Viola in Reel Life

by Adriana Trigiani

  “So, you’re stumped?” I ask her.

  Mrs. Zidar smiles. “Maybe you could tell me more.”

  “I’m going to be an artist. And I read a lot about artists,” I begin.

  “Go on.”

  “My parents are filmmakers, my grandmother is an actress, so I’m sort of surrounded by creativity.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Well, it is and it isn’t. I spend a lot of time in a land of make-believe, if you know what I mean. I imagine things. And I think that’s how I got started imagining her.”

  “Her?”

  “The ghost.”

  “You think you’ve seen a ghost?”

  “Trust me. I’ve seen her.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Like an old movie star, except she’s about twenty-five. And she wears a red dress and a black hat and shoes with buckles…of course, last time I thought I saw her, she was just a flash. I call her the Red Lady.”

  “Viola, have you ever heard of the subconscious mind?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s the engine that drives your imagination. It never sleeps. Did you ever take your camera out to film something, and you imagined what you were going to film and suddenly the light changes and you see in front of you what you saw in your mind?”

  “All the time.”

  “Well, that is your subconscious mind.”

  “You mean I’m normal? Even though I’m seeing ghosts?”

  Mrs. Zidar smiles. “You’re becoming an artist. You’re beginning to listen to the voice inside you and you want to interpret that voice. That’s what artists do.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not sleeping well because you’re thinking about what you’re going to create.”

  “You mean I’m putting a movie together in my mind?”

  “The beginning of something. I don’t know if it’s a movie, but it’s something.” Mrs. Zidar looks at me. “I want you to think about what that means—and where inspiration comes from. You know, the place where art is born.”

  Quad 11, like every other quad that is filled with the seventy-five members of our freshman class, smells and feels like the main room at Super Cuts hair salon. I don’t know how the power grid at PA will take it. We’re all getting ready for the dance—blow-drying, hair-spraying, putting on makeup, and some of us, even ironing our outfits. The school buses are lined up outside like a row of yellow Smith Brothers’ cough drops waiting to be filled with PA girls looking their party best.

  Romy started at around four o’clock fussing with her outfits. She’s changed, like, twenty-seven times. It’s always the athletic girls who need the most time when prepping for a dance. This is not their comfort zone. They are most comfortable in uniforms, so they need extra time to put the right look together. Marisol tried a new hairdo for the dance (always a mistake). She used a flat iron to make her hair straight, and now she’s crimping it with an iron (right there, a hole in the ozone layer with all the hair spray she has used tonight).

  Suzanne breezed in from her shower and threw on, like…pencil-leg jeans and a white lace blouse and looks perfect.

  I put down my blow-dryer. I brush my hair into place. My bangs are exactly two centimeters long enough to go behind the tops of my ears. This is a victory greater to me than acing my horticulture midterm. (No ho-hum results for me.)

  The crimping is going to take Marisol right up to the time we have to board the bus and since I’m ready, I turn on my computer to check my mail. I IM Andrew, who I can see is signed on.

  Me: I’m going to a dance tonight.

  AB: Why?

  Me: To dance.

  AB: With guys?

  Me: Yeah.

  AB: Why would you go?

  Me: Because my roommates are making me.

  AB: Oh yeah. Right.

  Me: It’s not like I want to go. I have to. I’m being forced into being a team player.

  AB: I get it.

  Me: How’s it going there?

  AB: The same.

  Me: Have you seen Tag Nachmanoff at school?

  AB: Do you still like him?

  Me: Yeah. But he’s too old.

  AB: Get in line. He’s got, like, five girlfriends.

  Me: Caitlin says two.

  AB: Two or five—what’s the diff?

  Me: Right. Two or five or a million. It’s impossible. Of course, if it were possible…maybe. But it’s impossible and I don’t try to achieve the impossible.

  AB: Okay. Gotta go.

  Me: Bye.

  And the strangest thing happens—Andrew signs off. Totally signs off. He never totally signs off; he usually gives me a minute or two to think of additional information, a sort of instant message pause. But there is no grace period to add to our dialogue. He is gone. I turn off my computer, and sit, sort of stunned. “Okay, that was totally bizarre.”

  Marisol is dabbing Benetint blush on her cheeks. “What happened?” She smears in the rosy glow.

  “Andrew was peevish about the dance. Sort of defensive.”

  “He’s jealous,” Suzanne says as she looks into her mirror.

  “No way. We’re BFFAA. We are not boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “He may not know it yet but he’d like you to be his girlfriend,” Suzanne says. “A boy doesn’t hang around out of friendship.”

  “How do you know that? Is there a book or something?” I ask.

  “If there is, I’d like to read it.” Marisol pulls on her best jeans. They have leather laces on the sides of the legs. I think they’re a little too cha-cha for our first dance, but what do I know? I’m in a Delia’s jumper. I could be off the mark by two fashion cycles myself.

  “It’s common sense.” Suzanne puts on mascara in front of her mirror. “My brothers are very practical about girls. They don’t waste any time on ones that won’t be potential girlfriends. And they only aim for ones who will say yes if they ask them out. This should tell you everything you need to know about boys. They only go after what they know they can get. We girls, on the other hand, aim really high. We take a leap, like that guy you told us about, Viola….”

  “Tag?”

  “Yeah, Tag.” Suzanne flips her head over and fluffs her hair from underneath. Then she stands up and every hair, I swear, falls perfectly into place. “Take that boy, Tag. He knows every girl likes him, so he gets to sit back and pick which girl, out of all the girls at your old school, he is going to ask out. If I were you, I would scratch him from your list.”

  “I can’t scratch him off; he’s like…my highest dream.” Now I’m sorry I ever confided in these girls about TN.

  “Rule number one about boys: Do not waste energy on what will not bring you results.”

  Romy sits down on Suzanne’s bunk. She smoothes the tulle layers on her micromini party skirt that she wears over her best jeans. “I know that’s true from science. Energy has to be fed from a source. If you don’t feed the source, it dissipates entirely.”

  “Same is true of liking a boy. If you cut off the thoughts, if you stop pining, you’re free to find a boy who is attainable.”

  “I can’t give up Tag.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, he’s like an A on a paper you worked really hard on. He’s a trophy after you win the districts in field hockey. He’s like Shia LaBeouf who walks among mortals in Brooklyn.”

  “He’s a dream,” Romy says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s all fine, but he’s not here,” Suzanne says, making more sense than I’m willing to admit. I live in enough of a dream world as I long for Brooklyn, make movies, and keep a video diary.

  I’d like a little reality to tell you the truth. Maybe I’ll find some at Drab Dull.

  As the bus pulls into the entrance of the Grabeel Sharpe Academy for Boys, you get an official military feeling. I had this reaction when visiting the historic battlefields near Waterford, Virginia, that my dad and mom dragged me t
hrough on a car trip so I might “understand the Civil War.” The front gate is made of stone, with an enormous shield that says “GSA” in gold lettering and has a symbol that looks part eagle and part machine in the center.

  The girls are laughing and having fun on the bus, and I have a feeling of impending doom in the pit of my stomach. If there’s one thing I hate it’s meeting new people in a large group, especially a group of boys.

  I think it’s sort of crazy to have to make friends at a new boarding school, and then haul us over to another boarding school to meet even more people—like, enough already. I’d be willing to go to a dance next semester, but now, in the heart of November, it seems way too soon. I’ve only adjusted to life at PA since, like, last Tuesday, and now it’s all being shook up again.

  It’s not that I’m nervous. There are definitely girls on this bus who are nervous, who are made jittery by the idea of boys, but not me. Ever since the Founder’s Day show, I feel very calm about who I am—as if I found a way to express myself that is truthful and very “me.” It’s the only way I can say it. I loved being creative and seeing my ideas realized in front of an audience. I’m not afraid of anything, not even boys. Awkward? Okay, maybe. But afraid? I have nothing to be afraid of. I know who I am. And if a boy doesn’t like it? Well, too bad for him.

  Mrs. Zidar stands up in the front of the bus and holds on to the silver pole next to the driver for balance. She’s traded her mom jeans for a plaid wool skirt and navy blue twinset, which makes her look like a Scottish flight attendant. At least she has a good haircut and wears makeup. If Mrs. Carleton were our chaperone tonight, we’d have to be worried about what she’d wear. Mrs. Zidar, as a therapist, probably understands this and gussied up so as not to embarrass us. “Girls, a few words before we attend the dance. First, we are guests here at Grabeel Sharpe, so please, respect the physical buildings and landscape.”

  “Why doesn’t she just say don’t litter or write graffiti?” I whisper to Marisol.

  “And remember your manners. Some of the freshman boys at Grabeel Sharpe may be a little shy, and it’s up to us to make them feel at home.”

  I raise my hand. “They are at home; we are the intruders.”

  The girls on the bus laugh. Mrs. Zidar smiles. “Yes, Viola, that’s true. But I know our Prefect girls, and you’re warm and delightful and charming, and you are able to put everyone at ease. So why not tonight at your first dance?”

  “Cool.” I shrug. I may have a totally blasé attitude, but I’m having outfit remorse. This velvet jumper with the wide straps feels like a belted feed sack, which is very appropriate because lined up behind my classmates, I’m beginning to feel like I’m on my way to the slaughter.

  My jean jacket, with an embroidered Juicy logo on the back (authentic), is not warm enough for the November chill. I have on black tights and dark blue suede ankle boots. My camera hangs around my neck, as I promised Mrs. Zidar and Trish I’d “record” the first dance for posterity. I’m relieved I have my camera with me; it gives me something to do. When all else fails, there’s always art itself.

  The foyer of Grabeel Sharpe smells like oats and Pine-Sol. They must have scrubbed the place before letting us off the bus. The interior walls are made of big blocks of gray stones, with giant brown crisscross beams on the white ceiling. It has the feeling of the outer lobby of a theater hosting a Renaissance fair.

  On the walls are portraits of men who look like versions of Ralph Waldo Emerson and George Washington: oil portraits framed in ornate gold, the men wearing ruffly shirts with black jackets and stand-up collars. Drab Dull Academy deserves its nickname. The people who founded this place look stuffy and stern and boring.

  “I hope they have good snacks,” Marisol says as we follow the crowd.

  “They will,” Trish says from behind us.

  “Like what?” I ask her. Trish looks pretty in a jean miniskirt with a billowy blouse, not unlike the ones worn by the founding fathers of GSA. She has her hair down and poofed out. You hardly notice her Invisaligns. “Marisol and I like to eat more than dance.”

  “They’ll have good stuff like sliders and French fries.”

  Marisol smiles. “My kind of party.”

  We follow Mrs. Zidar down the grand hallway through a set of wide doors that lead to the party room. The first thing I notice is that it’s very cool in the room, as wide doors at the far side of the room are open to a large garden where there’s a DJ set up. The room has tall windows on both sides, with long navy blue velvet curtains tied back with red braided cords. A series of dimly lit wrought-iron chandeliers hang overhead.

  The food table is filled with good stuff, just like Trish promised: I see nachos and quesadillas and sliders and a giant tin of caramel popcorn. There’s a tower of cupcakes by the punch bowl. Marisol’s eyes widen when she sees the cupcakes.

  Mrs. Zidar shakes the hand of a man who must be the GSA chaperone of the dance. They laugh like they’ve been through this a million times, which oddly enough, makes me feel better about the whole evening. The freshman dance has probably happened every year since 1890, which takes the pressure off.

  Trish is greeted by some hot-looking upperclassmen who must know her from somewhere like resident advisor training. They flirt with her, which puts Trish in an entirely different category than I have had her in all these weeks. The guys don’t seem to mind the braces, and when I look at Trish from a distance she looks pretty. I see why they like her; she’s easygoing and fun.

  Out on the patio, we see the clumps of freshman boys. They wear gray slacks and navy blue blazers with red-and-gray striped ties. I’ll have to get a shot of Mrs. Zidar with them—as they look like pilots on the airline for which she wears plaid. Andrew will get a kick out of this back home. The entire concept of uniforms and mandatory dress codes is lost on him.

  “Hi,” a boy says from behind me. I turn around to see a tall boy with a nice face. He wears glasses and his bangs are long and pushed forward, but the back of his black hair is short. There must be rules here about haircuts. I look around. Most of the boys here have short hair; nobody has long hair like Andrew or Tag Nachmanoff.

  “Hi,” I reply, suddenly shy.

  “What kind of camera is that?” he says.

  “A Canon XH A1,” I answer.

  “Me too.” He holds up the same camera hanging around his neck. “I’m Jared Spencer.”

  “I’m Viola Chesterton.” I smile.

  Behind Jared, Suzanne, Romy, and Marisol give me a thumbs-up and head for the sliders. Now I have to talk to this new boy.

  The first thing I notice about Jared is that he’s massively cute (a good but prominent straight nose, nice lips, and long neck—necks are not something you notice unless one is absent—but his is nice). The second thing I notice is that he’s comfortable. He doesn’t seem rattled at all by this strangely formalish dance, or clumsy when it comes to meeting new people. It’s all very natural to him, which puts me at ease. (I kind of can’t believe it. A total surprise.)

  “So, would you like something to drink?” Jared asks.

  “Sure.”

  As we walk to the punch bowl, I can feel a bunch of eyes on us. And I don’t mind it.

  “What are you going to film tonight?” he asks.

  “I was going to play it by ear, just have some fun with it.”

  “Me too. Have you made a film yet?”

  “Not exactly. So far, I keep a video diary. My parents are doc makers.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. They’re in Afghanistan right now doing some work for a network news division. They’re part of a team filming a movie about Afghan women.”

  “That’s really cool.” Jared smiles. He has a wide smile and good teeth. I wonder if he wore braces. It sure looks it. Jared pours a glass of punch and gives it to me. At the far end of the party room, I see Suzanne holding court, introducing Romy and Marisol to a group of boys. “Are those your roommates?”

  “How did you know?”
>
  “You came in together. That’s pretty much the way it goes at boarding school—on field trips you stick with your posse.”

  I laugh. “A field trip?”

  “Well, it’s a dance—but to me, anyplace they take us on a bus is a field trip.”

  “Good point.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Brooklyn, New York.”

  “That’s cool. I’m from Milwaukee.”

  “What are you doing here, at this school?”

  “Every man in my dad’s family went here. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Me either. I never wanted to come to boarding school and I sure didn’t want to come to boarding school in Indiana. The good news is I only have one year of this and then my parents will be home and I can go back.”

  “A year isn’t so bad,” he says.

  He’s right. It’s not the end of the world like it was back in September. Soon it will be Thanksgiving and then Christmas and I figure the spring will go quickly. “No, it’s not.”

  Suzanne, Marisol, and Romy are now on the dance floor. Some guys join them—they actually seem like they’re having fun.

  “Would you like to dance?” Jared asks.

  “I guess so.”

  As Jared and I set our cameras on a shelf that is filled with trophies, I think of Tag Nachmanoff. Whenever I imagined my first dance, he was always the boy who would take me in his arms and I would look up at him, and have to go up on tiptoe just to sort of make the waltzing work. And he would whirl me around the room effortlessly and I would follow, like a long silk scarf during an Isadora Duncan-style dance. I imagined this moment so many times that I feel a little disloyal dancing with Jared when it’s been Tag all this time. But I have to get over it. I’m in Indiana, not Brooklyn, and Tag is juggling dances with Lucy and Maxine and wouldn’t even have the time to squeeze me in anyhow.

  Jared takes my hand, which seems a little weird but mostly polite. We join my friends on the dance floor and I introduce them over the music.