I sign off and lock in the date.
The theater has the scent of buttery wax and fresh paint. I go onstage and face the audience. I close my eyes and imagine a stage filled with ballerinas or World War I soldiers or a 1930s dinner party where ladies wore gowns. I open my eyes. I wonder if this feeling I’m having right now is “the bug.” Grand always talks about when she was a girl and was bitten by the acting “bug”—as though it’s a virus that races through you and once it does, you’re never over it. And I think that might be true. Look at Grand. She’s in her sixties and she’s still got the “bug.” I wonder if I’ve caught it too.
I look up and squint past the glare of the work lights. In the rafters over the stage, where complicated skeins of pulleys and ropes, wires and beams that lift scenery and hold lighting instruments in place live, I see a flash of red.
Whatever I’m seeing sort of freaks me out. I’m not one to stand still when I’m freaking, so I move quickly across the stage in rapid small steps like a geisha. When I get to the stairs that lead into the audience, I quicken my pace. I grab my laptop and my backpack off the lip of the stage and head up the aisle to go out into the lobby.
“It’s only me,” a voice says.
I turn slowly, afraid of what I’ll see.
Mrs. Belldoin, the janitor, pushes her cart loaded with cleaning supplies through the stage door and onto the stage. When she sees me and the look on my face and the way I’m gripping my backpack like a pillow during a bad dream, she says, “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m okay.”
“You know we lock the building at eight,” she says.
“I know.” But instead of heading out the door I get some courage, mostly because Mrs. Belldoin could take any guy in a fight, and there’s nothing to fear when she’s around. So I walk to the downstage lip of the stage and look up, up through the ropes, pulleys, and wires, past the work lights, and into the grid. The flash of red is gone—but not the scent of perfume. That stays.
Dear Viola,
I called Aunt Naira about the possibility of the Red Lady following you around and spritzing places you go with her perfume. She said that ghosts don’t, like, move around much. They stay in one building until they’re chased out. So maybe you’re not dealing with a normal spirit but something else. What, I don’t know. She also recommended that you get your eyes checked. Flashes of red indicate something medical—like maybe the onset of myopia. At our age, that is very common.
Tag Nachmanoff is dating two girls—Lucy Caruso and Maxine Neal. That’s right, both at the same time. Not on the same dates of course, but neither are objecting. Can you imagine?
Love, Caitlin
(Oh, I might not be able to write back for a while. My mom is looking for a new computer—this one is acting up too much. It’s so old it actually throws heat. xoxox)
I can literally feel the admiration from my roommates when I enter the dining hall for breakfast the morning after our show. The Founder’s Day show was a hit and it was a sellout crowd, mostly because every teacher in every class at PA made attendance mandatory for credit.
Some of the teachers who have been around here since the 1980s tell me it’s the best Founder’s Day they ever saw, and I got my own applause because Diane Davis made me stand up and take a bow during the curtain call. Now I’m sure I’ll be hit up for every camera- and scenery-related project on campus. That’s okay. I can always say no. And who knows, I might even say yes. I’ve never been treated this well. Trish made big comedy and tragedy masks for our quad door and trimmed them in glitter in honor of opening night. She made sure that I had a bunch of roses too. She’s cool that way.
Mom and Dad video conference from Afghanistan:
“You guys look exhausted,” I tell them.
“We are,” Dad says.
“How’s it going?”
“We’re hanging in there. It’s grueling,” Mom says.
“We’re on the move a lot,” Dad explains.
“So come home,” I say. “You’re coming home in December anyhow, so just cut it short. Remember—you did that when you shot the documentary about street gangs in L.A.”
“We’ve made a commitment and we’re going to see it through,” Dad says. “Besides, we’ve rented out the house until the end of your school year. The guy is nice enough to let us take it for two weeks over Christmas break; I don’t want to push it.”
My dad is always the font of practicality. “Okay, Dad.”
“How are things going?” Mom leans forward. I can see in her eyes that she’s afraid to ask.
“Good,” I tell them.
Dad leans forward. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I’m totally blooming where I’m planted. And it’s a complete freak accident.”
“Honey, you know I don’t like the words freak and accident together,” Mom says.
“Sorry,” I apologize cheerfully.
“We got the images you shot for the play. Your hand is steady and your eye is keen,” Dad says proudly. “Must have been a great show.”
“I guess I got a little bit of the theater bug, like Grand.”
Mom and Dad look at each other, relieved. “I knew you’d find your place at the academy.” Mom smiles. I like when my mother smiles. And I especially like it when I make her smile.
“It could all be ruined after the dance at Grabeel Sharpe Academy.”
“That’s where they got the boys for school dances when I went to PA.” Her face lights up. “Oh, it’s a lot of fun.”
“Are they dorks over there?” I ask her.
“Well, it was 1983 and all of them had Rick Astley haircuts. There was one really cute guy….”
“Hey,” Dad says.
“Not as cute as you, honey. Anyhow, he looked like the lead singer from The Cars. And we were all after him.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t go for any of us. But we had so much fun chasing him.”
The thought of my mother chasing someone that looks like Ric Ocasek is too weird to think about.
“Oh, Viola, have fun!” Mom says. “You’re going to have a ball.”
“And behave yourself,” Dad adds halfheartedly.
“I’m going to dress up and be a girl.” I make a face that makes my parents laugh.
I can’t sleep. I check the clock. It’s quarter to three in the morning. I turn over, punch the pillow, and slam my eyes shut. I never had trouble sleeping in New York. I slept through sirens and all sorts of noise, but here in South Bend there’s hardly any noise. Maybe that’s part of my problem. I need noise.
I hear Suzanne sniffling in her bunk.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
“Yeah.” She blows her nose.
“Is something wrong?” I ask her. Sometimes Suzanne gets upset after she checks her email. I wonder if there’s some awful boyfriend back home giving her heartache. She has never said she has a boyfriend, but what else could make a girl cry in the middle of the night: ninth-grade algebra? I don’t think so. Plus, Suzanne is a math whiz, so it’s definitely not that. “You can tell me if something’s wrong.” I turn and face her bunk in the dark.
After a while, Suzanne whispers, “There’s nothing that can be done. And I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Well, okay. But I’m having a hard time sleeping.” I roll back onto my pillow and stare at the ceiling. “It’s as if my mind is filled with clutter and I can’t sort through it.”
“You should go and see Mrs. Zidar,” Suzanne whispers.
“Why?”
“She’s good at sorting through stuff and maybe you have a medical problem.”
“I didn’t say I had a problem. I said I couldn’t sleep.”
“That is a problem. If you can’t sleep most nights, something is bothering you and you should go and talk to someone who can help you find out.”
“How about you?”
“Mrs. Zidar can’t help me.”
Silence settles over
us, a deep quiet as dark as our room. Even somebody like Suzanne, who appears to have no problems, sometimes cries herself to sleep. You just never know. This is something that I’ve learned at PA that I would have never learned at home because I have my own room and I’m an only. Nobody has it easy, not even the Great and Tall Blond One.
Andrew and I have figured out a way to bring Caitlin into 2009 electronically, which is to drag her. Andrew had his mom call Mrs. Pullapilly and give permission for Caitlin to come over after school and do a video conference with Andrew to talk to me. Finally she agreed, after we, like, begged the woman and Caitlin promised to do dishes for a hundred years and wash her dad’s car on Saturdays. Insane! I wave at the video conference camera on my laptop.
“Hey, guys!”
“Your bangs are growing out!” Caitlin says, leaning into the camera on Andrew’s computer.
“I know.” I yank the bangs so they feather behind the tops of my ears.
“Hi, Viola!” Andrew squishes into the shot. He looks the same. Caitlin is wearing some kind of woven gold leather headband. Her black hair is blunt to her shoulders. Her dark eyes tilt up at the ends when she smiles, and it’s great to see her smile. Her caramel skin looks beautiful year-round. She doesn’t get that post-tan flakiness like non-Indian girls. Caitlin is fourteen, but if her mom let her wear lipstick (never) she would look eighteen easy with her full, perfectly shaped lips.
“What’s the skinny?” I ask them.
“You go first.”
“Well…,” I begin.
“Did you see the ghost again?” Caitlin asks.
“No. And I’m not sure it’s a ghost anyhow.”
“Okay, the mysterious red lady then. I wouldn’t be afraid if I were you. My aunt Naira says only spiritually full people can experience visits from spirits from the other side.”
“I ordered Tandoori chicken in honor of your ghost,” Andrew jokes.
“I knew you’d figure out some way to make this about you,” I tease him back.
“We can’t wait for you to get home for Christmas,” Caitlin says.
“I can’t either.”
“We’re showing all our video projects on December twenty-second at the lab at LaGuardia.” Andrew sits back in his chair. He looks a thousand miles away. “Can you make it?”
“Yeah. I’ll be home by then!”
“Perfect,” Caitlin says.
“Bring the ghost,” Andrew says.
“I don’t know if she travels.”
“Aunt Naira is coming for New Year’s—so you can ask her anything you need to know,” Caitlin says helpfully.
The door slams behind me.
“Are you video conferencing again?” Suzanne asks.
“Yeah. Come over and meet Andrew and Caitlin.” I get up out of my desk chair. Suzanne slips in.
“Hi.” Suzanne looks into the camera.
“Hi,” Caitlin and Andrew say simultaneously.
“I’m Suzanne. I got the lower bunk because there was traffic on the Indiana Turnpike and I’m not happy about it.”
“I can’t believe you hold a grudge,” I say jokingly.
Suzanne smiles up at me. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Suzanne,” Caitlin says.
“I love your hairband,” Suzanne tells her.
“I got it on the street,” Caitlin says.
Boy, do I miss buying stuff on the street. Once I got a bag of six pairs of athletic knee socks with navy stripes for five bucks. I also got a lime-green faux patent-leather tote. I can only imagine the fashion season I’m missing on the corner of Mulberry and Prince. There’s nothing like that in Indiana.
“It’s cool.” Suzanne nods in approval, then slips out of the chair. “Okay, I’m history. Bye, guys.”
I slip back into my chair.
“She’s nice,” Caitlin says.
“I’m going to dinner.” Suzanne grabs her coat and waves good-bye.
“Meet you over there,” I tell her. Andrew hasn’t said anything. “Andrew, are you okay?”
“She’s a goddess,” he says. (I told you Suzanne was gorgeous.)
Caitlin and I laugh. “Oh man. Suzanne is to Andrew like Tag Nachmanoff is to us.”
Andrew is totally speechless. I’m almost embarrassed for him, but I’m also a little hurt—like she’s the first pretty girl he’s ever seen. Or is she? That doesn’t say much about Caitlin and me, but oh well.
“I think I have to go now,” Caitlin says. “Andrew?” She turns to him.
“Yeah. We gotta go.”
Andrew and Caitlin sign off. As long as I live I will never forget the look on Andrew’s face when he saw Suzanne on the screen. It was like one of those sci-fi movies where the sun gets really bright right before the spaceship lands. I mean, Andrew is not subtle at all. He has never admitted to even liking a girl before. And although he’s my BFFAA until I die, he is a boy. I just never thought he was that kind of boy. I’m not the only person who’s changed since starting the ninth grade, that’s for sure.
SIX
MRS. ZIDAR’S OFFICE IS LOCATED OFF THE ATRIUM NEXT to the All Faith Chapel, which I have yet to visit. The famous “Hang in There, Baby” poster with the kitten dangling by her front paws on a clothesline is taped to her office door.
I unzip my camera from the case and make a slow pan from the windows to the door in case I want to comment on this later. Then I turn the camera off and slip it back into the case before my appointment begins.
To be fair, Mrs. Zidar found an office that is off on its own and sort of perfect for privacy purposes. If you’re going to admit you need help, no need to make an announcement to the entire student body by meeting with the school shrink in the main lobby. Besides, I could be stopping in to see Mrs. Zidar for any reason—like signing up for forensics (like, never), and no one would necessarily guess I’m here for counseling.
The rest of the administrative offices are in Geier-Kirshenbaum, which means even if you admit anything of a horrible nature to Mrs. Zidar, it will take her some time to run out her door and over to Headmistress Grundman’s and get you thrown out of school. As much as I would love to go home, there is no home until my parents return, so PA is still better than some reform school in some small town in upstate New York. At least at PA I’ve got my roommates. And even though Romy totally blew my Saturday by making me sit in the stands with Suzanne and Marisol while she played the longest game of field hockey in the history of fields, I still like them best, over everyone else I’ve met here. These are the musings of my rational mind as I sit outside her office and wait for my appointment.
I have noticed that since I made the appointment for my mental health I spend a lot of time convincing myself that I’m absolutely normal.
The only person I know who ever went to counseling was Andrew’s older brother, Gus, who became a little too talented on the computer. He hacked into the LaGuardia website and replaced the faces of the principal, vice principal, and upperschool head with those of the Three Stooges. It was decided that there wasn’t malicious intent, only a comedic one, so he didn’t have to go to the therapist after a while.
“Come on in, Viola.” Mrs. Zidar stands in the doorway of her office holding a clipboard. She wears a wool skirt and white blouse and Skechers leopard flats, for which she gets points. After all, she’d have to really hunt for those shoes in Indiana. It’s not like they’re sold everywhere. Or maybe she found them online. So, at least she’s trying to be fashionable.
Mrs. Zidar’s office is cozy, like a living room in a hunting lodge. The carpet is red and black and forest-green plaid. The sofa is covered in red corduroy, with two straight-backed chairs with red cushions on either side of it. Her desk is a farm table in front of the window with a rolling chair. There’s an old jar filled with white carnations on the window ledge.
I sit down on the couch, which has such soft cushions I sink right in. Mrs. Zidar sits on one of the straight-backed chairs and scoots it to face me on the couch
. “Make yourself at home.”
I find it so odd when I hear the word home. It has a whole new meaning for me. It used to mean Hicks Street in Brooklyn, but now it’s wherever I feel comfortable. That’s what boarding school does to a person who spent fourteen years of her life in one place—it has opened me up to new experiences and definitions.
“How are you, Viola?”
“I’m pretty good except I’m not sleeping very well. My roommate Suzanne said you might be able to help me.”
“Are you a day bird or a night owl?”
“Either.” I shrug.
Mrs. Zidar makes a note on her clipboard. “Are you eating well?”
“Except when they serve shepherd’s pie. I’m not a fan.”
“Okay. Do you exercise?”
“I take gym and dance.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yep.”
“Your physical filed with the school nurse says you’re not on any medication.”
“That is correct.”
“So, how often do you have trouble getting to sleep?”
“Most nights.”
“And have you always had trouble getting to sleep?”
“No, I always went right to sleep. I’ve had trouble since the Founder’s Day show.”
“Do you like your roommates?”
“Oh yeah. They’re fine.”
“And do you drink coffee?”
“Hate it.”
“Cola drinks?”
“I like 7-Up.”
“Chocolate?”
“Everybody likes chocolate.”
Mrs. Zidar laughs. “That’s true.” She makes notes. “So what happened at PA that’s keeping you up? Are you homesick? Are you worried about your grades?”
“I’m doing okay. No pink slips.”
“Good. You know, you’re quite the campus celebrity after the Founder’s Day show. The upperclassmen were really impressed with your work.”
“It was fun.”
“So, it seems that on a health level, you’re fine. You eat well, you exercise. You like your roommates, and you’ve found a way to be a part of the community that fulfills you.”
Viola in Reel Life Page 7
