“The city lights are too bright. They cancel out the stars,” Andrew says.

“Call me from camp.” I give Andrew a pat on the back.

“Are you serious? Of course I’ll call. I’ll be in the woods with nothing to do.”

“What if there’s no signal?”

We look at each other. “Oh no!”

Andrew puts his arms around me and gives me a hug. And then, just as I’m letting go of him, he pulls me close and kisses me.

Seriously. It is
happening
. Andrew Bozelli and Viola Chesterton are kissing on the roof of 345 72nd Street. I’m outside of my body watching this scene like the Channel 4 news team in a hovering helicopter. I can’t believe it.

The kiss leads to…confusion.

I’m confused, because after all, I’ve only ever kissed Jared Spencer, and this kiss, of course, is completely different because it’s delivered by a boy I have known all my life—before he had straight teeth and an excellent haircut. It’s so weird to kiss Andrew, because I
know
him.

When I kissed Jared for the first time, it was like discovering the shore of a foreign country from the boat. I wasn’t quite sure what I would find when I landed.

The gears in my mind race, and I almost hear a voice in my head say, “What does this mean? What does this mean? What does this mean?” But the rhythmic sound isn’t the whirl of gears of repetitive thought in my head. The Melfis’ exhaust fan from their air-conditioning chute on the next roof has kicked on in the heat.

“Bye, Viola,” Andrew says, pulling away abruptly. He goes out the porthole and down the ladder. I can’t move.

I just stay on the roof.

In the dark.

Just me and the giant pink moon.

What a relief, I’m thinking, as I pull open the work door to enter the Helen Hayes Theatre. I think I might major in theater when I get to college, because there’s something about working in a cavernous and dark place that makes me feel as though anything is possible, and also, that it’s easy to hide in this big, raw nothingness where plays are born.

I check my BlackBerry.

AB: I don’t know what came over me last night.

Me: Me neither.

AB: Drop it?

Me: Dropped!

Andrew, my BFFAA (Best Friend Forever and Always), has now officially become my BFFAAAOKO (BFFAA…And Only Kissed Once). I exhale a sigh of total and genuine
relief
.

I wish The Kiss had never happened. But it
did
. It’s so much better to be friends. Once a boy becomes a boyfriend, you can’t talk to him about what you’re feeling, because he assumes whatever you’re feeling is about
him
even when it’s not. This was the takeaway from my year of dating Jared Spencer. And I would never want to trade my friendship with Andrew for a rooftop kiss. And once again, I’m going to have to deal with a surprising turn in my life story that I didn’t see coming. (I count attending a year of boarding school as one of the most shocking turns my life has taken, but I survived it, and even ended up better for it.) Just goes to show you, sometimes you have to live in the moment and not worry about the big picture—as long as what happens in the moment doesn’t
ruin
your life.

I turn my attention back to the task at hand. I’ll focus on the play and let the Andrew thing vanish into thin air like a stage kiss. It happened, but it doesn’t mean it’s real life. Mr. Longfellow is onstage by himself, walking around. He doesn’t look worried, he seems in control and ready for anything.

I’ve learned a lot hanging around this production. Of all the designers, and that would include Julius Ross, Jess Goldstein is the nicest and actually says things about theatrical production that really stick with me. Jess taught me about mounting a revival versus a brand-new play. He likes the historical aspect of researching what the designers invented for past productions and reinventing them for a new audience. Also, when Les Longfellow wants something, Jess delivers.

I spent a day with the costume crew as they distressed the fabric for the dresses that the spinster aunts (Grand and Mary Pat) wear in the play. When Les Longfellow saw the costumes under the light, he felt they looked too new. Also, these are characters of modest means, who have one dress for everyday and one for church, and the one for everyday has been hand washed and pressed and worn for
ages
, so it should not look new.

Jess chose a deep forest green wool for Mortimer Brewster’s suit. Brings out the hazel in George Dvorsky’s eyes—he’s the leading man and has to look scrumptious. Jess had the team tailor the suit just so, so George is truly the romantic lead down to the creases in his 1941 pants.

“Take a look at this hat.” Jess comes out onstage with George, who is wearing the new suit.

Mr. Longfellow looks at the hat. “I don’t like it.”

“Laura?” Jess calls. Laura, one of his assistants, comes onstage with another hat.

“This one is too Sinatra,” Mr. Longfellow says.

“How about this one?” Jess takes the Sinatra hat off and places a second hat, this one with a wider brim, on George’s head.

“I like it,” Les says.

“I’ll change the band. It should be deep gray—not black,” Jess says.

“Fine,” Mr. Longfellow says.

I’m amazed that something as small as a hat matters. But I’ve learned that everything matters when it comes to a play production; it’s all about perfect details. I won’t forget that when I’m cutting film.

The set is magnificent, a version of the original Broadway design, but beautifully rendered anew by the Great Robin Wagner. (Well, that’s what Grand calls him. The Great is, like, his first name.) I may ask him to sign a poster for me.

Julius Ross, my boss, enters the theater, barking orders on his cell phone.

He is followed by what look to be three college-age assistants to the assistant. They blow past me and take over the entire work table. One assistant unrolls blueprints, while another opens a laptop. The head of the lighting crew emerges, a tall, burly man.

The stage manager gathers the actors onstage. Grand doesn’t stand with George; she sticks with James Hampton, the famous character actor, with thick gray hair and a wide, warm smile, who plays the Rev. Dr. Harper, and Mary Pat Gleason, her character’s sister, who has brown curly hair and drinks slowly from a water bottle without taking her eyes off the stage manager. She and Grand will be wigged for their parts, as neither of them appear as old in life as they need to in the play. The cast listens raptly as the stage manager runs through the schedule for the day.

“You can sit over there,” Cameron, the head follow-spot operator, says to me.

We are high in the mezzanine, on a platform behind the audience. Three follow spots are rigged on stationary platforms. The two other operators, two guys in their twenties, stand at the ready and look to Cameron to tell them what to do. The lighting instruments are shaped like black metal rockets with a guide bar across the back to focus on the actor onstage. Inside these instruments is a wide, bright, single beam of light.

I slip the lens cap off my camera and flip it on. Using the light from the follow spots, I drink in the theater: the molding around the doors, the seats that are lined up like red dominoes, and then the stage.

From my point of view, the set is enchanting. I get a different sense of the color palette Mr. Wagner used from here. It looks like a mixing bowl from a country kitchen.

Pretty. Sturdy. And you want to hold it.

It’s important in
Arsenic and Old Lace
to feel safe when you’re watching it. After all, it’s about two old ladies killing off unsuspecting men with a poisonous cocktail. They have a nutty brother who buries the bodies in the basement. The romantic element is about a man (George playing Mortimer) who isn’t sure he wants to get married. It’s a farce, so the set has the feeling of a pop-up book, with lots of doors, windows, and trapdoors so the characters can enter and exit, missing one another by a second or two, keeping the audience on the edge of their seats.