Viola in the Spotlight

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Yo, kid.”

  I open my eyes to a burly old man.

  “Don’t be afraid. I work here at the theater. I think you fell asleep.”

  I grab my phone. It’s two o’clock! I was supposed to walk Cleo at noon and report back to Barry at the brownstone. The coffee cups are cold and right where I left them. I call my mom. Then I call Grand. No answer. I call Barry at the brownstone. Again, it goes to voice mail.

  This is my worst nightmare. I fell asleep in school when I was in the fifth grade, and the teacher let me sleep. I missed the whole day and have been paranoid about napping ever since. I want to cry, but the tears won’t come. I just feel that desperation that comes when you know you’ve missed the party and no one remembered to call you. I race out into the street and grab the crosstown bus to get to Grand’s. I get off and run down into the subway to ride uptown.

  I run up the subway stairs and out onto 81st Street. I run to Grand’s apartment. I wave at the doorman and dash into the elevator. When it opens onto Grand’s floor, I search my pockets for the keys, and as I put them in Grand’s door, I hear music coming from inside.

  “Grand?” I call out.

  She pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Oh, hi, Viola.” She’s annoyed with me.

  “I’m so sorry. I fell asleep at the theater waiting for Mr. Ross.”

  “Cleo had a little accident, but it’s okay,” Grand says in a tone that says it’s far from okay with her.

  “I meant to come over at noon.” Tears sting my eyes. Doesn’t she know that I rushed to get over here at all, once I realized what time it was?

  “Viola, when you take on a job, you have to be on time. There really is no excuse.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, but the tense expression on Grand’s face hasn’t left it even with my apology.

  “Your mother is expecting you at home. You should go,” Grand says frostily.

  “I’ll be here tomorrow at noon,” I promise.

  “I hope so,” Grand says, and goes back to her kitchen chores.

  I cry on and off on the subway all the way home to Brooklyn. Every once in a while, you see a woman crying on the subway and you wonder what could have possibly happened to make her so sad she’d cry in public in front of the other passengers. Now I know. When you’re so upset, you don’t care. You just weep, stop after blurry stop goes by, people come and people go as the doors open and close, and eventually, you’ve dried up every last tear, and all that’s left is a giant stuffed nose and throbbing headache. I suck at my new intern job, and Grand is mad at me about the dog walking. I’m a failure in every department, and I just started!

  “What happened to you?” Mom asks when I come into the kitchen.

  I explain the story and realize, in the telling, that it sounds so lame. But that’s me—full of excuses. I sound like an idiot.

  “You okay?” Dad asks as he comes in from the hallway lugging groceries. He takes milk from a D’Ag bag and loads it into the fridge.

  “She had a rough day. Fell asleep on the intern job.”

  “Oh boy,” Dad says.

  “Missed walking Cleo,” Mom says.

  “Well, when you get a job, you have to set priorities.” Dad looks at me. “You’re a conscientious girl, Viola. You always have been. I’m sure you’ll make it right.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. “Hi, Maurice.”

  “We’re stuck at the pier in Manhattan.”

  “What do you mean, stuck?”

  “The train is out of service. Can you call Mrs. Pullapilly and make up an excuse?”

  “You need to get back here.”

  “Tonight is the concert in Prospect Park. Just tell her that you and Caitlin are going straight there. You can meet us there.”

  “But I’m not going.”

  “Would you mind coming along with us tonight?”

  This is just great. After the worst day of my summer job life, I have to drag myself to Prospect Park for a free concert and third-wheel status. Nice. “I really need to get some rest so I can do my jobs….”

  “Just this once?” Maurice pleads.

  “All right, all right.” I hang up.

  “Everything okay?” Mom asks.

  “Just fine,” I lie.

  Andrew can’t come with me to the free concert because his dad has Yankee tickets. Of course there wasn’t an extra for me, so now I haven’t got an excuse to wiggle out of the concert. I stand on the corner of Prospect Avenue in front of the doughnut shop and wait for Caitlin and Maurice.

  After a few minutes, I see them coming toward me.

  “We had so much fun on the Staten Island Ferry!” Caitlin smiles. “How was your first day in the theater?”

  “Not great.”

  “Sorry.” Caitlin looks at Maurice. If I have a pet peeve, it’s when a girl is with a boy and she states an opinion and then looks at the guy for approval.

  “We had better hurry—we want to get good seats,” Maurice says. I follow them into the crowd at the entrance of the park. “You girls wait here while I get a program.”

  Caitlin watches Maurice go to the ticket stand.

  “Caitlin, I’m worried,” I tell her honestly.

  “Why?”

  “If your mom finds out that you’re seeing Maurice…”

  “But she won’t,” Caitlin says firmly. “If you don’t say anything, who else knows?”

  “That’s just my point. I don’t want to get in trouble. I have enough problems.”

  “I told my mother that I was staying over with you tonight.”

  “You can always stay over with me.”

  “Thanks.” Caitlin smiles.

  “But you have to tell your mom what’s going on. You don’t have to make a big deal out of it, just tell her that you like a boy.”

  “I can’t,” Caitlin says softly.

  “Maybe she’ll be nice about it.”

  “You know my mom.”

  Maurice returns with the programs. He gives one to Caitlin and one to me. I follow them into the park. Our seats are really just a marked-off area on the grass. Two blue flags indicate where we should sit. I sit down in the grass next to them as a band takes the stage. They’re called the Omega Fours, and they’re pretty lousy. But that would just figure.

  Turns out Mrs. P wouldn’t allow Caitlin to spend the night again, so I walked her home. Maurice is waiting on the stoop when I return.

  “You know, we could ride into the city together when we have to go to the theater.”

  “I have to go to Mr. Ross’s house in the Village first. If I didn’t get fired, that is.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “How’s the play going?” I take a seat.

  “Very difficult rehearsal today.”

  I think about Grand’s mood. Maybe she was more upset about work than my missing walking Cleo at noon. “What happened?”

  “Just one of those days when nothing works.”

  It has not dawned on me that Arsenic and Old Lace could flop. It did so well in the regionals, it’s a shoo-in to be a hit. “Is your dad worried?”

  “He’s always worried.” Maurice shrugs.

  “I guess there’s a certain amount of luck you need in the theater.”

  “Loads,” Maurice says.

  “So…are you looking forward to getting home to London?”

  “I don’t think about it,” Maurice says.

  “Caitlin will miss you.”

  “And I will miss her,” Maurice says softly. “I’m going to turn in.” He stands.

  We say good night. Maurice goes into the apartment through the downstairs entrance. As soon as I hear the door snap shut and bolt, I call Andrew.

  “How was the game?”

  “We lost. I’m in the car with my family.”

  “So you can’t talk?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, check you tomorrow,” I tell him.

  This is one endless summer—and disappointing Grand makes it feel twi
ce as long. After all she’s done for me, I should be more responsible with my time. I swear I will never miss walking Cleo again. There’s no groveling with Grand—I just have to earn her trust all over again (not easy).

  I hang up and stretch my legs down the front steps. When I was in Indiana, all I did was dream of home. And now that I’m here, all I do is think about how great it was when I had my roommates to share everything with, whether it was schoolwork or social—no matter what was going on, they were there for me. I realize that I can’t expect my friends to have missed me as much as I missed them, but I sure hoped that they would want to spend time with me again. Everything is different, and everything changed. I’m annoyed with myself that I didn’t see it coming. The only thing that will save this crappy summer is a visit from my roomies. I have to make that happen. If I don’t, I may lose my mind.

  SIX

  THE FINAL DAYS BEFORE THE FIRST PREVIEW OF A Broadway opening are always a tension convention. Grand gets nervous, and then day by day, before the actual opening night, she sheds her nerves and gets calm. “I rely on my technique as an actor,” she says. “It never fails me. Experience plus technique delivers a professional result.”

  Today, though, Grand might as well be fifteen. She’s having her final costume fitting. And now, the character comes to life in the mirror, and later, on the stage.

  “Okay, Coral, give me a full three-sixty…nice and slow.” The costume designer, Jess Goldstein, a trim, handsome professor type, watches as Grand turns in her costume, a vintage shirtwaist cotton dress in a floral pattern. Grand tightens the slim belt around her waist.

  “I know I’m playing older,” she says, “but I don’t have to play frumpy.”

  “I think I’m going to add an apron,” Jess says.

  “I need a pocket for my notepad and pencil—she records everything her sister asks her to do,” Grand explains.

  The costume shop is a sewing room with several ironing boards, a washer and dryer, a sewing machine, and a work table. Grand is standing on a pedestal modeling her costume in front of a three-way mirror.

  “Jess, what am I doing for shoes?”

  “Vintage Hush Puppies.” He smiles.

  “Oh, thank you! I’ll be so comfortable.”

  “Mary Pat is wearing the Cuban heel leather work shoe,” Jess explains.

  “Oh, I get the torture devices? Nice.” Mary Pat Gleason bounds into the costume shop. She has curly brown hair and a quick stride. She is pretty but has what is called a “character face,” which means she plays second leads and character roles. She has intense brown eyes that crinkle into half-moons when she smiles. And it seems like she’s always laughing and smiling—at least when I’m around.

  “I put gel soles in them,” Jess tells her wearily.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t take a joke?” Mary Pat slips into the shoes. “Like butter.”

  Jess is visibly relieved. He ties a starched white eyelet apron trimmed in blue around Grand’s waist. Grand looks at herself in the mirror. “I like it,” she says.

  Jess holds up his box of straight pins. “Okay, now I’m scared. You girls are way too agreeable.”

  “We’re in a hit. Why complain?” Mary Pat says.

  “Aren’t you superstitious?” I ask. Even I, a mere runner in the lighting department, know you’re never supposed to get cocky about success.

  “Look, I’ve been doing this work since Hector was a pup. And I’ve been in some real turkeys—such messes I called them tetrazzini. But this one? We got it nailed. It’s funny—and we’re good. Right, Coral?”

  “I’ll let the New York Times decide.”

  “Oh, them.” Mary Pat waves off the idea like a fat housefly. “You’ll see. This baby will run.”

  Andrew assembles a series of opening shots for our Mermaid Day movie. He purses his lips tightly and stares at the screen. The only sound is the soft shuffle of clicks he makes on the images.

  Mom and Dad have a small air conditioner in their office—not so much to keep them cool, but to keep the equipment cool. They are editing hundreds of hours of footage from their trip to Afghanistan. Renting the basement apartment to the Longfellows means that my dad didn’t have to take a second job this summer—and he and Mom can focus on finishing their documentary instead of having to pick up jobs filming events like the fireworks on the East River on the Fourth of July, or driving to reservoirs upstate to film the drought levels in Albany.

  A wipe-off board, covered with notes in Mom’s handwriting, hangs over her desk.

  Call Mary Murphy—news producer—has idea about sale

  Dianne Festa has sell reel—call end of August

  Disc 7—wobbly

  Adam: Bob Barnett reps book tie-in author

  Sometimes the things that Mom writes on the board stay up there for months. One of the first things I learned as a child, besides Never Wake Any Sleeping Family Member, was…Do not erase the board. Not ever. Never.

  Dad has a metal stand filled with discs marked by day and locale, and organized by group. Sometimes their cameras recorded ordinary days, and sometimes they followed a group of news reporters into the worst zones of conflict in the war. My parents are so lucky that they weren’t hurt. It makes me appreciate what they do even more. Someone is always filming the news on the television, and sometimes it’s my parents. I appreciate how hard their job is—and I hope that the network uses their documentary as a news special. Mom thinks they have a potential buyer, and that’s good news for us.

  I have had a desk in my parents’ work space since I was small. It started out kiddie size, and as I grew, so did the desk. Now I have one the size of my parents’ a farm table they found at a yard sale when we visited Dad’s family in Vermont.

  Maybe this is why I love to make movies and edit them: I have a place to work and the proper tools to execute my ideas. Mom and Dad always took my ideas seriously. Making movies and being with my parents were more fun to me than dolls, dressing up, or playing board games. My childhood play has now become my passion, or at least, that’s how it seems. I’m sure it’s the same for Andrew. We’ve always liked working in my parents’ office, because everything we need to cut videos is here. And it’s free. And no pesky Bozelli brothers bothering us. And then there’s the lunch.

  Mom brings a tray with thin-crust pepperoni pizza and Stewart’s root beer (a bottle for each of us) and puts it on a work table. “How about a break?”

  Andrew is syncing up the time codes on our Mermaid Day video. “Thanks, Mrs. C.”

  “How’s it going?” Mom looks over Andrew’s shoulder at the video monitor.

  “We’re getting there,” he says.

  “We’re trying to find the story in the parade. It’s coming off as just one flamboyant costume after another.”

  “That’s what Mermaid Day is,” Andrew says.

  “We still need a story.”

  “Sometimes you can let the images speak for themselves. They don’t need an over-veil. Just let the parade stand for what it is.”

  “See?” Andrew grins. “Your mom agrees with me.”

  “Don’t gang up,” I tell them as I click through to the steel drum band segment.

  Andrew wheels his chair over to the work table. “Come on, I’m starving.”

  Mom sits down with us. “So, Viola, I got an email from Marisol’s parents. You invited the girls for opening night? And you forgot to tell me?”

  “I just floated the idea out there. I didn’t think they could make it.”

  “Well, Marisol can. Her parents think it’s a great idea for her to see New York for the first time with us.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Well, you know opening nights are always a big deal for Grand. And we’ll be busy—but I think we can swing it. I want you to find out if Romy and Suzanne can make it. The sooner I know how many beds to prepare, the better.”

  Mom leaves the food and takes the tray and goes back downstairs.

  “You have the coole
st mom.”

  “I’m glad you’ll be back from camp for opening night.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Andrew and I roll our chairs back to the video monitors. He brings up the opening scene of the parade. I bring up my version, the scene with Olivia Olson across the boardwalk.

  “Olivia is truly beautiful.”

  “She’s all right.”

  Sometimes Andrew’s lack of enthusiasm is annoying. I can’t figure out why boys have to act like they don’t like a girl when they are actually into her. It makes no sense. So I take him on. “No, Andrew. She is beautiful. And even when you break up with a person, you should take something good away from it, even if it’s a surface thing—like an appreciation of her overwhelming and natural beauty.”

  “She’s not my type.”

  “She’s the only girlfriend you ever had. She is totally your type. You picked her. That makes her your type.”

  “I cannot be defined,” he says as he clicks away on his type pad.

  “Everyone can be defined.”

  “That just goes to show that you have no idea about me.”

  “What are you talking about? We’ve been best friends since kindergarten. I know everything about you.”

  “I don’t know everything about you.”

  “Really.”

  “Really. You’re a mystery to me.” Andrew keeps his eyes on the Avid.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re an enigma. One who cannot be understood. Let me give you an example. You flirted with Tag, and yet, you say you don’t want him.”

  “I flirt for practice.”

  “Oh.”

  “I hadn’t seen him in a year. And except for that email he sent to me at boarding school, I didn’t think he knew I was alive. He’s unattainable. Like Zac Efron. But that doesn’t stop every girl on the planet from wishing they could date him.”

  “Tag noticed you. He made a point to talk to you. That means something.”

  This observation of Andrew’s makes me smile.

  “See? You know it,” he says.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little crush.”

  “I don’t think so,” Andrew agrees.