Skyping and texting and writing e’s and IMs—all that stuff is cool, and it’s good to stay in touch, but nothing comes close to us being together in person, where we can talk about anything and everything, and be there for one another. It was the great gift of boarding school that, somehow, chance brought us together, but love made us—and keeps us—best of friends.
TEN
“CLEO! CLEO! QUIET,” GEORGE COMMANDS FROM the kitchen in Grand’s apartment.
Cleo stops barking and lets out a little wheezy sigh instead.
Grand stands in the open French doors to her terrace, wearing an orchid and navy blue print caftan. Her blond hair is up in a turban. She looks like Suzy Parker advertising resort wear in Vogue in 1950. I know about Suzy Parker because Grand has a poster of her in her bathroom.
On the terrace, Romy, Suzanne, and Marisol look over midtown Manhattan. Andrew points out the Empire State Building to the girls, while Maurice and Caitlin are huddled on the chaise lounge deep in conversation (as usual).
If I had to choose one of my roommates who looks like she has the potential to become a future New Yorker, it would be Marisol. She takes the city in like a deep breath. She’s in awe of the skyscrapers, the subway trains, and the people. Marisol is a people person and we have millions of them, so she’s definitely in her glory. She watches the crowds with fascination, as if to remember every detail.
Grand and George have a full house this morning. This is a good practice round for the cast party, where fifty people or more will pack into the apartment. Mom serves coffee to Dad, while Mrs. Santry pours cream into a cup for Mr. Santry.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve got brioche stuffed French toast…,” Grand begins.
“Bacon,” George calls out from the kitchen.
“Bacon. Crispy.”
“Orange juice,” George recommends.
“Fresh-squeezed orange juice,” Grand says.
“Fruit cup,” George adds.
“You heard him,” Grand says.
“It sounds delicious, Ms. Cerise,” Marisol says politely.
“Please, call me Grand.” She smiles.
“Corrie, we’re all set.” George opens the butler shutters between the living room and the galley kitchen. He places a platter of golden French toast, surrounded by strips of crispy bacon, on the ledge. Then he gives Grand a large cut-crystal bowl of fresh fruit: sliced mango, chunks of sweet cantaloupe, and red grapes. She places the platter and bowl on the coffee table.
“It’s a buffet. Plates are on the console.”
“Eat up,” Mom says.
“You have a big schlep today and you need the fuel.” Dad smiles.
“I can’t wait to go to the top of the Empire State Building,” Marisol says as she helps herself to George’s French toast.
“You must,” Grand says. “And then, when you watch An Affair to Remember, it will mean something to you.”
“Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant. Can’t beat them. My mother made me watch that movie a hundred times,” Mom says.
“And look. It took. You grew up and became a film editor,” Grand says.
“Do you like old movies?” Mom asks Mr. Santry.
“Not really. My idea of a classic film is Meatballs with Bill Murray.”
“I’m with you,” my dad agrees. “Give me a crowd-pleaser any day.”
Dad and Mr. Santry have become good friends very quickly. They really like each other. Usually my dad goes along with whatever friends my mom makes for them as a couple, but friendship with Mr. Santry is all Dad’s idea.
“For a filmmaker, my husband has very commercial tastes,” Mom explains.
“Nothing wrong with that. Pays the bills.” Grand smiles.
“What are your favorite places in Manhattan?” Suzanne asks Grand. “Like, if you were visiting—what would you not want to miss?”
“I’ll give them to you in order. Viola, make a list….”
I put down my French toast and flip the lens cap off my camera. “Okay, Grand, fire away.”
“These are the places you should not miss in New York City, according to Coral Cerise….” Grand smiles for the camera. I look into the viewfinder. She really is photogenic. Even if she weren’t an actress, the camera loves the planes of her face.
Marisol, excellent student that she is, flips open her notebook and writes down a list as I film Grand.
“Number one: the Cloisters. You will think you’re in a monastery in France.”
“Love the Cloisters,” Mom agrees.
“Number two: Central Park Lake. Romantic. Pristine. The arched bridge is to die for. Very Florentine. Very Italian.”
“My favorite,” Dad says. “I proposed to my wife in a canoe there. And we’ve been paddling upstream ever since,” he jokes.
“Number three,” Grand continues. “The Boat Basin at West Seventy-ninth Street.”
“I’m with you, Grand. A very boho choice,” Andrew says.
“Well, I’m not trying to be au courant, just interesting. Let’s not choose the same old, same old. Here’s why I choose the Boat Basin. There’s a sweet restaurant nestled in the underpass, a great jazz spot, but that’s not the point. You can get great jazz in the Village. No, it’s the little community of boat dwellers that makes it unique. There are a few sturdy New Yorker artist types who choose not to live on dry land in apartments but on their boats year-round, and dock them right there on the pier. It’s a fabulous lifestyle choice.”
“If you don’t mind constant motion,” Dad says.
Grand ignores him. “George? Take it away.”
Grand removes herself from the shot and George, holding a plate of French toast, speaks to the camera. “Young lovers”—George looks at Maurice and Caitlin—“should always take the Circle Line. You get a three-sixty perspective of Manhattan, and when you ride the top deck, it gives you three hours of bliss, away from civilization, to canoodle as the skyline sails past.”
“What if you’re not young?” Mrs. Santry asks.
George laughs. “Then I recommend a slow-cooked Italian meal in the Village—at Piccolo Angolo. Four courses in four hours.”
“And tell Renato we sent you,” Grand says.
George continues, “My favorite place to think is the Hudson River Park on the Charles Street pier. Second favorite: Chinatown for dumplings.”
“That’s good if you’re on an eating tour,” Dad pipes up.
“Then, to cultivate your minds: Do not miss the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in particular the Temple of Dendur—you won’t believe the indoor pond; the Frick because it was once someone’s home and feels like it still; and of course, the Museum of Modern Art because it’s hip and fun and cutting edge.”
“Mom, how about you?” I turn the camera on my mother.
“I like the Promenade in Brooklyn and the South Street Seaport.”
“And my aunt Naira likes to light candles in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral even though we are not Catholic,” Caitlin adds.
Grand snaps her fingers. “Forgot that one.”
“Since we’re in midtown, why don’t we begin with Central Park?” I say.
“The zoo!” Grand and George say in unison.
“It’s not just for kids,” Mom says. “But teenagers and…up.”
“Perfect.” I look at the girls, who agree.
I turn my camera off. I look through the French doors. Caitlin and Maurice have slipped out to the terrace and are looking out over the city. They really are star-crossed lovers, even in broad daylight.
I fell in love with Central Park because of Grand. Whenever I would stay the weekend with her, or when Mom and Dad were working, she’d bring me to the park. I loved the jungle gym, the sandbox, and the swings. There are lots of playgrounds inside the park, and Gram would choose a different one each time. And at the end, she would always take me for a ride on the carousel.
As our group trudges through, on the winding trails off 79th Street, my friends get a sense of the size of
the park. Andrew points out the puppet theater, a gingerbread house set on a green hillside off the road. “Remember your birthday party at the puppet theater?” Andrew asks.
“I’ll never forget it. Pippi Longstocking performed with marionettes.”
“It was cool,” Andrew says.
“And then they let us have pizza and cake in the lobby. And all the characters from past productions, all the puppets, were hanging overhead on the wall. Peter Pan, Cinderella, and Pinocchio.”
“You remember everything, don’t you?” Andrew says.
“That’s because it’s the little things that matter.” I pick up a long stick and walk with it. We follow the group into the admissions area of the zoo.
“I’m going to take Dad to the lake,” Mrs. Santry says to Suzanne.
“I need some romantic time with your mother,” Mr. Santry says.
“Okay, TMI and on top of that, gross.” Suzanne laughs.
Mr. and Mrs. Santry turn off to go down the path to the lake. The summer sun comes through the trees in ribbons of gold. I lift my camera and focus in on the Santrys, filming them as they go down the light-strewn path.
Mrs. Santry pushes Mr. Santry. They laugh. Then Mrs. Santry stops and kneels next to Mr. Santry’s chair. He extends his arms to her. She stands, and Mr. Santry pulls her down onto his lap. They kiss.
Usually, when parents kiss or do anything remotely romantic, it’s creepy. But this isn’t. I am far enough away that this is like an establishing shot of some greater picture, the backdrop of the scene of a life—a family life. It’s beautiful, and it seems to be slowing down in real time. I check my shutter speed. No, it has not slowed to a crawl; it’s set in real time.
Mrs. Santry gets up and pushes Mr. Santry down the path, until they disappear behind the hill. Without breaking the shot, I slowly pivot to take in the zoo.
Maurice has his arm around Caitlin as they stand on the ticket line. Andrew hangs back a bit as the girls push through to enter the zoo. I flip the camera off.
“You don’t want to go to the zoo, do you?” Andrew says softly.
“Not really. I came here so much as a kid I could be a tour guide. But the girls really want to see it.”
Marisol hands Andrew and me a ticket each. We follow them into the zoo.
“What do you say we meet back here in an hour?” Maurice says.
“Fine,” I tell him.
Marisol, Suzanne, and Romy look at one another.
“Let’s go,” I tell them. “The otters are hilarious.”
The girls fan out and take pictures of the otters, who lounge in the sun on hillsides of rock, and then dive off their cliffs into a deep pool of icy water. The fence around the otters is clear Lucite, so you can see in and underwater.
Andrew and I sit down on the bench and put our feet up.
“We have to ratchet this tour up,” Andrew says.
“What are you thinking?”
“Staten Island Ferry.”
“Nice choice.”
“There’s something about the return trip when you’re looking at Manhattan from the Jersey side,” he says.
“I agree.”
“Viola?”
“Yeah?”
Andrew looks away. “Nothing.”
“No, what were you going to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea,” I persist.
“Not really.”
“Okay.” I shrug.
“It’s just that I don’t know how to say it.”
“You can tell me anything,” I say, poking him in the ribs.
“I know. You’re a good listener.” Andrew looks at me and smiles.
“Then fire away,” I say encouragingly.
“I pick the wrong girls.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mel’s getting all weird on me.”
“Already?” Hmmm, maybe Mel is real.
“Yeah. It’s the distance, I guess.”
“That, or you don’t communicate well with her.”
“Could be,” he says.
“Well, work on it.”
“It’s not that easy. It’s not like I know what to say.”
“Sure you do. You have no problem talking to me.”
“Yeah, but that’s you, Viola. You’re not a girl.”
“Pardon me?” I sit bolt upright. Defensive.
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. You aren’t a mysterious girl. I’ve known you all my life, so I get you. It’s not easy when it’s me, and I’m out there alone and I meet someone new. Mel isn’t like you—and I keep hoping that I’ll be able to talk to her the way I talk to you.”
“It takes time.”
“How much?” Andrew asks.
This is one of the things I find annoying about boys in general. They want results and they want them immediately. Important things take time. You can’t rush getting to know someone. “It depends. When I was dating Jared, we were mostly quiet at first. Just little things came up—usually something to do with our cameras, or something general about school, his or mine. But then, after a while, we found a lot of common things to share. About our families. Friends. Stuff like that.”
“Mel is pretty.”
Hearing Andrew compliment another girl, one I don’t know, makes me feel a little odd. “Mr. Santry isn’t the only one with too much information.”
“Sorry. But it’s true.”
“I’m sure it is. But that doesn’t have anything to do with really getting to know a girl. You have to see beyond that, or all you will ever know is that she’s…attractive. And that’s on the surface. Surface stuff is easy. But you already know that.”
“It’s just that I’d like to find that combination of friend and…”
“Pretty?” I fill in the blank for him. This will come in handy when I take the SAT. Filling in the blanks, that is.
“That makes me sound shallow.” He looks off at the otters.
I want to say, It’s because you are, but I resist the easy bait, unlike the otter that leaps six feet into the air for a sardine from the zookeeper. “Oh, Andrew, you’re not exactly shallow.”
“I’m not?”
“One hot girlfriend from camp who you have nothing in common with, and yet pursue, doesn’t make you shallow.”
“What does it make me?” Andrew asks.
“Typical.”
“Where are they?” Suzanne surveys the crowd outside the zoo.
“Maurice said they’d meet us in an hour,” Marisol reminds us.
“It’s now an hour and…sixteen minutes,” Andrew says.
“This is how it is with them. They have no concept of time,” I complain.
“Only of each other,” Marisol says. “They have it bad.”
“Well, we can’t blow our day waiting around for them. What’s next?” Romy asks.
“Empire State Building.” I look down at the list we pulled together.
“Text them and tell them to meet us in the Village later,” Andrew says.
“Where?”
“Tell them to meet us at Shakespeare’s on Bleecker.”
“Why?”
“I’ll be hungry, and you said they were like Romeo and Juliet.” Andrew buries his hands in his pockets. “Where else would they eat?”
I text Maurice and give him the specifics. They’ll miss the Empire State Building, but it doesn’t matter. They have enough reminders of their true love; they don’t need a scene from An Affair to Remember. Besides, the only view they care about is the one of each other.
“Get the burger,” I advise Marisol.
“Okay.”
We’re at Shakespeare’s. Marisol really debates about what to eat. She never just randomly picks a dish. I’ve found that telling her exactly what to do keeps the day moving forward. The last thing we need as we tour the city is to get bogged down.
We took two tables of four on the street and pushed them together. The waitress is giving us the eye. �
��Sorry. We’re expecting two more people,” I explain.
“You’d better text Maurice again,” Suzanne says.
I pull out my BlackBerry.
Me: Maurice. Seriously. Get here. We’re ordering.
“Okay, I tried. He ignores the texts.” I shrug.
“Why?” Romy wants to know.
“He’s not checking his BlackBerry,” Andrew says. “Trust me.”
“How do you know?” Marisol asks.
“Because the only text he wants to answer is one from Caitlin. And he doesn’t have to look at his BlackBerry because he’s with her,” Andrew says.
“What if there’s an emergency?” I ask.
“Yeah. Well, there is one, I’m starving.” Suzanne studies the menu.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. That’s how a guy thinks.”
“Oh, I’m so excited. I love to watch the gears work in a boy’s mind,” Romy says.
“It’s like looking into a blown lightbulb,” I offer.
I sit back and fan myself with the menu. It’s a hot afternoon, and as the day has gone on, it’s gotten more humid. We’ve done a lot of running around, a lot of subways.
Mr. and Mrs. Santry enjoyed relaxing by the lake in Central Park. They passed on the ferry and the Empire State Building. Smart. They agreed to meet us back in Brooklyn later. I think they are having a second honeymoon—parents in love, but it’s okay. Mr. and Mrs. Santry deserve a little fun.
I love to watch people when I’m sitting at an outdoor café.
The sidewalks are filled with rush hour workers heading toward the subway station, on their way home. I squint in the distance and see someone familiar. My heart begins to race.
Mrs. Pullapilly comes toward us.
With each step she takes, I realize it isn’t a mirage, or a look-alike; it’s really her, and we’re in trouble.
I nudge Andrew, who looks in Mrs. Pullapilly’s direction.
When he sees her, he says, “This is bad.”
“What?” Suzanne asks. “I shouldn’t get the burger?”
“Get whatever you want.” But what I really want to say is…Run!
Viola in the Spotlight Page 13
