“Thanks,” Caitlin says as she sits down on a stool in the light booth. “It will all be over soon anyway.”
Mom, Dad, and I take a flashlight and head down to the basement. The cold, clammy temperature and the scent of old wine barrels comes at us in a blast as we make our way down the stairs.
“I think it’s over here, Adam,” Mom says, pointing to a corner with stacked wooden risers, which my parents use when they film a tracking shot. “Behind our stuff.”
Dad directs the beam to the far wall. “There it is. Girls, give me a hand.”
Dad places the flashlight on a box. He sorts through the junk, and then pulls a wooden ramp with notches that fit our brownstone steps out of the pile. “You know, when the Martinellis told us they were leaving this behind, I never thought we’d need it.”
“See why I don’t throw anything away?” Mom says knowingly. “You never know when you’ll need something.”
“Girls, take a side and help me get this up the stairs.” Mom and I help him carry the homemade wooden wheelchair ramp up the rough-hewn steps.
We get the ramp into the kitchen. “Vi, go and get the flashlight,” Dad says, wiping the sweat from his face onto his sleeve.
“This thing is heavy,” Mom remarks.
I run back down to the basement and grab the flashlights, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Okay, heave and then ho,” Dad says.
We guide the wheelchair ramp through the hallway to the front door. I push the doors open. Mom and Dad follow, carrying the ramp. Mom places the end of the ramp at the top of the stairs and Dad runs to the bottom and snaps it into place.
“It’s not warped at all,” Mom marvels.
“This is gonna work,” Dad says.
I put my arms around my parents. “Thank you so much. This means the world to Suzanne and her mom.”
“Hey. That’s what friendship is all about,” my dad says softly. He doesn’t let go of my mom and me for a long time, just like when I was a kid, just like when I was small.
At long last, my roommates are arriving! Finally, they will see Brooklyn, meet Caitlin and Andrew, and of course, Maurice—and see their first actual Broadway show, starring my grandmother.
I wait on the steps of our house, with my camera ready to film the arrival of Romy and Marisol. Her aunt’s car peels around Avenue J and onto our street. Romy hangs out the back window when she sees me.
I get a nice shot of the car as it sails through the cul-de-sac.
“Viola!” Romy hollers, and waves from the window.
“We made it!” Marisol says.
Romy’s aunt pulls up in front of our house and double-parks. I run down the steps. Romy and Marisol get out of the car, looking so chic. Romy wears red-and-white-striped espadrille platforms, skinny jeans, and a field hockey jersey, while Marisol wears a flowery sundress and gold gladiator flats.
“Oh my God, this is so cool and exactly as you described it.” Marisol looks around and marvels.
“Welcome to Brooklyn! You guys found each other at the train station—no problem, right?”
“So easy. Romy and Aunt Sally were waiting for me in Penn Station, just like we planned. I came off of the Amtrak train and there they were.”
“This is my aunt Sally,” Romy says.
I shake Aunt Sally’s hand. She has a good athletic grip (must run in the family) and a short haircut.
“You’ll be okay?” Sally says to Romy.
“Oh yeah.” Romy gives her aunt a hug. “See ya.”
“I’ll pick you up in the city on Sunday.”
“Great,” Romy says.
Aunt Sally jumps into her car and backs out of the cul-de-sac. Romy, Marisol, and I can’t believe we are back together; it seems like years. We throw our arms around one another.
“Come on. I’ll show you where you’re staying.” I pick up Marisol’s and Romy’s backpacks, and they grab their duffels and follow me into the house.
“Ma, they’re here!” I shout.
Mom comes out of her office and gives Marisol and Romy a hug on our way up to dump their stuff in my room.
“Here we are.” There’s hardly any floor space in my room. Mom and Dad put two air mattresses down and pulled out the trundle so my single became a quad, just like we had at Prefect. “Sorry it’s so small.”
“It’s perfect,” Marisol says.
“How cool. You can see the whole neighborhood from up here,” Romy says, looking out the window. “Hey, it’s Suzanne.”
A horn honks as the station wagon pulls into place in front of our house. Suzanne gets out of the car. Her blond hair glistens from three stories up. Romy waves and shouts out the window.
“Come on, guys,” I tell them as I start down the stairs.
“They’re here!” I call out to my parents. “The Santrys!”
We race down the stairs and out onto the stoop. Mrs. Santry is in the back of the wagon, unloading Mr. Santry’s wheelchair. My mom comes down the stairs, and Dad joins us from the backyard.
I turn on the camera and begin to film their arrival.
“Hi, Mrs. Santry,” I call out. She looks up at me, and when she sees I’m filming her, she smiles and waves me off.
I walk down the steps, holding the camera steady. I ask Mrs. Santry, “How was your trip?”
“It was great,” she says.
I go around to the side of the car and put my head in the window. “Hey, Mr. Santry.”
“Viola, I’m locked and loaded and ready for Broadway.”
I go in for a close-up of Mr. Santry, who smiles. He is an older version of his handsome sons.
“You better be,” I tell him. “We have orchestra seats.”
“Fantastic.”
Suzanne opens the car door for her father. “Dad was in You Can’t Take It with You in high school.”
“That is correct. I was a thespian.” He laughs. “Not a good one, but I had a lot of enthusiasm.”
I step back and film the introductions. My dad enters the shot.
“Bob, I’m Adam Chesterton.”
“Good to meet you, Adam.”
“Let me give you a hand,” Dad says. Mom and Mrs. Santry chat as they unfold the wheelchair.
“Is this the best, or what?” Suzanne says. She puts her hands on her hips and smiles at us. I don’t know why, and probably never will, but whenever Suzanne is around, I feel I can breathe a sigh of relief—it’s as though everything is under control when she arrives. She is our leader, and we all look to her for wisdom and an agenda. “What should we do?”
I film her as she drags her duffel out of the back of the car.
“Come on, let’s get your stuff upstairs,” I tell Suzanne. Romy and Marisol grab the Santrys’ suitcases. I flip the camera off and help Suzanne carry her duffel up the stairs.
“Mom and Dad set your parents up in the front parlor.”
We stop while Suzanne takes in the parlor. Romy and Marisol drop the bags by the sofa. Mom put two roll-away beds in the center of the room and placed the sofa and chairs around it.
“Excellent.” Suzanne points to the old-fashioned front windows, with a view of the green leaves of the elms. “Mom and Dad will love it.”
Suzanne goes to the windows and looks out. Marisol, Romy, and I join her. We watch through the window as my dad helps push Mr. Santry in his wheelchair up the ramp we just dragged out from the basement. “The ramp is cool,” Suzanne says.
“It came with the house,” I tell them.
“How lucky is that?” Suzanne smiles. “Let’s go!”
Suzanne, Marisol, and Romy follow me up the front stairs. I show them Mom and Dad’s office, and my desk. Then I take them up to my room. Marisol takes charge and shows Suzanne where the bathroom is, and where to put her stuff.
I watch Suzanne unpack, and just like we were at Prefect Academy, we fall into a rhythm. Marisol sits cross-legged on the trundle, while Romy stretches out on an air mattress. Suzanne goes into a long story about working
at the Dairy Queen, and how it took her three weeks to master the dip cone, and the day she did she felt like she had split an atom and isolated a genome to save mankind. That’s how hard it is to master a dip cone.
I stand in the doorway and listen and think how lucky I am to have ever met these girls. We move together like a pinwheel, each of the four foil prongs moving in one direction, picking up light.
And I think about Suzanne saying how lucky it was that we had a ramp in the house for her dad, when in fact, it’s unlucky what happened to him—that he has MS and can’t walk. But Suzanne would think the ramp was lucky, and that her parents driving her here was lucky, and that tickets to a Broadway show make her luckier still. She wouldn’t for one minute be sad about what she doesn’t have, because she’s grateful for whatever she does have.
Just like Mom says, and she’s said it more times than I can count: It’s all in how you look at things.
The soft yellow centers of the Chinese lanterns dangling from a wire over the picnic table throw light on what is left of our feast. Dad made his red hamburgers and black hot dogs (same grill, same father, same technique, same results). But Mom made a delish Mexican casserole, fresh rolls, and a big salad, so Dad’s grilling was set off by food we could actually eat.
“Come on, Bob. It’s been a long day,” Mrs. Santry says.
“Thanks, guys, this was delicious.” Mr. Santry smiles at my dad and mom. “We appreciate your hospitality.”
“Bob, it’s great to have a guy around here. All I got is women.”
“I wouldn’t complain.” Mr. Santry laughs.
Dad throws open the gate and pushes Mr. Santry up the walkway on the side of our house, to take him up the ramp and into the front parlor. Mrs. Santry follows them out. I’m surprised at how easy it is to adapt our house to Mr. Santry’s wheelchair.
“I’m going to finish up in the kitchen,” Mom says. “Thank you for doing the dishes.”
“You’re welcome,” Marisol, Suzanne, and Romy say.
“Well, it’s a festival of girls,” Maurice says as he opens the gate for Caitlin.
“Hi, everybody,” Caitlin says.
My roommates greet Caitlin as though she is the fifth roommate. I’ve told them so much about her, and she knows everything about them, so there’s no learning curve; it’s just as if Caitlin has known the girls all her life.
“There’s pineapple upside-down cake,” I offer.
Caitlin’s cell phone buzzes. “Excuse me,” she says as she checks it. “Hi, Mom. I’m at Viola’s. Yes, all her roommates are here…. Okay, I’m on my way.”
“You have to go?” Marisol asks.
“Yep. Sorry.”
“I’ll walk you to the corner,” Maurice says.
As soon as they’re out of earshot, Romy says, “You weren’t kidding. That isn’t a cell phone—that’s a tracking device.”
“I had a talk with Caitlin.”
“How did she take it?” Marisol asks.
“She won’t tell her parents about Maurice. And besides, he’s leaving after opening night.”
“The director doesn’t stay and watch the play for the run?”
“No. A theater director gets the play to opening night, and then they’re on to the next job. The stage manager keeps the show fresh with the instructions of the director, and also handles the understudies, and the day-to-day of running the show.”
“Do you think the play is going to be a hit?” Romy asks.
“I hope so. I mean, I like it, but I like old movies. And this is an old play.”
“I’m back from the abyss,” Andrew says from the kitchen door.
“Andrew!” I stand up at the table.
“And look, I survived.” He sure did. Andrew has a tan. His haircut has grown out a bit. And I can’t believe it, but he looks (even) taller. “The mosquitoes didn’t kill me.”
Andrew wears his best pale blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt and a pair of jeans. Gone are the days when he wore sweatpants and hand-me-down Gap T-shirts. Now that he’s a ladies’ man, he dresses like one.
I introduce Andrew to my roommates, and they shoot one another knowing looks. The Chinese lanterns may not throw a lot of light, but they can see everything clearly—at least where Andrew is concerned.
“So, tell us about camp.” I cut Andrew a slice of cake.
“It was cool.” He smiles.
“Viola said you were tech director for a play,” Marisol says.
“Oh yeah. I was the only guy who knew how to rig equipment. And I filmed the performance too.”
“Can’t wait to see it.”
“It’s not bad.”
“How’s Mel?” I ask.
“She went back to California.”
“So, now you’re totally free?” Romy says.
“Not really.” He smiles.
“How can you keep it going? She lives in California,” Marisol says.
I could crawl under the table. My roomies have turned into the Bennet sisters in Pride and Prejudice. They’re grilling Andrew like he’s a suitor, instead of my BFFAA from Planet Platonic.
“Long-distance enchantments never work,” Suzanne says.
Andrew shrugs. “You girls manage to stay friends with each other—and you live in different states. It’s a challenge, but it’s worth it. Right?”
“How would you like to have an ocean between you?” Maurice pushes the gate open. “I won’t see Caitlin for a very long time. Unless Dad gets a job in New York again.”
“Maurice has it the worst,” Romy says. Romy can relate to Maurice because of her yearlong crush on Kevin Santry.
“Well, let’s not think about it. Caitlin is cleared to come on our tour of Manhattan, and her mom says she can come to opening night. So, you have a lot of good times ahead, Maurice.” I try to boost his spirits.
“Thanks,” he says softly.
“It’s going to be fun. We’ll make sure you have a good time. Maybe you won’t get everything you want, but you’ll get something wonderful,” Marisol says.
“Walk on the bright side,” I agree.
“I haven’t a choice,” Maurice says.
The Lasko fan throws warm air around my room. Suzanne is on one air mattress, Romy on another, while Marisol is in the trundle. I stretch out on my bed.
“Andrew is way cuter in real life than he is on Skype,” Romy says.
“You think so?”
“Viola, he likes you. And I think Mel is a made-up person.”
“No way. He never lies,” I assure Suzanne.
“He didn’t have too many details about her,” Marisol concurs. “When a boy really likes a girl, he can describe her. He never even said what she looked like.”
“For a guy with a camera, he had no pictures,” Suzanne says.
“Andrew would be too shy to show pictures. He’s very private. He never talks about girls to me.”
“He seemed awfully anxious to tell you about Mel when he was at camp,” Romy reasons.
“True. But remember, I had to pull things out of him about Olivia.”
“Yeah, but how much did he like her—really? He’s being cavalier. He knows you’ll be in school with him this fall, so all of a sudden, he has to act like he’s not interested in you despite what he’s said and done this summer.”
“What a waste of time,” Marisol says.
“That’s a boy for you,” I agree.
“He’s just insecure,” Suzanne says. “He kissed you, Viola, but he isn’t sure he should have—or that you wanted him to.”
“It was so weird, I don’t even know what to say about it. I think he was leaving for camp and was sad for a second. It’s just one kiss. We agreed to drop it, and never talk about it.”
“You don’t like him like you liked Jared Spencer?” Marisol asks.
“I can’t even compare the two. I’ve known Andrew all my life. And Jared was cute and I met him at a party. It’s totally different.”
“Nothing was at stake with Jared Spe
ncer,” Marisol says.
“Nothing. Remember how they herded us up on the bus and took us over with peppy Trish as our chaperone—for that dance? I mean, if you met someone and you never wanted to see him again, no problem—we got back on the bus and went back to Prefect. It’s not like we had to see those guys every day—or at all. With Andrew, it’s different. We go to school together, we make movies together—we hang out.”
“You only like him as a friend?” Suzanne says.
“I need him as a friend. I don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t my friend, and I don’t know how to think of him any other way.”
“Well, then you have to tell him that you’re not interested in him in that way. Then you can get back to normal and being best friends. Otherwise, he’ll keep hoping you’ll change your mind. He’ll keep torturing you with all these stories of made-up girlfriends and have to do his macho act to impress you.”
“It’s so annoying,” I admit. “I liked it so much better when we talked about everything. Now it’s awkward.”
“If I wasn’t in love with Kevin Santry, who I can never have, so forget it, I will never be your sister-in-law, but if I wasn’t in love with Kevin, I would totally go for Andrew,” Romy says. “You know, in the spirit of friendship—to help you out.”
“Riiight,” I say.
We laugh. And just like at Prefect, back in our quad, we never ended conversations at night before sleep, we’d just sort of drift into silence. We’d exhaust a subject and begin another, but one by one, we’d fall out of the conversation entirely and go off to sleep.
The whirl of the fan is comfort. I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, and without a word being said, as my roommates, tired from long days of travel, go to sleep, I imagine that a few days from now, when they go, the loneliness will set in. I have figured out, through all the good-byes, whether it’s my parents leaving on assignment, or Grand on tour, or my roommates returning home after a year at Prefect, that I’m not very good about saying good-bye. In fact, I worry about it long before I have to say the words and live through it. I have a hard time putting aside my feelings.
For a girl like me who was a loner, I like having my roommates around, even when we aren’t doing anything in particular. A room full of friends became a big plus to me as an only child. It’s just nice to see someone studying across the room, or knowing you have someone to talk to, if you need to.
Viola in the Spotlight Page 12
