Viola in the Spotlight

by Adriana Trigiani

  “He must be deported immediately,” Caitlin jokes.

  “I’ll call the authorities in the morning.” I play along.

  “He’s wonderful.” Caitlin turns over and props her face on her hand.

  “But you think everybody is wonderful,” I tell her.

  Caitlin nods. She knows it’s true. “What can I say? I see the good in everybody.”

  “So what’s so great about Maurice?”

  Caitlin takes a deep breath. “He has beautiful green eyes.”

  “They’re green, all right,” I agree.

  “And he knows a lot about Indian culture. I feel like he totally understands me.” Caitlin lies back down on her pillow. She is quiet for a long time.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He leaves on August thirtieth. That doesn’t give us much time,” she says sadly.

  When I was at boarding school, in the beginning, when I really and truly hated it, I took out a calendar and counted the days I had to be there—it was 142 days total, and it might as well have been a million. Time passes slowly when you’re miserable, and so fast when you want it to stay. I know this from experience. “Caitlin, instead of getting all sad about it, why don’t you just have fun?”

  “I guess.”

  “Maybe you’ll hate his guts by Friday. You never know.”

  “True. But I doubt it.”

  “You don’t have to figure everything out tonight.”

  The whirl of the old fan drones in the dark. Caitlin goes off to sleep with dreams of the green-eyed boy from London. I remember Jared Spencer and how I felt the first time I met him at the dance at Grabeel Sharpe—and how my stomach was doing flip-flops at the thought of him. I halfway think that’s the best part of love, the beginning. But it doesn’t matter now; Jared Spencer is so far away, he might as well be a dream.

  FOUR

  “WHAT’S WRONG?” ANDREW OPENS THE DOOR TO the Bozellis’ apartment in Cobble Hill. It’s a large loft that used to be a bakery. It is big and plain, with lots of floor space, built for boys. It always smells like popcorn, and there’s a pile of men’s and boys’ beat-up, ratty tennis shoes by the door. Four guys add up to a lot of shoes.

  The only proof that Mrs. Bozelli lives here is the fancy umbrella stand with a drawing of a woman in the rain on it. It’s just about the only feminine touch in the whole place. I barge right in and throw down my purse. This loft is like my second home, but it’s changed since I went to boarding school.

  “Nice.” I look around. The Bozellis painted the living room bright red and added big, soft, overstuffed chairs and a sofa, covered in white washable canvas slipcovers.

  “Mom said she couldn’t take it anymore. She needed a change. All of a sudden she wants nice things, now that we’re all teenagers.”

  “Can’t blame her.”

  “You want a soda?”

  “Sure.” I sit down on the washable slipcovers and can actually smell the bleach. “How were your cousins?”

  “They have a sailboat. We went out on Long Island Sound.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Not really. My uncle Bill assigns everybody a job. It’s not like you can sit and enjoy the view. I was in charge of wrapping these giant ropes that secure the sail. And then, when you’re sailing, you have to keep adjusting them or the thing will tip over.” Andrew looks at me. “Okay, so tell me what’s going on.”

  “Caitlin and Maurice are over at my house right now with my mom. Maurice is teaching Mom how to make scones for proper tea.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Caitlin told her mom that she’s with me.”

  Andrew thinks for a moment. “You realize this will never work.” Andrew pulls a cold bottle of Stewart’s cream soda (my fave) from the fridge and hands it to me.

  “I know I said I didn’t have a job this summer—but now I do. I’m in the unpaid position of keeping Caitlin and Maurice’s dates a secret.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. They’ll probably break up before Mrs. Pullapilly finds out about it. Anything that happens this fast is doomed to failure. Maurice is only here till the end of summer.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Time is not an obstacle for true love. We were on the roof, and I swear when they looked at each other, it cued the doves to start cooing. This is for real. They’re soul mates.”

  “That’s something girls made up to make guys stick around.”

  “I’m mildly insulted.” I take a swig of my soda.

  “Olivia used to say that we were soul mates. First of all, my soul doesn’t have a mate, nor can it date. I kind of resented it every time she said it. It didn’t make me feel good, it freaked me out—like there was some other parallel universe involved in having a girlfriend and going out for pizza and going to movies.”

  “That might be true for you. But it’s not for Caitlin. I’m telling you, it was like that mysterious marshmallow-scented steam that comes up out of the manholes that nobody can quite figure out—like a fog came up the side of our building and drugged them.”

  Andrew says, “Wait and see how it plays out.”

  I can always tell when Andrew is done with a topic. “You want to go to the Village?”

  “If we don’t go shopping.”

  “We can go over to Hudson River Park.”

  “Great.”

  Andrew grabs his keys. He texts his mom and I text mine to tell them our plans. One of the best things about having a lifelong BFFAA in Andrew is that my parents don’t freak out when I want to go somewhere with a boy. I don’t know what I’d do if I were Caitlin. I don’t know what I’d do if my parents were suspicious of me and my friends. I hope I never have to find out.

  Here’s the crazy thing about our new British tenants: They totally fit in. I don’t mind Maurice showing up for breakfast, and my parents like it when Mr. Longfellow stops by for a glass of wine after rehearsal. Mom breaks out the Italian cheeses and salami. They sit around and talk about all kinds of stuff, while Maurice and I hang out in the living room texting our friends.

  Mom has become an expert scone maker. She even went to Cobble Hill and picked up special tea and jams. Maurice feels bad that Mom goes to so much trouble. He said all he needs is a pot of tea and a biscuit or two, nothing fancy. (Biscuits are cookies.) But Mom loves a culinary challenge, not to mention anything that expands her international horizons, so for now, she’s into proper tea for our temporary guests.

  I’ve learned a few things about tea since the Longfellows moved in. Never squeeze the tea bag into the cup; it turns the tea bitter. There’s no fancy way to make tea. Maurice makes the tea in Mom’s old pot with plain old bags of English Breakfast and boiling water. Lemon and honey are better choices than milk and sugar.

  “Hi, guys.” Caitlin comes into the kitchen with a bag from the grocery store. “Clotted cream for you, Mrs. Chesterton.”

  “Thanks, Caitlin.” Mom puts on her oven mitts and takes the baking pan of scones out of the oven. Maurice smiles at Caitlin, and she smiles back. I fade into the wallpaper like a cabbage rose in the pattern.

  “You know, I’d love to invite your mom over for tea sometime.” Mom slides the puffy scones off the tray with a spatula and onto one of the platters from Grand’s wedding china (first marriage).

  “She’s very busy,” Caitlin says quietly. “With her job.”

  “Is she going to take any time off this summer?”

  “We go to Woodstock and rent a house for two weeks when Dad takes off.”

  “How nice.” Mom spoons the jam into a small bowl.

  Mom’s invitation for Mrs. Pullapilly to join us was like a sudden storm cloud covering the sun and turning the afternoon dark as night. Maurice, who knows by now that there are rules regarding Caitlin, busies himself pouring tea, as I gather the sugar and cream.

  “It’ll just be us for now,” I chirp, hoping to break the mood. I slather the clotted cream on the scone and take a bite. “Mom, let’s move to England!”

  Caitlin
and Maurice laugh, and for a moment, we aren’t thinking about anything but scones; we’re just having fun.

  I give Maurice a MetroCard. The sooner he’s comfortable getting around on the subway, the better. He will need to meet his dad after rehearsal (it’s not held in the theater in which the play will run), and I don’t want to spend the summer taking Maurice everywhere he needs to go. I give him a map. “So you take the Q to Times Square. And then you go to the rehearsal space at Forty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue.”

  “I got it.” He turns to Caitlin. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  Caitlin watches Maurice go down the stairs to the subway.

  “I’ll walk you home,” I tell her. “Are you going to tell your mom about Maurice?”

  “He’s only here for the summer.”

  “Good point.”

  “I mean, if he went to LaGuardia and I felt like this, I might have to tell her. But Maurice will only be here until the end of August, and I think it’s best if I don’t say anything.”

  “Whatever you want to do is fine with me,” I tell her.

  And then, for the rest of the ten-block walk, we don’t say a word. In all the years I’ve been friends with Caitlin, we never ran out of things to say. But today is different. Please don’t let Caitlin be one of those girls who changes when she likes a boy. I don’t think I could take it.

  In honor of the old days, when Andrew and I would make movies about whatever random subjects we liked, we’ve decided to take our cameras to Coney Island to make a short documentary about Mermaid Day. A regular trip to Coney Island on any summer day is always fun, but on Mermaid Day, it’s an experience.

  MD truly is, next to Christmas, my favorite annual holiday.

  Every third Saturday in June since anyone can remember, mermaids have invaded the boardwalk on Coney Island and held a parade. It’s the official kickoff for the summer beach season.

  Mortals, women dressed up as mermaids, come from everywhere to honor the goddesses of the sea. They are swathed in gold lamé, wear serpentine wigs with sprayed curls, and every single one has a version of a tail fin as part of her costume. They paint their faces in sea colors and wear wild net headdresses and drippy earrings and necklaces made of heaps of pearls and branches of coral.

  The mermaids are all ages, from babies to grandmothers. There are even families of mermaids. Mothers push their babies in strollers, swaddled in sequined costumes. They promenade down the boardwalk to island music, lifting their dazzling fins held up by invisible wires. It is street theater.

  Crowds of onlookers, including my friends and me, come from all the boroughs to watch the parade. There are floats with mermaids nestled in giant seashells, and tableaus of mythic sea gods brought to life.

  It’s a filmmaker’s dream, color and story in one fabulous parade. After the parade is done, a queen is crowned, then the boardwalk turns into a carnival. We eat pierogis, play games, and wait on long, long lines to go on the ancient wooden roller coaster, aka the Cyclone. If you’re lucky, you get to share your seat with a mermaid.

  Andrew, Caitlin, Maurice, and I take the Q train from our stop to Stillwell Avenue. It is packed, standing room only. Andrew and I stand and grip the metal poles for balance, as our video cameras in their cases hang safely around our necks. Maurice stands next to Caitlin, whom he scored a seat for. I am not surprised. Maurice has the best manners on earth, and not just because he’s British. He’s been raised well, Grand says. He is a total gentleman and he treats Caitlin delicately—like a fine bone china teacup.

  “Yo, scootch over.” An old Italian man in a linen jacket gives Maurice the elbow, then grabs the bar over the seats.

  “Pardon me?” Maurice says to the man.

  “I said, yo, scootch over. I need some space here.”

  “Oh yes, right, right,” Maurice says, making room for the man.

  The crowded train is a challenge for genteel Maurice. Proper English manners don’t exist on the Q. Maurice is being poked and shoved, and the passengers never say excuse me. Maurice is experiencing the end of civility with one ride to Coney Island.

  Maurice is the kind of boy who behaves a certain way to impress a girl. When the train stopped and the doors opened, Maurice boarded the train first, surveyed it, and found a seat for Caitlin. He asked a lady to move her shopping bag to make room for Caitlin. I think the British accent threw her, so she moved the bag quickly. Americans still take orders from the Brits, at least when it comes to seat hogging.

  Andrew can’t believe that Caitlin and Maurice are an item. It’s only been a few days, and no way Andrew believes in love at first sight. He told me he thought that it was impossible to know you like someone after one night of take-out and talking, and a few afternoon teas with scones. Sometimes Andrew is way too practical for his own good.

  The train shakes from side to side as it takes a curve. I am thrown up against Andrew. He grabs me before I fall and steadies me. “You’ve gotta get your sea legs back.”

  “You got that right.” I haven’t ridden the subway for a year, and I’ve totally lost my sense of balance and technique. I used to be able to ride the curves and bumps like a surfer, without holding the bar. Now I grip it with both hands. I don’t remember the train being so loud, either.

  Maurice takes Caitlin’s hand. Andrew looks at them, and then he looks at me. I shrug. No law against hand holding when you’re fifteen and riding the Q.

  “Have you heard from that guy?” Andrew asks.

  “What guy?”

  “You know.” Andrew looks out the window to the dark walls of the train tunnel. Oh, I get it; he sees Maurice and Caitlin holding hands and it reminded him of all my emails about Jared Spencer. “That guy from the military academy.”

  “Jared Spencer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He sent out a group email to all of his friends to tell them that he was going hiking in the Grand Canyon for summer vacation. No personal note or anything. I was part of the bundle.”

  “Nice.” Andrew rolls his eyes.

  “That’s what I thought. I’m pretty special, aren’t I?”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  “Not totally.” After all, I did date Jared for a whole semester and through one entire Christmas break. We shared a total of eight kisses, six hand holdings, two tickets to a one-woman theater show, and one holiday gift exchange. He was a good boyfriend until the Midwest Secondary School Film Competition, where he went all weird on me. But all in all, as far as boys, conversation, compliments, and mutual interests go, he was actually okay.

  “Don’t defend him.” Andrew’s eyes go squinty, and he gets a look on his face that he gets whenever he’s annoyed. It’s the same expression he’d get when we were six and a mean kid would come along and smash his sand castle at the playground in Prospect Park or when a kid did the same thing to me. No friend is more loyal than Andrew Bozelli. “You deserve better than Jared Spencer. That guy was rude to you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I get boys. Totally.” At least I did when Suzanne Santry was around. Now? Not so sure.

  “You think you do.” Andrew smiles.

  “Hey, I’m a matchmaker. Look at my handiwork.”

  Caitlin whispers in Maurice’s ear. He laughs.

  “And this was tough—an international hook-up,” I tell him.

  Maurice and Caitlin talk nonstop, utterly fascinated with each other. Talk about a connection. They remind me of a story Marisol gave me to read at Prefect about a couple of monks, who lived in silence and saved up their words for ten years, and finally, when they got a chance to talk again, they couldn’t stop. Caitlin was never this chatty, she was more the listening type, but Maurice has changed all that.

  “Okay, maybe you’re smart about other people. But when it comes down to you, you don’t get it. That guy Jared was jealous of you.”

  “I broke up with him. So now he doesn’t have a reason to be jealous.”

  “Here’s the deal. You’
re a better filmmaker than he is, so he used you to make himself better.”

  “Oh, like Olivia Olson didn’t totally control you?” I snark.

  Andrew’s face flushes red with embarrassment.

  “Olivia overhauled everything about you. You even wear Americana jeans now. What happened to the Gap?”

  “It’s still there,” he grumbles.

  “Don’t get me wrong, you look good.”

  Andrew smiles at the compliment.

  “She did a good job. Olivia is a great boyfriend stylist.”

  The door opens onto the crowded platform at Stillwell Avenue. Mermaid Day really brings out the crowds. I holler to Caitlin to hang on to Maurice, but no worries, they are still holding hands. I give Andrew a nudge so he checks out the hand holding. He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say a word. We work our way through the crowds from the platform to the boardwalk. I lift my camera out of the case, flip the lens cap, and begin to film the pre-parade chaos.

  I stand in the center of the throng as they move toward the boardwalk. I hold up my camera and do a 360 of the crowd, an improvised over-the-head shot, with a steady hand. A father with his three-year-old daughter dressed as a mermaid in a pink sequined costume with gold net fins pushes through.

  “Mermaid on board,” he shouts.

  I go in for a close-up of the little girl. She grins for the camera. I flip the shutter speed to slow and film her in midair as she perches on her dad’s shoulders against the pristine blue sky.

  “Nice shot,” Andrew says.

  “Thanks.”

  Andrew leads us to the edge of the boardwalk. We push to the front to get a good view of the mermaid parade. “You get the walkers, I’ll get the floats. Okay?” Andrew asks.

  “Great.”

  “We’ll edit it all together later.”

  “Have you made a movie together before?” Maurice asks.

  “Sometimes.” Andrew shrugs.

  “Viola keeps a video diary too. She has since she was a little girl,” Caitlin says proudly. “She made a short-subject movie already. It won an award in the Midwest.”

  “You should show my father sometime. He would like to see your work,” Maurice says.