Viola in the Spotlight (9 page)

I zoom in and focus on the bench where the aunts keep the bodies. I’m going to film the backstage area (I’ve already gotten wonderful footage of the actors coming to work through the stage door). I plan to film the opening-night party, and then cut it together and give it to George and Grand as a keepsake.

Mr. Longfellow walks down the aisle to the lip of the stage. He is followed by his assistant and Maurice. I quickly flip the camera off. Mr. Longfellow looks up and surveys the light grid. The follow-spot operators stand at the ready like machine gunners on a ship while Mr. Longfellow confers with the stage manager.

Mr. Longfellow turns and goes back up the aisle to the last row of the theater to observe the tech.

The craft of operating the follow spot includes having to widen out the beam with one hand while guiding it with another. Mr. Longfellow likes to use follow spots to emphasize action in a scene, “to pointedly draw attention to it,” which is why three instruments are engaged for a play that takes place on one set. Cameron wears a headset, taking instruction from Ravonne, who looks up at him from the orchestra and then back at the stage.

Grand stands downstage as the lights are focused on her. The light around Grand closes in tight around her, like a ray of afternoon light. From up here, a silky black shadow trails upstage until it diffuses to black. This is the moment in the play when Grand’s character is scheming to serve a brew to the unsuspecting men that will kill them. The effect of the light conjures the meaning of the text. I lean forward and watch.

Grand stands patiently for a long time as Mr. Longfellow and Julius confer about the lighting.

After a while, George exits the stage. He returns moments later with a crate. Without saying anything, he places it behind Grand and invites her to sit. She looks up at George gratefully. George returns to his place as the director and lighting designer continue their heated discussion.

George Dvorsky is a true gentleman, and most of all, he anticipates what Grand might need, and tries always to put her first and make her comfortable—no matter what the situation. This is the definition of a perfect boyfriend—or
friend
period. Andrew is my George, but friend only.

Out of all of Grand’s ex-husbands and former boyfriends, I like George the best. And not just because he is a great actor and he’s tall and the closest thing I’ve seen to a chiseled Cary Grant type since, I don’t know, Cary Grant himself. He’s a good guy. And sometimes, more than anything I seek in a date—including brains, general hotness, athletic ability, or similar interests—
kindness
is the most important character trait of all. It means you will be treated with respect, no matter what. And as my mom is quick to point out,
respect
is the backbone of love.

EIGHT

THE R TRAIN NEVER HAS A CAR WITH AIR-CONDITIONING that works in the summer. Every single train car is hot; it’s like riding in a Crock-Pot set on
stew
.

Maurice, Caitlin, and I are returning from Manhattan in a near-empty car that has the scent of chili fries and motor oil. When we reach the Bay Ridge Avenue stop, I stand. “Let’s go, guys.”

“We’ll catch up with you later,” Maurice says.

“But you’re having dinner at my house….”

Maurice and Caitlin shake their heads; they are
not
having dinner at my house as planned.

“You’re
not
having dinner at my house?” I sit down as the doors close, missing our stop. But I don’t care, I can double back at the next stop. “What’s going on?”

“We only have five days left until opening night,” Caitlin says.

“Yeah. So?”

“Once the play opens, Maurice goes back to England. We figured out that we have only a little more than seven thousand minutes left. And we want to spend as many of those minutes together as possible,” Caitlin explains.

For a moment, I want to give Caitlin a lesson in
get real
, but she’ll get enough of that if her mother ever finds out that she’s been spending the summer riding trains into Manhattan to meet her boyfriend. The expression on Caitlin’s face is pleading for me to understand.

“Please, Viola.”

I take a deep breath. “Okay.”

Maurice smiles at me. “Thank you.”

“It was obvious to me that you were nuts about each other from the first moment you laid eyes on each other…”

Caitlin and Maurice nod that it’s true, as they hold hands tightly, as if to hang on to each other, knowing this is not a dream.

“…and long-distance
anything
is the worst. I get that. I just hope that everything works out for you. In the meantime, I have your backs.”

The train pulls into the 77th Street station. I get off on the ramp and turn to look back at the train, which pulls slowly out of the station. Maurice and Caitlin have their heads together, talking, as if one summer is not possibly long enough to fit in everything they have to say to each other. That must be what it’s like when you find: your forevermore love, your true blue, your one and only,
the
person who totally gets
it
, in every possible way, every single day.

I’m happy for Caitlin and Maurice, even though my nerves are shot from worry. I just hope that seven thousand minutes will be filled with enough memories to last for both of them, once Maurice goes home for good.

“Don’t you have to walk Cleo?” Mom asks from the doorway of my room.

“Grand doesn’t have to be at the theater until three. So I have the morning off.” I roll over in my bed and smash my face into the pillow. I forgot how much I love
not
having to show up for a job or an internship. I don’t have to be at the theater until five. I do have a twinge of guilt; after all, I could be spending my downtime cutting all the footage I’ve taken at the theater. The more I do now, the easier it will be to cut the opening-night party later. I throw the sheet off me with my leg to get up.

Mom sits down on the edge of my bed. “We have a problem.”

I sit bolt upright. “What happened?”

“Mrs. Pullapilly called and asked if Caitlin was here last night.”

I jump out of the bed and yank my phone out of the charger to check it. There are no messages from Maurice. “What did you tell her, Mom?”

“I told her I had a meeting in Manhattan and that I was sure Caitlin was over, because she’s always over. That seemed to make Mrs. Pullapilly feel better. Evidently, Caitlin missed her curfew. She was over an hour late.”

My heart sinks in my chest. “Mom, Caitlin was supposed to be with me last night. But she wasn’t. She was with Maurice.”

“I see.” Mom smooths the comforter on my bed. Then she stands and begins to make the bed. I get up and fluff the pillow. “So, Caitlin decided not to tell her mother she has a boyfriend?”

“She can’t! You know how strict Mrs. Pullapilly is. Caitlin’s life is on orange high alert every day. Don’t you remember? We practically had to walk through a metal detector to go to Caitlin’s thirteenth birthday party.”

“They can be a little strict.”

“A
little
? How about prison wardens in solitary confinement are more lenient!”

“You understand it’s wrong for Caitlin to lie to her parents.”

“Or for me to lie to you. I know. I totally get it. But I had a higher goal in mind. To honor and support the path of true love!”

My mother, who had a very stern look on her face (complete with the check mark worry lines between her eyes that she refuses on principle to Botox), smiles. “So the lie was noble?”

“Sort of. I’m dealing with a traditional value system here—ancient Indian—they are totally rigid, Mom. There’s zero wiggle room. The answer to everything is
no
.”

“Do you want me to talk to Mrs. Pullapilly?”

“No way. She’ll make it worse for Caitlin. And it’s all my fault. They fell in love on our roof. It’s like we set the stage for the drama.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Pullapilly would hold you responsible just because they happened to meet at our house.”

“Mom, are you kidding? The Indian people are mystical. They find meaning in
everything
. A locked door is a symbol, a ray of light is a spiritual indicator. I could go on and on. There are no accidents! Caitlin says that
all
the time. Her aunt Naira is, like, an expert about the world beyond.”

“Maybe Aunt Naira could talk to Mrs. Pullapilly.”

“She’s in India.” I sit down on my bed. “Sometimes I wish Maurice had never come here at all.”

“Let’s talk this through,” Mom says. “How serious are they?”

“Enough for Caitlin to risk any of the freedom she has to see him.”

“I see.”

The look on my mom’s face says,
Time for the tough questions. And the honest answers.
But the truth is, my parents have been honest with me about everything—okay, maybe not finances, but everything else about life, work, and love is on the table, and always has been.

My teacher in middle school actually let me lead the health class discussion about reproduction, because my mother taught me the mechanics in a very matter-of-fact way, much the same way my father taught me how to use a camera. I think Mom might be concerned that Maurice and Caitlin are getting way too serious way too fast. I’m not worried about my friend and her new boyfriend; I’m worried about her parents.

“When she comes over here to visit me, it’s not to hang out with me, but to go someplace with Maurice.”

“Where do they go?” Mom asks.

“They come to the theater to watch rehearsal. Or they go to the movies. Or they walk on the Promenade. Maurice took her into Manhattan to Eighth Street. They went to Lafayette Bakery for cupcakes. Last night they were on the train coming back to Brooklyn with me and they didn’t get off at our stop. They just kept going. They have only seven thousand minutes left to be together before Maurice goes back to London. I mean, that alone—the fact that they did the math on the exact amount of minutes they have left this summer—should tell you how devoted they are to each other.”

“You should encourage Caitlin to tell her mother about Maurice.”

“Mom, you don’t get it. She’s not allowed to date
anyone
. And it’s worse—even if, let’s say they allowed Caitlin to date, they’d never let her date a British guy. At least you and Dad would let me go out in a group. Caitlin can sort of do that, but believe me, Mrs. P doesn’t think our group includes a boy who likes Caitlin
that
way.”

Suddenly the summer, which has seemed so long because I have been asked to keep a secret, isn’t. I want to tell my mom everything. So I keep going.

“The Pullapillys have a plan for her. A life plan! After high school, and she’d better be valedictorian because they want her to go to Juilliard and become the greatest violinist who ever lived, they plan to pack up and go back to India, and choose a husband for her. Then they’ll all live in the same house, forever. That’s right.
Everybody.
Caitlin and her handpicked husband and their eventual children and her parents.”

“My goodness.” My mom never says things like
My goodness
. She is really thrown for a loop right about now. “Viola, what do you think she ought to do?”

“I don’t know, Mom.”

“What would you do?”

“Mom, can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“You know I had a boyfriend at Prefect.”

“The filmmaker.”

“Jared.”

“You haven’t told me very much about him.”

“Because he turned out to be a dork.”

My mom laughs. “That happens.”

“Well, even though he was a dork, he actually ended up being the perfect first boyfriend. We talked a lot on the phone and emailed, and then when we could, we’d go somewhere with a group. Like a concert—or once, a one-woman show. I never felt like I was thrown into it. It built in little steps. It didn’t rule my life.”

“That’s good.” Mom smiles.

“But for some girls, boys rule their lives.”

“Why do you think that’s true?”

“They finally feel special when they have a boyfriend. And in Caitlin’s case, she feels
free
. At long last, she has her own life outside of her family. I think that’s part of the reason she fell so hard for Maurice.”

“And what about Maurice?”

“I think Maurice was fated to be with an Indian girl. He loves the culture. He likes the country, the food, and the art. Plus, growing up in London, he knows a lot of Indians. And I think he took one look at Caitlin, and he saw fate.”

“That can happen.”

“It
did
happen, Mom. I saw it. What should I do?”

“You should tell Maurice and Caitlin that they were very lucky. You and I covered for them this time, and while you are happy for them, you are
not
happy with the way they are handling Mr. and Mrs. Pullapilly. You tell them that they cannot ask you or me to lie.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“We have a big week ahead of us. And we want Caitlin to be a part of it, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“So tell them not to ruin the fun for everybody.”

“Got it.”

I don’t want
anything
to ruin my roommates’ first trip to New York City. And I want Caitlin with us every step of the way, not grounded and hidden away in her apartment, playing scales on her violin, pining for her final moments with Maurice. I have to get to them and set the ground rules before it’s too late.

Me: How’s camp?

AB: Stage manager for Sophie Treadwell’s Machinal.

Me: Sheesh.

AB: All girls in the cast. Loving it.

Me: Sure you are. Your haircut is getting the snaps.

AB: What can I say? Met a great girl here. Mel.

Me: Congratulations!

AB: Yeah. We hit it off right away. She actually makes this place bearable.

Me: Great!

AB: I was dreading camp, and now I don’t want to leave.

Me: Wow.

AB: Mel’s from California. Bummer. Talk to you later.

Talk about snark. Andrew Bozelli got on a bus, went to Maine, put down his duffel, picked a bunk, and became a jerk. All-girl cast and a new girlfriend? Like the 6.1 Avid program I learned in 2008: I am obsolete.

I click on the video iChat on my Mac. Romy and Marisol are on-site already.

“Hey guys,” I chime in.

“Mom says I have to bring a dress for opening night,” Marisol says.

“You should. It’s medium fancy.”

“Can’t I wear something comfortable?” Romy moans. “It’s not like I’m gonna be onstage. The only dressy dress I have is a hand-me-down. Spaghetti strap thing from my stepsister Marina. She only wore it once, so it’s like new. It’s pretty. A lot of ruffles. Will that work?”

“Sounds gorgeous,” Marisol says. Marisol is always supportive of personal expression through fashion.

“Wear whatever you want.”

“What’s the matter, Viola?” Marisol leans in.

“One kiss and my friend turned into a frog.”

“Tag?” Romy asks.

Suzanne joins the iChat. “I knew it. Tag called!”

“No, he did not. This is about Andrew.”

“Let me guess. Andrew likes you,” Suzanne says triumphantly. “Like a girl.”

“Not exactly. Before Andrew left for camp, he came over and hung out, and on his way out, he kissed me.”

Romy sits back, while Marisol lets out a
woo-hoo
. Suzanne congratulates herself knowingly. “Continue.”

“Yeah, well, before you spray paint our initials in a big lemon yellow heart on the South Bend overpass, listen to this. I’ve been kissed by a boy who
really
likes me, and then Andrew. And I think Andrew was just practicing.”

“How insulting.” Marisol is amazed.

“How do you know you were a practice round?” Romy asks.

“Because he has a slew of girls up at camp.”

“Who would have thought it? Your BFFAA has become a
guy
. Well, it happens to the best of them.”

“Thanks, Suzanne. Now I feel worse.”

“Do you like him?” Marisol asks.

“I don’t think it’s too much to ask, when you’re fifteen years old, that when it comes to friendship, the terms of the friendship do not change over time.”

“You miss the old Andrew,” Marisol says.

“I miss the
normal
Andrew. I don’t need drama from Andrew Bozelli. I don’t want to be uncomfortable around my best friend.”

“Fair enough,” Romy says. “Too bad there aren’t referees in life like there are in field hockey.”

“No kidding. Because Andrew went over the line. I should have stopped him before he kissed me, but the truth is, I didn’t see it coming. I was caught up in the moment. And then there was this big pink moon, and there’s just something about rooftops in Brooklyn…oh, I don’t know. It got out of hand and crazy and all so fast.”