Viola in Reel Life by Adriana Trigiani
“That was a good show. Thank you for thinking of it,” he says.
“Thank you for the cookie.”
He smiles at me and my heart beats really fast and loud, like a banging drum in an empty theater. I’m afraid it’s too loud, but thank God, the motor on a distant snow-blower covers any strange sounds coming from me.
When we get to the bus stop, Jared reaches into his backpack. “I picked this up for you.” He gives me a paperback book called Making Movies by Sidney Lumet. “I don’t know if you have it or not.”
“I don’t. But I love Sidney Lumet,” I tell him. “Nobody captures New York City on film better than he does.” I hold the book close. My first book from Jared Spencer, and my second gift—after the cookie of course.
“It’s one of the best books ever about making movies,” he says.
“Thank you.” When it sinks in that he actually thought of me and bought me a book about our mutual love, making movies, I blush. He’ll think it’s the cold temperatures but I know it’s the warmth of my feelings. “How’s your storyboarding going for your movie?” I ask him.
“It’s going to work out. A farmer in Goshen, Indiana, who has an organic farm is letting me film there. How about you?”
When my roommates encouraged me to enter the competition, I emailed Jared right away. Not that I needed his permission, but he did tell me about the contest first, and I wanted him to know before I told anybody—including Andrew, Caitlin, and my parents—that I was entering.
“I have a sort of strange idea. I’ve been wondering if it would be a good subject. A plane crashed on the campus of Prefect Academy in 1925.”
“Okay…” He listens.
“Onboard was a young actress destined to be a great movie star, like Bette Davis or Joan Crawford or Myrna Loy. But the plane crashed and she died before she fulfilled her potential and became a big star.”
“What’s the story?”
“That’s the story. Her story.”
“No, no…” Jared smiles. “I mean, what’s your take on the story?”
“I guess I’m not sure yet.” The snow crunches under my feet as I shift by the bus stop.
“You don’t have to have all the answers just yet,” Jared says. “But tell me more about the actress.”
“Okay, well, when I went home with Suzanne for Thanksgiving, her mom took us to the the Art Institute of Chicago. And they had an exhibit about Midwestern Americans and their contribution to American movies. And I was walking through and read about the actress who died in the crash. Her name was May McGlynn. And it’s sort of ironic that she died on the PA campus since I’m going to school there.” I conveniently leave out the part about how I think she’s been haunting me. This is only our second date after all.
“It’s the start of something.” Jared buries his hands in his pockets. “You know, it’s all about the story. What are you trying to say? And why tell it? You have to answer those questions before you begin to break down the story into scenes and write the script.”
I lift up the Sidney Lumet book. “Are the answers in here?”
He laughs. “A few of them.”
“Well, guess what I’m going to stay up and read tonight?”
Jared looks at storytelling in a way that I don’t. I learned how to make movies from my parents, who have worked in documentary nonfiction. Generally they do not plan ahead; they immerse themselves in a world and find the story after filming hours of footage. It’s a definite style—to film everything you can about a subject and then get into editing and find the through-line. Jared has an entirely different approach. You choose a subject, develop a story, and then you pick up your camera.
The bus from GSA pulls up first in front of the bus stop. My heart sinks. I don’t want this night to end. Nothing is as good as being together and actually having real conversations. Texting is okay, and emailing is fine, but I just like being with Jared—the two of us. Talking. I wonder if he feels the same.
Jared turns to board. “You know, I wish we had more time,” he says, almost reading my thoughts.
“I know. Me too.” I look off into the snow drifts, and everything seems impossible—like spring will never come and Jared and I will never have enough time to hang out and get to know each other.
“Well, this will have to do,” he says. Then he leans down and kisses me. This time I’m able to appreciate the kiss because I was more prepared, and anticipated it. I keep my eyes closed just a few seconds longer; then we say good-bye.
I open my eyes.
My fourth kiss, this one at the bus stop on the Saint Mary’s College campus in South Bend, Indiana, right after a blizzard. I’m counting this kiss, adding it to the three previous kisses. Of course I’m counting! Four kisses, one hand-holding, one giant chocolate chip cookie, and one Sidney Lumet book. I think I have an actual boyfriend. Jared waves to me from the window as the bus pulls away from the stop.
The van from PA pulls up in front of the bus stop. I climb in, holding my book.
“Whatcha got there?” Trish asks as she bounds up the steps behind me.
“Sidney Lumet’s book about making movies.”
“Coo,” she says.
I have a few goals for my time at the Prefect Academy, and one of them is to get my RA to put an L at the end of cool when she uses the word. “Yeah. Very,” I tell her. But I’m in a forgiving mood. “It’s very, very coo.” I laugh.
When I get back to the quad, Suzanne is reading in her bunk while Romy works at her desk. Marisol is at the library.
Suzanne looks up excitedly. “How did it go?”
“Great,” I admit. “He gave me a book.”
“A present on the first official date? This is major,” Romy exclaims.
“I know. I wasn’t sure he’d actually show up, and he did.”
“You have to have some confidence. Jared Spencer is crazy about you. Trust me. I know,” Suzanne promises.
“Did he kiss you again?” Romy asks.
I nod. “A good-bye kiss in the snow.”
“God, this is so romantic. Kissing in the snow. I mean, it’s a movie, even if you guys weren’t movie geeks—your love affair is so cinematic,” Marisol says.
“I wouldn’t call it a love affair.”
“I would!” Romy says. And she would—believe me, if she got Kevin Santry to kiss her, it would be on the main page of the PA newsblog. She’d probably do a blast to the entire freshman class announcing the liplock.
“I really like him,” I tell the girls. “He bought me a cookie and he let me choose our seats for the show.”
“How suave.” Romy lies down on her bed with a dreamy look on her face—no doubt thinking of Kevin Santry.
I undress and get into my pajamas, pulling on my robe for extra warmth. I jiggle the radiator steam release to throw some more heat into our room.
I look out the alcove windows. The fountain, covered in snow, looks like the whipped cream on top of a sundae. The sculpture of fish is covered in a drift, and the snow is so deep, you can’t see the bench. Even our windowsills are covered in white up to the sash.
I grab my laptop and climb into bed, pulling the covers up. I instant message Andrew.
Me: You there?
AB: How’s it going?
Me: I went to a lecture tonight with Jared.
AB: I went to Olivia’s to study.
Me: How’s it going?
AB: Great.
Me: That’s nice. I’m coming home for Christmas. I hope you can carve out some time for me.
AB: Of course. R U crazy?
Me: What about Olivia?
AB: What about her?
Me: Will she mind?
AB: I’ll send her to the beauty parlor when you’re home. That will take 6 days.
Me: Uh-oh.
AB: What?
Me: Trouble in the love zone?
AB: Nah.
Me: Glad to hear it.
AB: What about Jared?
Me: He’s going
AB: Sure, we can hang.
Me: Great. I have lots to tell you.
AB: Cool.
Me: I mean a lot. About everything.
AB: I get it.
Me: Great.
Something very strange is happening with my BFFAA. Andrew and I used to talk once a day, and now we talk once a week. He doesn’t really want to video conference and sometimes when I IM him, he doesn’t respond right away, whereas when I lived at home, it was like he was sitting there waiting to hear from me. We’ve always had instant access to each other. But it’s almost as though the moment he got a girlfriend, I got bumped. I never thought that would ever happen! Even looking to the future, if we go to colleges in different states, I figured we’d stay solid. I thought Andrew and I were a for-sure, forever-and-always team. Dating (his and mine) has done strange things to my old friend.
Sometimes I wonder if Suzanne is right—maybe Andrew is jealous of Jared. But that’s just too weird. We know each other so well.
When I go home to New York for break, one of the first things I will do, after ordering in doubles of cold noodles with sesame sauce from Sung Chu Mei, will be to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan to go to Scoop in the Village. After I’ve bought myself one nice thing, I will sit down with Andrew face-to-face and say, “What the eff? What happened to us? Let’s remember who we are and what we came from.” I’m going to say it just like that. And I can’t wait to hear what he says.
The Christmas season was practically invented for people like Trish. She’s the kind of person who has twinkling white lights in her ficus tree year-round and, as soon as Thanksgiving passes, puts a wreath crammed with glass balls on her door and displays her collection of vintage elves on her nightstand. She is so into it. Surprise.
The seniors are in charge of gathering and creating evergreen garlands for each floor. They have a hot chocolate party and go into the woods with hacksaws to pick the best greens.
The juniors make the red velvet bows to go on the garlands, which is an easy job because from the looks of it, they just save the bows year to year and pass them down. Basically, they unpack boxes as their contribution to holiday cheer.
The sophomores decorate the tree in the entrance hall, which is ginormous and has old-fashioned Roma lights in red, green, and blue threaded through the branches. There is an ornate brass menorah in the window, and just to make sure all bases are covered, Kwanzaa candles are lit in the dining hall.
The freshmen are basically the grunts for the sophomores, and we also have to sign up for caroling groups to go into South Bend and sing for the locals.
To top it all off, the school gardener places nondenominational sprays of evergreens on the entrance doors to the main buildings. The atriums have a million pots of poinsettias and webs of twinkling white lights on the ceilings, which are pretty at night. Ho. Ho. Ho.
I go online about seventy times a day to check the status of my flight home on December twentieth with a return on January third. I’m flying out of O’Hare in Chicago. I’m worried about blizzards, malfunctioning engines, and the fine-print problem where the airlines give up your seat without alerting you. If that happens to me, I will pitch a hissy fit. Nothing can prevent me from going home! If I have to go by dogsled, I will be in Brooklyn for Christmas.
Trish is going to drive me to the airport and even two hours of torture stuck in a car, just her and me, cannot for one second quell my excitement at getting home, back to my neighborhood, my room, and my world.
“Everybody is totally jealous of you and Jared,” Marisol says as we drape the garland down the center of our hall.
“Marisol, getting a boyfriend is not an achievement in life.” I climb the ladder to secure the garland to the ceiling.
“You can say that because you have one,” Marisol says, spotting me from the floor.
“I guess that’s true.” I make a loop with the garland through a hook.
“You were the least likely in our quad to find personal happiness.”
I climb down the ladder. “Why do you say that?”
“You didn’t throw yourself into the PA experience.”
“For the record, I don’t throw myself into much. Except film.”
“I know.” We’re quiet for a few minutes, unwinding more garland. Marisol is unusually quiet. I feel bad. I know I talk about Jared a lot. Marisol doesn’t seem to mind, but still.
“What’s up with you? You don’t seem like yourself.” I watch her face and she just shrugs, looking even sadder.
“I just found out I can’t go home for Christmas break.”
“What?” Now I feel horrible that I’ve been talking nonstop about breaking out of here for the holidays.
“Mom and Dad are going down to Mexico to be with my grandmother. They think this could be her last Christmas.”
“And they’re going to leave you here?” I’m shocked.
“They can’t afford to bring me home and go take care of my grandmother. So I volunteered to stay here because I knew it would be easier for them.”
The idea of Marisol getting stuck at the Prefect Academy over Christmas vacation practically breaks my heart. “I know! Maybe my folks could drive out and you can come home with me.”
“Do you think?” A smile begins to creep across her face.
“My parents are totally flexible. They’d love it.”
“My parents would be so happy that I wasn’t alone on Christmas.”
“Consider it done!”
As Marisol and I hang the garland, I tell her everything about New York. She’s never been there, and boy, is she in for the trip of a lifetime. Wait until she sees the Empire State Building and the Hudson River and the Saks Christmas windows. I’ll take her to see The Nutcracker at the New York City Ballet! She won’t have time to miss her parents. It will be a whirlwind of fun.
The work tables in Hojo’s film classroom are long and deep. Suzanne, Romy, and Marisol sit across from me as I lay out my plans to make a movie about May McGlynn.
“I’d like to thank you all for taking time out of your busy skeds to meet me here.”
“Knock it off, Viola. It’s just us.” Suzanne opens her notebook.
“Sorry.”
“We could have met in our room,” Romy complains. “We have snacks.”
“No, I want this to be…professional,” I tell them. I give each of the girls a printout of my proposal for the movie that I want to make and submit to the Midwest Secondary School Film Competition. Ever since talking with Jared about it, I’ve been thinking and thinking.
As the girls read, I tap my pencil nervously on the work table. I look out on the grounds, where a group of sophomores return from snowshoeing in the great woods behind our school.
“Okay.” Suzanne puts down the paper.
“I’m done,” Marisol says.
“Me too.” Romy looks at me.
“What do you guys think?”
“This is a life story that has it all. May is a young and beautiful starlet,” Marisol says. “Then fate steps in.”
“She dies young,” I say. “Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. She tells her life story at the site of the crash.”
“Cool. I like it,” Romy says.
“I’m directing and shooting the film with my camera. I need a producer to do the budget. I need a costume and set designer and I need actors. This is where you guys come in….”
“I don’t know how I can help. I’m not arty at all,” Romy says.
“You don’t have to be. A producer handles the budget. And you’re really good with math.” I give Romy an envelope. “My mom forwarded me a sample budget for a short-subject film, and I thought you could create one for me. I’m going to film on video and cut it on my own Avid, but part of the competition is that you have to show a budget.”
“Okay. I’ll figure it out.” Romy opens the envelope and unfolds the document.
“And Marisol, you have a good eye. I thought you
“Sounds like fun.”
“So what do I do? Make the popcorn for the premiere?” Suzanne laughs.
“No, you’re going to play May McGlynn.”
“The dead girl? Cool!” Suzanne high-fives Romy. “I never thought I’d be in a movie!”
“Principle photography will commence February first, here on campus. The deadline for submission to the contest is March tenth, so I figure we’ll film for three days, and then I’ll do my edit and submit by the deadline.”
“We’re really going to make a movie? Really? Quad 11 is actually going into show business!” Romy is enthralled. Her blue streaks have practically disappeared from her red hair, and she’s let her bob grow out. I think she’s going for a more sophisticated look, probably to appear older to Kevin Santry whenever they meet again.
“I’ll have a script to you guys by Christmas break, so you can prepare.”
I feel very Hollywood promising everyone on my team a script. But like every writer who ever had an idea, I only have the germ of it. I have the character of May—and a life story that ended in tragedy. Is that enough? I hope I will find the story as I’m writing. I’ll be calling on my muses to guide me—including May McGlynn.
TEN
FINAL EXAMS FOR THE FIRST SEMESTER ARE ALMOST over. Grabeel Sharpe delivered toys to needy kids, and I agreed to go with Jared, but at the last minute, with the possibility of failing the ninth-grade bio exam, I decided to stay in and try to pass the thing. We haven’t had another date. So, as of December 9, 2009, I’m in a holding pattern of four kisses, one hand-holding, one date, one cookie, and one book. The IMs and texts are at, like, a record-breaking number at this point. When you add it all up, it’s perfectly great (because I wasn’t expecting anything at all in the social department), but I’ve also learned, with the guidance of Suzanne, to never count on much when it comes to boys, because then you will not be disappointed. So far, that’s become the backbone of my romantic philosophy. My good luck and excellent fortune with Jared Spencer has lasted longer than Trish’s box of salt water taffy that she opens when you go into her room to discuss “problems.” This, in my life, is a triumph already.