Viola in the Spotlight

by Adriana Trigiani

  “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.”

  “You have to talk to him about it,” Marisol reasons.

  “It’s too awkward now. Totally weird. He’s turned into a boy. He brags about all these girls at camp who are after him. I expect this kind of thing out of guys like Jared Spencer, but not Andrew.”

  “Well, let’s not let Andrew and his weird self ruin our trip to New York City,” Romy says practically. “This is a big deal that we’re all coming. We need our time together, because when the fall comes, we are one girl short in our quad.”

  “I know,” I groan.

  “If Andrew wants to behave himself and be your BF and our BF once removed, then he’s welcome. But if he can’t hack it—then he’s out. Agreed?” Suzanne says.

  I take down Marisol’s train information, Romy’s aunt’s cell number, and Suzanne’s ETA in the car with her parents. We click out of the iChat, and as the screen goes to black, so does my mood.

  The most difficult thing about Andrew and me is that I’ve lost him for good. If I had a problem with a boy, or a crush that went unrequited, when I needed to talk about it, it was Andrew I would turn to. I don’t feel like I have my BFFAA to talk to anymore, and this is the great loss of the summer of 2010.

  NINE

  IT’S BEEN RAINING FOR DAYS. I HOPE IT CLEARS UP soon. I don’t want anything to ruin the Prefect Academy Quad Reunion. I walked Cleo through the downpour, which, in the heat of August in New York City, is like walking a dog when it’s raining consommé. When the raindrops hit the sidewalk, they actually steam.

  Julius Ross had a billion errands for me to run during previews, which are the two weeks of performances that precede opening night. This is when the technicians and the actors get the final kinks out of the show, with a live audience. A few days before opening night, the critics come to review the play, and run what they’ve written on the morning after opening night.

  Grand and George, so used to performing the play from the long run in Ohio before it moved to Broadway, have jitters, but they aren’t as bad as they would be if they hadn’t had the regional run. They are pretty calm for a couple of actors in an important revival about to be reviewed by every newspaper, magazine, and blog.

  It’s three hours until curtain for the critics’ review, but I know where to find Grand. She makes it a habit to arrive at the theater early, to prepare slowly and make her face up methodically before the show. There are all kinds of actors, and Grand is the prepared type.

  Backstage, the scent of hair spray from the wigs and starch from the costume room wafts through. It has the scent of the corner at the intersection of Fern and Maple in Bay Ridge, where the Wang Chinese Laundry is next door to the Lynne Watkins Beauty Shop. I take the stairs up to Grand’s dressing room.

  Grand sits with her face in her hands in front of her makeup mirror. The lightbulbs around the mirror are round and bright, like a row of suns. They’re as bright as the light they use at the dermatologist’s office. “Come in, hon,” Grand says.

  “Wow. Roses.” A lush arrangement of flowers with a small glass charm of a bottle marked POISON sits on the makeup table.

  The card says, Knock ’em dead, which is hilarious, because Grand spends the play poisoning unsuspecting men.

  “From Daryl Roth,” Grand says. “Class act. And I can’t say that too often about producers I have known.”

  “You okay?”

  “Oh, your grand is just a little blue.” She smiles, the opposite of blue.

  “Why? You open in three days.”

  “I know. And I feel this is as solid a show as I’ve ever been in.”

  “So what’s the problem?” I sit down in the chair next to Grand.

  “I was thinking this might be the last time I’m in a show on Broadway, and I get a little wistful thinking about my life and my career, and the plays I’ve done. The roles I’ll never do. There’s less ahead for me than behind me, and you know, that’s a…bummer.”

  “You’re worried about death?” I can’t believe it. It’s strange for my grandmother, who immerses herself in life, to think about death, and worse, to let it bother her. But this is the actor’s life; it’s loaded with drama—or maybe just dramatic thoughts.

  “No, no. Just thinking about when I won’t be able to act anymore. And maybe this is it. The swan song, and you know, nobody told me. I just got lucky at this stage of my life, and this role came to me. I have lots of friends who aren’t working, and a few who will never work again. And certainly not on Broadway.”

  “Grand, you’ve been saying this for years. You aren’t upset about the passing of time, you’re just dealing with all the actor stuff. Do you know a single actor who believes she gets the roles she should be getting?”

  “Not one. We are grousers and complainers.”

  “But you have no reason to be sad. You’re about to open on Broadway.”

  “I know. But it’s been twelve long years since I’ve been on Broadway.”

  “And, it’s not like you’ve been sitting around. You did a bunch of plays in regional theater. One after another. Really good parts. And what about that film role—you were a chef in Julie and Julia.”

  “Oh, that was nothing. A drive-by.”

  “You were good.”

  “Thank you, honey. Movies are nice, but there’s nothing like the theater. Movies are like unrequited love; you play the part imagining you might reach someone, and when you play a part in the theater, you know. The audience tells you everything. You have a partner.”

  “So, okay, good. Chin up already. This is not the last stop in your career. Think about all those actresses that you admire who worked until they were much older than you.”

  “Who?”

  “Helen Hayes and Claudette Colbert.”

  “Good point.”

  “And don’t forget Lauren Bacall. She’s still at it. Why not you? Don’t limit yourself. You have many, many shows ahead of you. And someday, I want to direct you in a great play. So you can’t quit until my dream comes true.”

  Grand looks into the mirror. Her blue eyes go steely and she squints. This is the look she gets when she’s in the kitchen mastering a new recipe, or when she does Malibu Pilates. “Now, that’s a goal. You and me. Together. Working on a play. The baton passed from grandmother to granddaughter. It’s brilliant, and we haven’t even chosen the play.” Grand looks at me and smiles. “But we will.”

  Grand sponges makeup onto her face in small dabs, until the surface is as smooth as marble. She takes a small angled brush and, with tiny strokes, changes her blond eyebrows to white. She takes a palette of blu
e and one of gray and, swirling it, gives herself half-moon bags under each eye. I watch as her face ages with powder and paint, and she becomes Aunt Martha, half of the killer spinster sisters in Arsenic and Old Lace.

  “You know what?”

  Grand looks at me. “What?”

  “You finally look like a real grandmother.”

  Grand looks in the mirror, and then looks at me. “And you’ve been waiting for that?”

  “All my life.”

  And then, we do what we always do. We laugh and laugh.

  I slip down the stairs from Grand’s dressing room to backstage. Maurice and Caitlin stand inside the backstage door.

  “You want to watch the show with me?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Caitlin says.

  “I’ve got to run an errand for Dad.” Maurice looks at his watch.

  “We’ll be in the light booth,” I tell him.

  It’s been difficult to get any time alone with Caitlin, and we need to talk. As we enter the cold theater, I exhale a sigh of relief. Now I’ll be able to tell her what I have been meaning to say all summer.

  “Caitlin…,” I begin.

  “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “I don’t think you do,” I whisper as we climb up the work stairs to the lighting booth.

  “You’re going to tell me to be careful, not to get caught with Maurice.” I’ve never heard this tone of snark before coming from Caitlin, so I stop and look at her.

  “No. I was going to say, you need to tell your parents about Maurice. He’s leaving for England, anyway—so this is a good time to tell them you’ve met a nice boy and you like him.”

  “You can say those kinds of things to your parents, but I can’t to mine. They would be disappointed in me.”

  “You won’t know unless you tell them.”

  “I never will, so please don’t ask me to.” Caitlin’s eyes fill with tears. “I need to keep this secret…and I’m asking you to do the same for me.”

  “Okay, okay,” I tell her. I didn’t mean to make Caitlin cry, but this is certainly a sign of exactly how important Maurice is to her. “I’m sorry.”