Viola in Reel Life (12 page)

“I don’t know.” Suzanne shrugs again.

“Well, she didn’t come home with him for Thanksgiving.” Romy is persistent.

Marisol and I look at each other. I want to say to Romy, “Does it matter if it’s serious? He’s in
college
. He has college girls around him all day in class and all night in a coed dorm. Forget him. Find a nice guy at Grabeel Sharpe—there’re a million of them and they’re attainable.”

“I don’t think it’s serious,” Suzanne says in a tone that is way too encouraging. Suzanne, like all younger sisters of older brothers, is clueless about girls who like her brothers as potential boyfriends. Suzanne sees her brothers as geeks, whereas we see them as cute and older.

“Your dad seemed to have a great time,” I say supportively, and as a way to change the subject.

“Yeah.” Suzanne smiles. “He loves to have us all at home, and he loved having you guys there.”

Jared Spencer IMs me, like, the minute we walk into Curley Kerner and drop our duffels.

JS: Are you back?

Me: Yep. Just. The picture of your baby sister is really cute.

JS: Thanks. Mom says she looks like me.

Me: Lucky her.

JS::)

Me: Thanks for the application to the film competition. 15 to 18 minute short-subject submission? That’s a lot of time to tell a story. Don’t know if I can pull it off.

JS: Sure you can. You just have to choose a subject.

Me: Thinking about it. How about you?

JS: Organic farming in a shrinking farm belt.

Me: You’ll win
.

JS: Think so?

Me: Know so. Organic farming is so in the moment. So green. I mean, that and the melting of the polar ice cap are hot subjects.

JS: No ice cap. No funds to go and scout. Besides, the movies have to be about the Midwest. And there is only so much to say about the Midwest.

Me: Tell me about it.

JS: Gimme a sec. I have to say bye to my roomie.

I turn to the girls. “There’s a film competition for high school students in the Midwest. Jared just emailed me.”

“Are you going to make a movie together? How romantic!” Romy says.

“No, he’s going to make a movie—maybe I’ll just help him.”

“Why would you do that?” Marisol wants to know.

“Why
wouldn’t
I?”

“Because you film movies too. Why tag along on his? Make your own,” Marisol says.

I’m about to disagree, but she’s right. He sent me the application. I should think about entering a movie. I’m in high school. I’m in the Midwest. Why not?

Jared comes back online.

Me: Bus is taking us to a lecture series over at Saint Mary’s College next Tuesday.

JS: Who is speaking?

Me: Wendy Luck, the performance artist. According to the flyer, she plays the flute and sings to a video narrative about her Russian/Jewish ancestry and her foremother’s journey of immigration to the States
.

JS: Interesting
.

Me: Want to go with me?

JS: Sure.

Me: Great. I’ll get the details and e you back.

JS: It’s a date.

Jared signs off.

“He wants to go to the lecture series at Saint Mary’s.” I’m so excited to have an official date after the official first dance that my voice squeaks.

“Aren’t those lectures boring?” Romy unpacks her duffel.

“Romy, it’s not about the lecture. It’s about Jared Spencer. It’s a
date
,” Suzanne says.

“It is, isn’t it!” I marvel.

“Of course it is. You’re going to an event, and it involves tickets and advanced planning. Therefore, it’s a
date
.” Suzanne says this with such authority, I can see
her becoming a lawyer someday and swinging juries in her client’s favor. For now, I’m sold.

I unpack my clothes and make a laundry pile to bring down to the basement. Boy, have things changed around here. I really gained some cache when I met Jared. Never underestimate cache.

It’s like some miracle. I didn’t see this (a real boyfriend) happening to me for years. I thought most boys were dorks (can provide a list) or unrealistic reaches (Tag Nachmanoff) or strictly pals (Andrew Bozelli) but Jared Spencer doesn’t fit on any of those lists. He’s cute, he’s smart, and he’s into the exact same things I am.

The current status of Jared and me (us) gives me a warm feeling—like I belong somewhere—even though I only have one night of talking, one full moon, and three kisses to go on. The rest I’m filling in from instant messages, pictures, and emails. I’m getting to know him, but as far as our quad is concerned, it’s already a done deal—I officially have a boyfriend.

WHEN IT SNOWS IN INDIANA, IT DOESN’T FALL TO THE
ground silently, melt into pools of gray slush, and then turn black from soot and traffic like it does at home in Brooklyn. Rather, it accumulates several feet deep on the ground, pristine and white, and then the wind blows it around, turning it into drifts that look like giant swirls of meringue.

As the snow blows across the flats, high winds clear paths leaving sheets of ice underneath as though somebody shoveled it, but they haven’t; it’s just the way it settles in South Bend.

Snow, like everything else in Indiana, is a new and different experience for me.

It’s only the beginning of December, but I can already
predict that winter in the Midwest will be a doozy. It’s hit freezing temperatures, so layers of snow gear—as many as I can pile on—will define the winter of 2009. Thank goodness for my mother and her anticipatory Ziploc bags full of mittens, scarves, and long underwear. My mom must’ve remembered the South Bend winters in the 1980s and planned ahead.

About seven girls from PA decided to take the van to Saint Mary’s for lecture night. My roommates decided to sit this one out and let me brave my first real date with Jared alone. Trish is the chaperone, and her
joie
gets even worse when she’s off campus and in charge of an outing. She’s downright sparkly on the drive over to the college.

But so am I.

I have a date.

A real date.

My first real date.

Tickets required.

Advanced planning.

Perfect.

So far.

Jared and a few of the upperclassmen from GSA wait in the lobby of the theater. Some look at paintings displayed by Saint Mary’s college students; others mill
around the concession table where they sell coffee, tea, brownies, and homemade cookies. Jared waves to me as we enter the main doors. It must be forty below outside, but I don’t care. I feel completely warm and welcome when I see him again. He’s even cuter than he was when we met at the dance. And he seems taller as he walks toward me—not that I care so much about that.

I stomp the snow off my boots and take off my red wool hat with the giant orange pom-pom.

“Elf hat.” I hold it up as Jared comes over.

“Cookie?” he asks, giving me a large chocolate chip cookie in a wax paper sleeve.

“Thanks.”

I bite into the cookie, the first official food of our first official date. He preplanned the treat of the cookie, which makes me savor it even more. He had to think about what to get me before I got here, which is pretty wonderful in and of itself. If I had to imagine a perfect evening, it would be just like this—where the boy (or boyfriend!!!) actually did something nice for me without me fishing or having to ask first. Jared Spencer, you are winning my Brooklyn heart.

O’Laughlin Auditorium is a 1,300-seat theater at Saint Mary’s College that is part of a larger facility called Moreau Center for the Arts. The theater is cavernous,
reminding me of the big Broadway houses where my mom and dad take me to see Grand perform.

We’re allowed to sit anywhere we want, so I follow Jared down the side aisle to the third row. “Is this okay?” he asks. Only about thirty of the 1,300 seats are filled.

“Sure.” After we peel off our coats and gloves, we settle down into our seats to watch Wendy Luck, the flutist/singer/actor dramatize the story of her family’s Russian Jewish roots.

Jared takes my hand when the lights go down, and I think between the warmth of his hand and the sweetness of the cookie, I could close my eyes and go to sleep in total bliss. But I won’t. I want to be awake for every second of this date. I want to remember every detail of it, including the way his shirt has the scent of bleach, and his skin, of lemon and a little cedar. Just enough. Perfect.

I was a little worried on the way over here that Jared’s feelings might have changed. What if he didn’t show up? And if he did, what if he were aloof, and had decided that I wasn’t the girl he remembered from the dance and that he would do what all boys seem to eventually do—second-guess his choice and drop me instantly and find somebody new who does match up to the picture in his head?

I have seen with my own eyes, time and time again, how at first a boy will act interested and then, just like the early snowflakes of December, fall in lazy, unpredictable spirals, abandon all logic, and a girl has no idea where she stands. Jared Spencer, I am finding out, is
not
one of those boys.

Miss Luck’s show is good—very deep. It would do well in one of those fringe theaters in Manhattan’s East Village. She is beautiful, with piercing blue eyes and a powerful singing voice. She’s a good storyteller, and the story of her grandmother’s trek from Minsk to Milwaukee is fascinating.

When the performance is over, Trish waves to me to meet the group at the bus stop in a few minutes. Trish honors a date when she sees one.

We go out into the lobby where Wendy Luck signs our programs. She writes:
To the cutest boy in Milwaukee
to Jared, and
I like your hat
to me.

When we leave the theater, I see Trish talking to the Saint Mary’s organizer of the event. This buys me a little time alone with Jared.

He walks me toward the bus stop and threads his arm through mine. I lean on him as we walk where they’ve thrown down salt to melt the ice. We go carefully, not because of the ice, but because we want to slow down
this night to a crawl, to squeeze in as much time as possible to be together. At least, that’s what I’m hoping because that’s what it feels like.

“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 home to Milwaukee.

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.