Viola in Reel Life (7 page)

“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.

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.”

“So, you’re stumped?” I ask her.

Mrs. Zidar smiles. “Maybe you could tell me more.”

“I’m going to be an artist. And I read a lot about artists,” I begin.

“Go on.”

“My parents are filmmakers, my grandmother is an
actress, so I’m sort of surrounded by creativity.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Well, it is and it isn’t. I spend a lot of time in a land of make-believe, if you know what I mean. I imagine things. And I think that’s how I got started imagining her.”

“Her?”

“The ghost.”

“You think you’ve seen a ghost?”

“Trust me. I’ve seen her.”

“What does she look like?”

“Like an old movie star, except she’s about twenty-five. And she wears a red dress and a black hat and shoes with buckles…of course, last time I thought I saw her, she was just a flash. I call her the Red Lady.”

“Viola, have you ever heard of the subconscious mind?”

I shake my head.

“It’s the engine that drives your imagination. It never sleeps. Did you ever take your camera out to film something, and you imagined what you were going to film and suddenly the light changes and you see in front of you what you saw in your mind?”

“All the time.”

“Well, that is your subconscious mind.”

“You mean I’m normal? Even though I’m seeing ghosts?”

Mrs. Zidar smiles. “You’re becoming an artist. You’re beginning to listen to the voice inside you and you want to interpret that voice. That’s what artists do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re not sleeping well because you’re thinking about what you’re going to create.”

“You mean I’m putting a movie together in my mind?”

“The beginning of something. I don’t know if it’s a movie, but it’s
something
.” Mrs. Zidar looks at me. “I want you to think about what that means—and where inspiration comes from. You know, the place where art is born.”

Quad 11, like every other quad that is filled with the seventy-five members of our freshman class, smells and feels like the main room at Super Cuts hair salon. I don’t know how the power grid at PA will take it. We’re all getting ready for the dance—blow-drying, hair-spraying, putting on makeup, and some of us, even ironing our outfits. The school buses are lined up outside like a row of yellow Smith Brothers’ cough drops waiting to be filled with PA girls looking their party best.

Romy started at around four o’clock fussing with her outfits. She’s changed, like, twenty-seven times. It’s
always the athletic girls who need the most time when prepping for a dance. This is not their comfort zone. They are most comfortable in uniforms, so they need extra time to put the right look together. Marisol tried a new hairdo for the dance (always a mistake). She used a flat iron to make her hair straight, and now she’s crimping it with an iron (right there, a hole in the ozone layer with all the hair spray she has used tonight).

Suzanne breezed in from her shower and threw on, like…pencil-leg jeans and a white lace blouse and looks perfect.

I put down my blow-dryer. I brush my hair into place. My bangs are exactly two centimeters long enough to go behind the tops of my ears. This is a victory greater to me than acing my horticulture midterm. (No ho-hum results for me.)

The crimping is going to take Marisol right up to the time we have to board the bus and since I’m ready, I turn on my computer to check my mail. I IM Andrew, who I can see is signed on.

Me: I’m going to a dance tonight.

AB: Why?

Me: To dance.

AB: With guys?

Me: Yeah.

AB: Why would you go?

Me: Because my roommates are making me.

AB: Oh yeah. Right.

Me: It’s not like I want to go. I have to. I’m being forced into being a team player.

AB: I get it.

Me: How’s it going there?

AB: The same.

Me: Have you seen Tag Nachmanoff at school?

AB: Do you still like him?

Me: Yeah. But he’s too old.

AB: Get in line. He’s got, like, five girlfriends.

Me: Caitlin says two.

AB: Two or five—what’s the diff?

Me: Right. Two or five or a million. It’s impossible. Of course, if it were possible…maybe. But it’s impossible and I don’t try to achieve the impossible.

AB: Okay. Gotta go.

Me: Bye.

And the strangest thing happens—Andrew signs off. Totally signs off. He never totally signs off; he usually gives me a minute or two to think of additional information, a sort of instant message pause. But there is no
grace period to add to our dialogue. He is gone. I turn off my computer, and sit, sort of stunned. “Okay,
that
was totally bizarre.”

Marisol is dabbing Benetint blush on her cheeks. “What happened?” She smears in the rosy glow.

“Andrew was peevish about the dance. Sort of defensive.”

“He’s jealous,” Suzanne says as she looks into her mirror.

“No way. We’re BFFAA. We are
not
boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“He may not know it yet but he’d like you to be his girlfriend,” Suzanne says. “A boy doesn’t hang around out of friendship.”

“How do you know that? Is there a book or something?” I ask.

“If there is, I’d like to read it.” Marisol pulls on her best jeans. They have leather laces on the sides of the legs. I think they’re a little too cha-cha for our first dance, but what do I know? I’m in a Delia’s jumper. I could be off the mark by two fashion cycles myself.

“It’s common sense.” Suzanne puts on mascara in front of her mirror. “My brothers are very practical about girls. They don’t waste any time on ones that won’t be potential girlfriends. And they only aim for ones who
will say yes if they ask them out. This should tell you everything you need to know about boys. They only go after what they
know
they can get. We girls, on the other hand, aim really high. We take a leap, like that guy you told us about, Viola….”

“Tag?”

“Yeah, Tag.” Suzanne flips her head over and fluffs her hair from underneath. Then she stands up and every hair, I swear, falls perfectly into place. “Take that boy, Tag. He knows every girl likes him, so he gets to sit back and pick which girl, out of all the girls at your old school, he is going to ask out. If I were you, I would scratch him from your list.”

“I can’t scratch him off; he’s like…my highest dream.” Now I’m sorry I ever confided in these girls about TN.

“Rule number one about boys: Do not waste energy on what will not bring you results.”

Romy sits down on Suzanne’s bunk. She smoothes the tulle layers on her micromini party skirt that she wears over her best jeans. “I know that’s true from science. Energy has to be fed from a source. If you don’t feed the source, it dissipates entirely.”

“Same is true of liking a boy. If you cut off the thoughts, if you stop pining, you’re free to find a boy who is attainable.”

“I can’t give up Tag.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he’s like an A on a paper you worked really hard on. He’s a trophy after you win the districts in field hockey. He’s like Shia LaBeouf who walks among mortals in Brooklyn.”

“He’s a dream,” Romy says.

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s all fine, but he’s not
here
,” Suzanne says, making more sense than I’m willing to admit. I live in enough of a dream world as I long for Brooklyn, make movies, and keep a video diary.

I’d like a little reality to tell you the truth. Maybe I’ll find some at Drab Dull.

As the bus pulls into the entrance of the Grabeel Sharpe Academy for Boys, you get an official military feeling. I had this reaction when visiting the historic battlefields near Waterford, Virginia, that my dad and mom dragged me through on a car trip so I might “understand the Civil War.” The front gate is made of stone, with an enormous shield that says “GSA” in gold lettering and has a symbol that looks part eagle and part machine in the center.

The girls are laughing and having fun on the bus, and I have a feeling of impending doom in the pit of my stomach. If there’s one thing I hate it’s meeting new
people in a large group, especially a group of boys.

I think it’s sort of crazy to have to make friends at a new boarding school, and then haul us over to
another
boarding school to meet even
more
people—like, enough already. I’d be willing to go to a dance next semester, but now, in the heart of November, it seems way too soon. I’ve only adjusted to life at PA since, like, last Tuesday, and now it’s all being shook up again.

It’s not that I’m nervous. There are definitely girls on this bus who are nervous, who are made jittery by the idea of boys, but not me. Ever since the Founder’s Day show, I feel very calm about who I am—as if I found a way to express myself that is truthful and very “me.” It’s the only way I can say it. I loved being creative and seeing my ideas realized in front of an audience. I’m not afraid of anything, not even boys. Awkward? Okay, maybe. But afraid? I have nothing to be afraid of. I know who I am. And if a boy doesn’t like it? Well, too bad for him.