Viola in the Spotlight

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Remain calm,” Andrew says, in a way that helps me catch my breath as my heart races. But somehow, even his soothing words can’t change the situation. No, I have a feeling this is The Showdown of the Summer of 2010, and there’s no turning back.

  ELEVEN

  MRS. PULLAPILLY WALKS AT A CLIP TOWARD SHAKESPEARE’S. Maybe she’s going to the bodega for a soda and doesn’t even see me, or maybe she’s got an appointment around here, business of some sort, or maybe she likes the coffee bean shop that sells exotic beans from South America, and she’s just coincidentally in the hood. Right.

  I look away from her and search the streets in the opposite direction, hoping to see Caitlin, by some miracle, without Maurice. I’m hoping if they took the bus, they’ll see us first, and then Mrs. P, and just keep on riding.

  Or maybe there is still a way to warn them.

  I text Maurice. Again.

  Me: Mrs. P at restaurant. Do not come here.

  “Did you know she was coming?” Andrew says in my ear.

  “No way,” I whisper back.

  “Maybe Caitlin invited her.”

  “Look at her face. That’s not the expression of a happy mother coming to join her daughter for a hamburger to meet the boyfriend she doesn’t know exists. We have to do something.”

  Mrs. Pullapilly, with her tawny skin and shiny black hair pulled up high in a ponytail, is very beautiful. However, when she’s angry, she’s scary, the opposite of pretty. Her black eyes dart around the street; she looks at the faces of strangers, hoping to find Caitlin’s in the crowd.

  The wave of panic that shadows Mrs. P’s face makes me feel sorry for her for just a moment. It reminds me of when my mom and I got separated at Madison Square Garden at a Norah Jones concert. I could see Mom but she couldn’t hear me, and the look on her face was pure panic, just like Mrs. P’s is right now.

  Andrew places his napkin on the table. “I’ll go and find Caitlin and Maurice and head them off.”

  Mrs. P catches my eye. I wave to her with a big, fake smile. “Too late. She saw me.”

  “Who?” Suzanne asks.

  “Caitlin’s mother.”

  “Whoa,” Romy says, piecing together the present moment with all the talks we’ve had about Caitlin and Maurice and their forbidden cross-cultural, intercontinental romance.

  “How does she know we’re here?” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Mothers have radar,” Suzanne whispers.

  My roommates can see from my expression that the worst possible thing has happened. But they are loyal and they have my back, so they go into smiley/peppy/chatty mode to cover for what I have been forced to hide all summer. Friends are good for that—we are tighter than the basket weave on the leather tote Grand gave me for walking Cleo all summer.

  Mrs. P walks right up to our table and plants herself outside the fence line that cordons off the tables from the interior of Shakespeare’s and the rest of the sidewalk.

  “Hello, Mrs. P!” I chirp.

  “Where’s Caitlin?” She folds her hands across her chest, as if to contain her anger.

  “She’s going to meet us here.”

  “Your mother told me you would be here.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.” And I hope her boyfriend got the text, I’m thinking.

  “Caitlin told me she was going to work today.” Mrs. P has slung her briefcase on a long strap across her back. I’m sure the last thing she wanted to do was leave her own work to chase down Caitlin. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t,” I tell her.

  Mrs. P continues, “I went to Dr. Balu’s, and he said she took off all of last week and today. But Caitlin didn’t tell me.”

  Andrew gently kicks me under the table to remind me not to volunteer further information. But here’s the thing: I had no idea that Caitlin skipped work. It turns out she’s been telling me tales too. Either she really loves Maurice or she is determined to be shipped back to India for their version of convent school. Either way, this isn’t good. But maybe all is not lost, maybe Mrs. P doesn’t know everything. Mrs. P has a lot of facts, but she’s also fishing. I’m going to do my best to continue to cover for Caitlin.

  “Oh, well, see, my roommates are in town, and we invited her to come with us to tour the city. Maybe she forgot….”

  Mrs. Pullapilly’s eyes narrow. “Caitlin does not forget. Where is she now?”

  “We were at the zoo. She said she was going to meet us here.” I try to sound breezy.

  “You left her alone in the park?” Mrs. P’s eyes narrow even more.

  My roommates, especially Marisol, begins to crack under this pressure. Marisol looks around and tries to smooth over the situation. “She should be here any minute.”

  Andrew stands.

  “Sit down, Andrew,” Mrs. Pullapilly says. “It’s too late. You cannot warn her.”

  “Warn her?” He sits back down.

  “I know about the boy,” Mrs. Pullapilly says.

  “The boy?” Andrew acts surprised at the mention of a boy.

  “The British boy. Dr. Balu’s assistant told me that he waits for her after work, and that he has been there every day for weeks. That was, of course, when she was still showing up for work.”

  “Oh, Dr. Balu has it all wrong,” I tell her. “We’re all just friends. The whole group of us. Maurice is the son of the Broadway director who’s in charge of Grand’s play.”

  “Oh, so Caitlin hasn’t been seeing this boy alone?”

  “No. I see more of him than she does.”

  “Of course, he lives at the apartment at the Chestertons’,” Marisol says.

  I give her a look that says, Not helpful.

  Mrs. Pullapilly places her hands on her hips. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other as if to count the moments until Caitlin and Maurice arrive and my lie blows up like the steam coming out of the manhole on Greene Street.

  “Viola, I’m very disappointed in you. When you lie for someone, it is worse than doing the bad deed.”

  My roommates look at one another. I’m embarrassed. I want to say something, but I can’t. Instead, my throat closes and tears sting my eyes. I quickly wipe the tears away.

  Mrs. P could care less that I feel bad. She is so angry I could see her standing on the sidewalk for hours until Caitlin shows up. She turns around and cranes her neck to look over the crowd, hoping to see her daughter. Then she turns back to us.

  We all feel guilty as we sit in silence.

  I look at Andrew, whose eyes widen as he focuses on Bleecker Street. Quickly, he reads the menu as if to study it, but it is too late. Mrs. P caught his reflection in the window and saw that Andrew noticed something. So she moves to the end of the fence, and at last, she sees Caitlin and Maurice, arm in arm, walking toward the restaurant. Her face goes to sheer relief and then back to stoic anger in three seconds flat.

  Caitlin and Maurice do not see Mrs. Pullapilly. As usual, they are in their own world, with eyes, ears, and hearts only for each other.

  My stomach churns as Mrs. P gets a good eyeful of what I’ve been seeing all summer. Caitlin’s face is the picture of pure happiness, and Maurice is in bliss. Even if they wanted to hide their true feelings, it would be impossible.

  As Caitlin and Maurice enter the fenced area of the restaurant, Caitlin sees us at our table and waves to us. Then she sees her mother. Caitlin’s face is stricken with fear. She quickly removes her arm from around Maurice’s waist, but he does not remove his from hers (worse!).

  “Caitlin. Come here. Now,” Mrs. P says loudly. Her voice echoes through the café. Heads turn.

  Maurice is confused, until he lays eyes on Mrs. Pullapilly, and then he gets it. Caitlin pivots and comes out of the fenced-in area and joins her mother on the sidewalk. Maurice turns to follow her, and she turns back to him and says, “No.”

  Maurice honors Caitlin’s request, but he’s not happy about it. I try to stand up to explain wha
t is going on, but Suzanne pulls me back down into my seat.

  Mrs. Pullapilly takes Caitlin by the elbow, and without a good-bye, she hustles her down the street, back to the subway. I watch them disappear down the stairs.

  “That woman!” Maurice is furious.

  “Caitlin’s been skipping work?”

  “So?”

  “So, Dr. Balu narced. And Mrs. Pullapilly is furious.”

  “I’ll just explain everything to Mrs. Pullapilly,” Maurice says.

  “It’s too late! She knows we lied. That’s the last time you’ll see Caitlin. Mrs. Pullapilly will see to it.”

  “And Caitlin will see to it that we do.” Maurice practically sneers.

  “Good luck,” I tell him. Maurice is stubborn, superior, and in a strange way, exactly like Mrs. Pullapilly. “Not happening,” I tell him.

  “She’ll run away with me,” he says.

  I throw my hands up. “Now there’s a plan. Maurice, you’re going back to England. Caitlin has school—and no electronics, no BlackBerry, no phone, except the one her parents gave her—and they check it. She barely emails unless it’s schoolwork. How did you think this was going to work?”

  “Love finds a way,” Maurice says.

  I make a mental note that boys, when confronted about anything, respond with a catch-all phrase that describes their feelings, instead of actually saying what they’re feeling. Very annoying.

  “You never know. Maybe Mrs. Pullapilly will calm down and listen to reason,” Romy says.

  “Dream on.” Suzanne snaps a breadstick in half and bites it.

  “I think it’s the heat.” Romy fans herself. “A little.”

  “We’re not doing anything wrong,” Maurice says defensively.

  “Maurice, you don’t get it,” Andrew says calmly. “Caitlin is allowed to hang with us because her parents trust Viola and me. We’ve earned their trust.”

  “It took us years,” I assure Maurice.

  “I’m going to go and explain this to the Pullapillys.” Maurice gets up and walks toward the subway.

  “Maurice!” I call after him, but he ignores me.

  The food comes, but I can’t eat. I feel horrible for Caitlin. She was actually beginning to be a normal teenager this summer. We could see signs that the Pullapillys trusted her and that things were changing. Andrew and I felt welcome in their home. Mrs. P was great about letting Caitlin come with Andrew and me to Mermaid Day and into the city. Now all the good will we built has been ruined.

  This is all my fault. I knew this would end in disaster. I know Caitlin and her family; I should have insisted that Caitlin tell her mom and dad that she liked Maurice and hoped to spend time with him. After all, they welcome Andrew into their home and he’s a boy. Maybe they would have done the same with Maurice.

  I should have listened to my mother! I knew there was trouble ahead when Caitlin and Andrew rode off in the train the night they were supposed to have dinner with me.

  They seemed doomed to me, even then. As for opening night on Broadway, the plans I made with my roomies and my homies were just too good to be true. What were the chances that Grand would have a show opening on Broadway and that I would be able to host all my friends together for one night? This opportunity will never come our way again. I was determined to merge my life from Prefect with my life in Brooklyn. Sometimes when you get exactly what you want, it’s the worst possible thing that could happen.

  What a summer.

  Andrew miss-kissed me, Caitlin was taken prisoner, and my roomies’ vacation to NYC turned into a major drama. Maybe this is what happens when you turn fifteen. We’re too young to do what we want, and too old to ask permission for every little thing.

  Suzanne, Romy, and Marisol gather around the Avid in my parents’ office.

  “Okay, remember, this is just raw footage,” I remind them.

  I hit Play and run the video.

  Scenes from their visit roll out in all their summer beauty.

  The girls laugh at their arrival in Bay Ridge.

  Andrew hams it up on the Staten Island Ferry. I got an excellent angle on the Statue of Liberty as we passed. I held the shot steady as the waves on the Hudson River jostled us.

  The panoramic sweep from the top of the Empire State Building is magnificent. The clear blue sky behind the black and gray buildings is a palette from a painting.

  The zoo footage is hilarious. A seal practically snaps Marisol’s hand off when she tries to feed him a sardine. I lined up the girls on the swings and shot them swinging in a row. The most beautiful shots of the bridge and the lake in Central Park are poignant because of Mr. and Mrs. Santry. You can see how much they love each other. The lighting was just right, a soft peach tone, to capture the summer day.

  I have a lot to work with.

  “Well, it’s a start,” I tell them.

  “Are you kidding? It’s already fabulous,” Marisol says.

  “It will be, once I make a story out of it.”

  “You get better every time you film something,” Romy marvels.

  “Thanks.”

  Suzanne doesn’t say anything. Marisol, Romy, and I look to her. She stares at the screen, and at the image of her dad and mom, frozen on the lake in Central Park. They are in a canoe. Without the wheelchair, Mr. Santry looks completely normal—any man and his wife on the lake on a summer day.

  Romy looks at me. Marisol nudges me. I take the hint.

  “Okay, who needs ice cream?” I say.

  “Let’s go!” Romy says.

  We grab Suzanne and head down the stairs to the kitchen. It’s important to be happy when you can be, because as surely as we’re having fun, we know that sadness is lurking around the corner like a night shadow.

  Grand says it’s true of the craft of acting, and just living: Stay in the moment.

  It’s the morning of opening night. I wake up with butterflies in my stomach. I can only imagine Grand and George and Mary Pat Gleason and the rest of the cast. They must be nervous wrecks.

  My roomies are exhausted and sleeping in. Walking New York City from the Apollo Theater to Wall Street really wore them out. I’m used to the long walks because of Cleo. I think I built up some leg muscles this summer.

  I tiptoe out of my room, careful not to wake them.

  Mom called Mrs. Pullapilly, to try to explain my side of things, but to no avail. Maurice has not left the apartment downstairs, and it looks like he is going to skip opening night altogether, unless, of course, I can figure something out.

  I go down the front stairs, and down the hallway to the kitchen. Mr. Santry is having breakfast. Mrs. Santry is making toast.

  “Good morning.”

  Mr. Santry looks up from the newspaper. “Your face says the opposite of ‘good morning.’”

  “Still no word from Caitlin?” Mrs. Santry asks.

  “Nope.” I pour myself a cup of orange juice and sit down at the table with them. “I’m sorry that you came to New York and endured the Caitlin and Maurice version of West Side Story.”

  “That would have been entertaining. The real thing, not so much.” Mr. Santry looks at me. “We feel bad for you. For everybody.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Mrs. Santry asks.

  “I don’t think so. Mom called, and it didn’t do a bit of good.”

  “You know her parents will eventually forgive Caitlin,” Mr. Santry says.

  “Yeah, maybe. In twenty years. I had no idea Caitlin was lying about work. I think that’s what hurt Mrs. Pullapilly the most. The boyfriend is bad enough, but being irresponsible with her summer job? They really don’t go for that. But she just wanted time with Maurice.”

  “Well, it’s difficult.” Mrs. Santry looks at her husband. “When you’re in the midst of a crush or a new love, whatever you want to call it, reason goes out the window. That’s why we’ve told our sons and our daughter that you need to think when you meet someone new—don’t get caught up. I think that Caitlin and Maurice heard the t
icking of the clock….”

  “And it was a bomb.”

  Mr. Santry laughs. “What my wife is saying is that Caitlin and Maurice acted impulsively. Caitlin should have gone to her mother.”

  “I asked her to do that.”

  “And if she asked her mother’s permission and her mother said no, see, Caitlin would have had to abide by that.”

  “Caitlin didn’t ask her mom because there is no way her mother would have let her have one date, let alone—a daily date for six weeks.”

  “We get it,” Mrs. Santry says.

  “Viola, I think you should try to talk to Mrs. Pullapilly. The opening of a Broadway play is a big deal—and Caitlin should be with her friends tonight.”

  “You think she might hear me out?”

  “If you go to her with respect and if you stay calm, you might be surprised at how she responds.” Mr. Santry smiles.

  If I ever needed extra parents, and I don’t, I think I would choose the Santrys. Maybe because they had sons first, they have a very honest and open way of dealing with girl-boy relationships. The Santrys are reasonable parents.

  Caitlin is the eldest in her family, and she’s like a second mother to her brother and sister. It’s almost as though Mrs. P expects Caitlin to be mature when it comes to work, chores, and responsibilities, but stay twelve years old when it comes to boys. Caitlin is a great student, but she has to rank first in academics, violin, sports, and virtue. Who could live up to the pressure?

  No, give me the Santrys. They’re realistic. They let Suzanne work at the Dairy Queen, they don’t scare her about boys, and they advise her without making her feel like an idiot. They help her.

  Mom calls the Santry family “True Midwesterners.” She says it with respect, like being a Midwesterner is something to aim for. I think of pioneers, farms, and hard work when I think of the Midwest. They’re solid people with good values, but that’s not why I like them. I like them because they’re real and don’t act like every problem is the end of the world. I need to learn this kind of calm. After all, I’m a Brooklyn girl with a grandmother who is an actress. We know how to press the drama button.