Viola in the Spotlight (4 page)

“I’m going to invite Maurice up for dinner. Mom is, like, totally making me responsible for him.”

“No problem,” Caitlin says.

“There won’t be if you don’t say anything to your parents. Do
not
tell your mother there will be a foreign guy here. If you do, she’ll have him frisked and bodyguards sent over, or even worse, she’ll keep you at home.”

“Got it.”

Here’s what I love about cold sesame noodles from Sung Chu Mei. First of all, they feature two of my favorite foods: pasta and peanuts. Dad says there aren’t actual peanuts in the sauce—that it’s sesame I’m tasting—but to me, cold sesame noodles taste like creamy, but spicy, peanut butter on spaghetti. If that sounds gross to you, all I can say is you need to come to Brooklyn and try them—and then, like me, you will dream of them whenever you leave home and can’t have them. I hope to someday personally go to China and thank the people there for the best food import,
ever
.

Our roof is not fancy. The floor is basic loose gravel covered by tar paper and a layer of green-friendly eco-tarp. There is a four-foot safety fence all the way around the perimeter. We have three chaise lounges and a wooden coffee table painted sky blue. Mom hides the roof vents with a trellis of beach roses. She comes up here to read, Dad to think, and I come up with my friends to hang out.

“Be careful up there,” Mom says as she hands me the brown bag from Sung Chu Mei.

“Ma, I’m
fifteen
,” I remind her, as if she doesn’t know, and as if my birthday is not seared on her brain.

“That’s why I won’t come up to check on you,” Mom says, getting those creases between her eyes that tell me she’s going to worry no matter how much I reassure her. “Because I trust you.” She gathers paper plates, napkins, and chopsticks from the kitchen cabinet. “I think it’s nice that you’re including Maurice.”

“It would be rude not to.”

“Still. I’m proud of you.”

“I just spent a year at an all-girl school. A little testosterone is nice, if just for observational purposes.”

Mom throws her head back and laughs. “I’ll tell your father you said that. He will like the idea of observation.”

“I live to serve.”

Mom goes to the sink to clean up some dishes, and for a second, I want to tell her all about Jared Spencer, not just the little bits she knows, but absolutely everything. I want to tell her about how I met him at Grabeel Sharpe Academy, and how he kissed me and gave me Sidney Lumet’s book, and how we went together to Wendy Luck’s one-woman show on the Saint Mary’s College campus, and how when we were in competition with each other at the film festival, he dumped me because my movie was better. But I don’t. If I tell my mother all this, she will worry that I’m way into boys and might end up like Esme Amberg, who fell in love with a boy and ran away from Prefect, never to return. I’m not boy crazy like Esme, I’m just hopeful that someday I will have what I once did with Jared Spencer—when he was a good egg and before he went rotten on me.

“You need something?” Mom turns to face me, wondering what I’m still doing there.

“Nope. Send Caitlin up when she gets here.”

I climb the steps to the third floor and then through my parents’ bedroom to the roof. I could never do anything against the rules in this house, because everything is connected. All you have to do is stand on the landing and you know everything that’s happening on a particular floor. I figure Mrs. Pullapilly knows that or she wouldn’t let Caitlin come over
ever
. And nobody wants to hang out at Caitlin’s, because it’s just too uncomfortable. They serve suspicion over there for snacks.

The roof is truly a sanctuary. I set the take-out bag down on the table, along with the plates and utensils. I go to the street side of the roof and look out over the fence. The streets below are summer busy, lots of visitors and neighbors out to shop. I can hear thumps of bass lines coming from cars, and the occasional cacophony of horns, and more than one “
Yo
.”

I look out over the neighborhood and see other rooftop gardens. Some are flat and plain, with only an air-conditioning unit and some old pots as decoration, and others are way too fancy, as if they were inspired by terraces on a palace overlooking a kingdom other than Bay Ridge.

The Melfis have an awning with tassels, while the Hounsells have a fountain next to a picnic table. There are all sorts of ways to “roof it.” The Chesterton roof is serviceable and plain, just like we like it.

“Hal-lo,” Maurice says from the porthole to the roof.

“Come on up,” I tell him.

He climbs up onto the roof and walks over to the fence. “This is an amazing view. So many buildings.”

“By the end of the summer, you will know them all, and who’s living in them,” I tell him.

“I doubt that. I’m not very good with names.”

“I’m Viola.”

He laughs. “I can remember that.”

“And…,” I continue, “we say More-
reece
in the states, but in the UK, you are Morris.”

“Brilliant,” Maurice says, meaning the opposite of brilliant.

I’m boring our tenant to death already. And let’s face it, anything he says with that British accent sounds way smarter than anything I say with my American one. “Now, don’t make fun of your host. Sarcastic doesn’t play on the roof in Brooklyn.”

Maurice sort of exhales, like I’m all right after all.

Suzanne taught me that boys are very simple to understand when it comes to girls. If a boy talks to you at all, he probably likes you. Girls are not that way, in my experience. We’ll talk to anybody, and it doesn’t have to wind up as a date.

I take a good long look at Maurice as he surveys my neighborhood, and decide, right now, in this moment, that he could be a
friend
, but not a
boyfriend
. I am not compelled by him as I was by Jared Spencer, and I’m not instantly comfortable with him as I was with Andrew when we were little in Mommy, Music, & Me classes at Chelsea Day School, and then every day since. I exhale in relief. I let go of that uncomfortable tension that comes with unmet expectations. Instead, I will demonstrate a genuine interest in him and his opinions. “So, what do you think of New York so far?”

“I rather like it.”

“You’ve only seen the airport and Brooklyn.”

“Everyone has seen Manhattan, whether they have ever set foot on the island or not. Think about it. So many movies made with New York as a backdrop. It’s almost as if there’s no need to visit, because you know it already.”

“Good point.” I’m impressed that he thinks things through so thoroughly. That has not been my experience with boys in general. Even Jared Spencer needed the occasional reminder that he wasn’t the only person on the planet. “Well, you know, the same is true of London. There’s Big Ben and the Thames, and Buckingham Palace. I’ve never been to London, and I feel like I have.”

“There’s so much more to it. Places like Brick Lane….” Maurice’s voice trails off. I think the excitement of landing has worn off and now he’s homesick.

“What’s so special about Brick Lane?” I ask.

“My friends.”

“Hi!” Caitlin says as she climbs through the porthole onto the roof. “Your mom sent me with the drinks.” She hauls our mini-cooler up. Maurice turns at the sound of her voice. “I put my duffel in your room.”

As Caitlin emerges from the landing, she appears like a goddess in a myth, coming out of the earth. Her long hair is ruffled by the wind like shiny strands of black licorice. Her baby blue T-shirt is piped in white ribbon, while her jeans have rhinestone studs on the pockets. Caitlin, though she is Indian, is a lot like the Italian girls in my neighborhood. Exotic brunettes like a little dazzle in their wardrobe.

Maurice, who was perfectly normal ten seconds ago, suddenly goes all shy as Caitlin approaches.

“Caitlin, say hello to Maurice from England.” I turn to Maurice.

“Nice to meet you.” Caitlin smiles.

I swear, it’s like Maurice can’t handle her smile. He’s turning ten shades of red.

“Are you hungry?” I ask Caitlin.

“Starving.”

“How about you?” I ask Maurice.

“I am.”

“Well, make yourselves at home. We’ve got sesame noodles, vegetable dumplings, and sautéed green beans.”

“Sounds delish,” Caitlin says.

“You guys have no idea. Well, Maurice, we’ve just met, but I had to spend last school year in a boarding school, and of course, I missed my friends, but second on the list of things I learned I could not live without was…cold sesame noodles.”

“I understand.” He smiles and sits on one of the chaise lounges. “I miss my mother’s shortbread.”

Caitlin helps me unload the take-out from the bag.

“What’s your favorite food, Maurice?” Caitlin asks. “Besides your mom’s baking.”

“Indian.”

She laughs. “You’re just saying that to be polite.”

“No, I’m not. My favorite food is kuttu ki puri,” he says.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“My mom makes them.” Caitlin beams. “They’re puffy potato balls fried in oil.”

“In London, they are filled with different things,” Maurice explains, scooting the edge of his chaise closer to Caitlin’s.

“Little bundles of savories—like vegetables, or sometimes mixtures of meat and spices,” Caitlin says.

“I like the vegetables best,” he says.

“Me too,” she agrees.

Then the craziest thing happens. It’s as if I, the host of the evening, have evaporated like a bubble into thin air and am floating above the roof and over Bay Ridge into the harbor. Maurice is over his shyness, and Caitlin revels in his knowledge of her Indian culture. They
like
each other.

I can’t wait to IM Suzanne and tell her that her theories about boys need a redo, because Maurice was totally comfortable with me from the start, while he was shy/nervous/longing with Caitlin. He has, in fact, already totally fallen for Caitlin, who made his throat close with nerves, and not for me, whom he could talk easily with.

Cupid dropped a love bomb over Bay Ridge, and these two are sucking fumes. Even Jared Spencer and I had a slight warm-up period, where I wasn’t sure if it was me or my camera he was interested in. But these two? They found common ground over Indian cuisine with the fried potato puffs, whatever they are, and they haven’t stopped talking since.

A sliver of a periwinkle moon appears through a dusting of clouds. It lingers over us like a shard of pretty ribbon. I don’t think Caitlin and Maurice notice that the sun has set, that they haven’t eaten, or that I’m here. I turn on the old string of bulbs that light the roof. They don’t even notice the twinkle. This is how it goes, I’m thinking, when you meet The One.

“Is it too hot in here?” I ask Caitlin.

“Not at all.” She lies back on the pillow inside her sleeping bag, while I, feeling the heat, lie on the outside of mine.

“So what did you think of Maurice?” I ask her.

There’s a long pause, and then we both start laughing so hard, I’m afraid it might wake my parents.

“He must be deported immediately,” Caitlin jokes.

“I’ll call the authorities in the morning.” I play along.

“He’s wonderful.” Caitlin turns over and props her face on her hand.

“But you think everybody is wonderful,” I tell her.

Caitlin nods. She knows it’s true. “What can I say? I see the good in everybody.”

“So what’s so great about Maurice?”

Caitlin takes a deep breath. “He has beautiful green eyes.”

“They’re green, all right,” I agree.

“And he knows a lot about Indian culture. I feel like he totally understands me.” Caitlin lies back down on her pillow. She is quiet for a long time.

“What’s the matter?”

“He leaves on August thirtieth. That doesn’t give us much time,” she says sadly.

When I was at boarding school, in the beginning, when I really and truly hated it, I took out a calendar and counted the days I had to be there—it was 142 days total, and it might as well have been a million. Time passes slowly when you’re miserable, and so fast when you want it to stay. I know this from experience. “Caitlin, instead of getting all sad about it, why don’t you just have fun?”

“I guess.”

“Maybe you’ll hate his guts by Friday. You never know.”

“True. But I doubt it.”

“You don’t have to figure everything out tonight.”

The whirl of the old fan drones in the dark. Caitlin goes off to sleep with dreams of the green-eyed boy from London. I remember Jared Spencer and how I felt the first time I met him at the dance at Grabeel Sharpe—and how my stomach was doing flip-flops at the thought of him. I halfway think that’s the best part of love, the beginning. But it doesn’t matter now; Jared Spencer is so far away, he might as well be a dream.

FOUR

“WHAT’S WRONG?” ANDREW OPENS THE DOOR TO the Bozellis’ apartment in Cobble Hill. It’s a large loft that used to be a bakery. It is big and plain, with lots of floor space, built for boys. It always smells like popcorn, and there’s a pile of men’s and boys’ beat-up, ratty tennis shoes by the door. Four guys add up to a lot of shoes.

The only proof that Mrs. Bozelli lives here is the fancy umbrella stand with a drawing of a woman in the rain on it. It’s just about the only feminine touch in the whole place. I barge right in and throw down my purse. This loft is like my second home, but it’s changed since I went to boarding school.

“Nice.” I look around. The Bozellis painted the living room bright red and added big, soft, overstuffed chairs and a sofa, covered in white washable canvas slipcovers.

“Mom said she couldn’t take it anymore. She needed a change. All of a sudden she wants nice things, now that we’re all teenagers.”

“Can’t blame her.”

“You want a soda?”

“Sure.” I sit down on the washable slipcovers and can actually smell the bleach. “How were your cousins?”

“They have a sailboat. We went out on Long Island Sound.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Not really. My uncle Bill assigns everybody a job. It’s not like you can sit and enjoy the view. I was in charge of wrapping these giant ropes that secure the sail. And then, when you’re sailing, you have to keep adjusting them or the thing will tip over.” Andrew looks at me. “Okay, so tell me what’s going on.”

“Caitlin and Maurice are over at my house right now with my mom. Maurice is teaching Mom how to make scones for proper tea.”

“That’s cool.”

“Caitlin told her mom that she’s with me.”

Andrew thinks for a moment. “You realize this will never work.” Andrew pulls a cold bottle of Stewart’s cream soda (my fave) from the fridge and hands it to me.

“I know I said I didn’t have a job this summer—but now I do. I’m in the unpaid position of keeping Caitlin and Maurice’s dates a secret.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. They’ll probably break up before Mrs. Pullapilly finds out about it. Anything that happens this fast is doomed to failure. Maurice is only here till the end of summer.”

“Doesn’t matter. Time is not an obstacle for true love. We were on the roof, and I swear when they looked at each other, it cued the doves to start cooing. This is for real. They’re soul mates.”

“That’s something girls made up to make guys stick around.”

“I’m mildly insulted.” I take a swig of my soda.

“Olivia used to say that we were soul mates. First of all, my soul doesn’t have a mate, nor can it date. I kind of resented it every time she said it. It didn’t make me feel good, it freaked me out—like there was some other parallel universe involved in having a girlfriend and going out for pizza and going to movies.”

“That might be true for you. But it’s not for Caitlin. I’m telling you, it was like that mysterious marshmallow-scented steam that comes up out of the manholes that nobody can quite figure out—like a fog came up the side of our building and drugged them.”

Andrew says, “Wait and see how it plays out.”

I can always tell when Andrew is done with a topic. “You want to go to the Village?”

“If we don’t go shopping.”

“We can go over to Hudson River Park.”

“Great.”

Andrew grabs his keys. He texts his mom and I text mine to tell them our plans. One of the best things about having a lifelong BFFAA in Andrew is that my parents don’t freak out when I want to go somewhere with a boy. I don’t know what I’d do if I were Caitlin. I don’t know what I’d do if my parents were suspicious of me and my friends. I hope I never have to find out.

Here’s the crazy thing about our new British tenants: They totally fit in. I don’t mind Maurice showing up for breakfast, and my parents like it when Mr. Longfellow stops by for a glass of wine after rehearsal. Mom breaks out the Italian cheeses and salami. They sit around and talk about all kinds of stuff, while Maurice and I hang out in the living room texting our friends.

Mom has become an expert scone maker. She even went to Cobble Hill and picked up special tea and jams. Maurice feels bad that Mom goes to so much trouble. He said all he needs is a pot of tea and a biscuit or two, nothing fancy. (Biscuits are cookies.) But Mom loves a culinary challenge, not to mention anything that expands her international horizons, so for now, she’s into proper tea for our temporary guests.

I’ve learned a few things about tea since the Longfellows moved in. Never squeeze the tea bag into the cup; it turns the tea bitter. There’s no fancy way to make tea. Maurice makes the tea in Mom’s old pot with plain old bags of English Breakfast and boiling water. Lemon and honey are better choices than milk and sugar.

“Hi, guys.” Caitlin comes into the kitchen with a bag from the grocery store. “Clotted cream for you, Mrs. Chesterton.”

“Thanks, Caitlin.” Mom puts on her oven mitts and takes the baking pan of scones out of the oven. Maurice smiles at Caitlin, and she smiles back. I fade into the wallpaper like a cabbage rose in the pattern.

“You know, I’d love to invite your mom over for tea sometime.” Mom slides the puffy scones off the tray with a spatula and onto one of the platters from Grand’s wedding china (first marriage).

“She’s very busy,” Caitlin says quietly. “With her job.”

“Is she going to take any time off this summer?”

“We go to Woodstock and rent a house for two weeks when Dad takes off.”

“How nice.” Mom spoons the jam into a small bowl.

Mom’s invitation for Mrs. Pullapilly to join us was like a sudden storm cloud covering the sun and turning the afternoon dark as night. Maurice, who knows by now that there are rules regarding Caitlin, busies himself pouring tea, as I gather the sugar and cream.

“It’ll just be us for now,” I chirp, hoping to break the mood. I slather the clotted cream on the scone and take a bite. “Mom, let’s move to England!”

Caitlin and Maurice laugh, and for a moment, we aren’t thinking about anything but scones; we’re just having fun.

I give Maurice a MetroCard. The sooner he’s comfortable getting around on the subway, the better. He will need to meet his dad after rehearsal (it’s not held in the theater in which the play will run), and I don’t want to spend the summer taking Maurice everywhere he needs to go. I give him a map. “So you take the Q to Times Square. And then you go to the rehearsal space at Forty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue.”

“I got it.” He turns to Caitlin. “See you tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Caitlin watches Maurice go down the stairs to the subway.

“I’ll walk you home,” I tell her. “Are you going to tell your mom about Maurice?”

“He’s only here for the summer.”

“Good point.”

“I mean, if he went to LaGuardia and I felt like this, I might have to tell her. But Maurice will only be here until the end of August, and I think it’s best if I don’t say anything.”

“Whatever you want to do is fine with me,” I tell her.

And then, for the rest of the ten-block walk, we don’t say a word. In all the years I’ve been friends with Caitlin, we never ran out of things to say. But today is different. Please don’t let Caitlin be one of those girls who changes when she likes a boy. I don’t think I could take it.

In honor of the old days, when Andrew and I would make movies about whatever random subjects we liked, we’ve decided to take our cameras to Coney Island to make a short documentary about Mermaid Day. A regular trip to Coney Island on any summer day is always fun, but on Mermaid Day, it’s an
experience
.

MD truly is, next to Christmas, my favorite annual holiday.

Every third Saturday in June since anyone can remember, mermaids have invaded the boardwalk on Coney Island and held a parade. It’s the official kickoff for the summer beach season.

Mortals, women dressed up as mermaids, come from everywhere to honor the goddesses of the sea. They are swathed in gold lamé, wear serpentine wigs with sprayed curls, and every single one has a version of a tail fin as part of her costume. They paint their faces in sea colors and wear wild net headdresses and drippy earrings and necklaces made of heaps of pearls and branches of coral.

The mermaids are all ages, from babies to grandmothers. There are even families of mermaids. Mothers push their babies in strollers, swaddled in sequined costumes. They promenade down the boardwalk to island music, lifting their dazzling fins held up by invisible wires. It is street theater.

Crowds of onlookers, including my friends and me, come from all the boroughs to watch the parade. There are floats with mermaids nestled in giant seashells, and tableaus of mythic sea gods brought to life.

It’s a filmmaker’s dream, color
and
story in one fabulous parade. After the parade is done, a queen is crowned, then the boardwalk turns into a carnival. We eat pierogis, play games, and wait on long, long lines to go on the ancient wooden roller coaster, aka the Cyclone. If you’re lucky, you get to share your seat with a mermaid.

Andrew, Caitlin, Maurice, and I take the Q train from our stop to Stillwell Avenue. It is packed, standing room only. Andrew and I stand and grip the metal poles for balance, as our video cameras in their cases hang safely around our necks. Maurice stands next to Caitlin, whom he scored a seat for. I am not surprised. Maurice has the best manners on earth, and not just because he’s British. He’s been raised well, Grand says. He is a total gentleman and he treats Caitlin delicately—like a fine bone china teacup.

“Yo, scootch over.” An old Italian man in a linen jacket gives Maurice the elbow, then grabs the bar over the seats.

“Pardon me?” Maurice says to the man.

“I said, yo, scootch over. I need some space here.”

“Oh yes, right, right,” Maurice says, making room for the man.

The crowded train is a challenge for genteel Maurice. Proper English manners don’t exist on the Q. Maurice is being poked and shoved, and the passengers never say
excuse me
. Maurice is experiencing the end of civility with one ride to Coney Island.

Maurice is the kind of boy who behaves a certain way to impress a girl. When the train stopped and the doors opened, Maurice boarded the train first, surveyed it, and found a seat for Caitlin. He asked a lady to move her shopping bag to make room for Caitlin. I think the British accent threw her, so she moved the bag quickly. Americans still take orders from the Brits, at least when it comes to seat hogging.

Andrew can’t believe that Caitlin and Maurice are an item. It’s only been a few days, and no way Andrew believes in love at first sight. He told me he thought that it was impossible to know you like someone after one night of take-out and talking, and a few afternoon teas with scones. Sometimes Andrew is way too practical for his own good.

The train shakes from side to side as it takes a curve. I am thrown up against Andrew. He grabs me before I fall and steadies me. “You’ve gotta get your sea legs back.”

“You got that right.” I haven’t ridden the subway for a year, and I’ve totally lost my sense of balance and technique. I used to be able to ride the curves and bumps like a surfer, without holding the bar. Now I grip it with both hands. I don’t remember the train being so loud, either.

Maurice takes Caitlin’s hand. Andrew looks at them, and then he looks at me. I shrug. No law against hand holding when you’re fifteen and riding the Q.

“Have you heard from that guy?” Andrew asks.

“What guy?”

“You know.” Andrew looks out the window to the dark walls of the train tunnel. Oh, I get it; he sees Maurice and Caitlin holding hands and it reminded him of all my emails about Jared Spencer. “That guy from the military academy.”

“Jared Spencer.”

“Yeah.”

“He sent out a group email to all of his friends to tell them that he was going hiking in the Grand Canyon for summer vacation. No personal note or anything. I was part of the bundle.”

“Nice.” Andrew rolls his eyes.

“That’s what I thought. I’m pretty special, aren’t I?”

“He’s an idiot.”

“Not totally.” After all, I did date Jared for a whole semester and through one entire Christmas break. We shared a total of eight kisses, six hand holdings, two tickets to a one-woman theater show, and one holiday gift exchange. He was a good boyfriend until the Midwest Secondary School Film Competition, where he went all weird on me. But all in all, as far as boys, conversation, compliments, and mutual interests go, he was actually okay.

“Don’t defend him.” Andrew’s eyes go squinty, and he gets a look on his face that he gets whenever he’s annoyed. It’s the same expression he’d get when we were six and a mean kid would come along and smash his sand castle at the playground in Prospect Park or when a kid did the same thing to me. No friend is more loyal than Andrew Bozelli. “You deserve better than Jared Spencer. That guy was rude to you.”

“Don’t worry about me. I
get
boys. Totally.” At least I did when Suzanne Santry was around. Now? Not so sure.

“You
think
you do.” Andrew smiles.

“Hey, I’m a matchmaker. Look at my handiwork.”

Caitlin whispers in Maurice’s ear. He laughs.

“And this was tough—an international hook-up,” I tell him.

Maurice and Caitlin talk nonstop, utterly fascinated with each other. Talk about a connection. They remind me of a story Marisol gave me to read at Prefect about a couple of monks, who lived in silence and saved up their words for ten years, and finally, when they got a chance to talk again, they couldn’t stop. Caitlin was never this chatty, she was more the listening type, but Maurice has changed all that.

“Okay, maybe you’re smart about
other
people. But when it comes down to you, you don’t get it. That guy Jared was jealous of you.”

“I broke up with him. So now he doesn’t have a reason to be jealous.”

“Here’s the deal. You’re a better filmmaker than he is, so he used you to make himself better.”

“Oh, like Olivia Olson didn’t totally control you?” I snark.