Viola in Reel Life (8 page)

Mrs. Zidar stands up in the front of the bus and holds on to the silver pole next to the driver for balance. She’s traded her mom jeans for a plaid wool skirt and navy blue twinset, which makes her look like a Scottish flight attendant. At least she has a good haircut and wears makeup. If Mrs. Carleton were our chaperone tonight, we’d have to be worried about what she’d
wear. Mrs. Zidar, as a therapist, probably understands this and gussied up so as not to embarrass us. “Girls, a few words before we attend the dance. First, we are guests here at Grabeel Sharpe, so please, respect the physical buildings and landscape.”

“Why doesn’t she just say don’t litter or write graffiti?” I whisper to Marisol.

“And remember your manners. Some of the freshman boys at Grabeel Sharpe may be a little shy, and it’s up to us to make them feel at home.”

I raise my hand. “They
are
at home; we are the intruders.”

The girls on the bus laugh. Mrs. Zidar smiles. “Yes, Viola, that’s true. But I know our Prefect girls, and you’re warm and delightful and charming, and you are able to put everyone at ease. So why not tonight at your first dance?”

“Cool.” I shrug. I may have a totally blasé attitude, but I’m having outfit remorse. This velvet jumper with the wide straps feels like a belted feed sack, which is very appropriate because lined up behind my classmates, I’m beginning to feel like I’m on my way to the slaughter.

My jean jacket, with an embroidered Juicy logo on the back (authentic), is not warm enough for the November chill. I have on black tights and dark blue suede ankle
boots. My camera hangs around my neck, as I promised Mrs. Zidar and Trish I’d “record” the first dance for posterity. I’m relieved I have my camera with me; it gives me something to do. When all else fails, there’s always art itself.

The foyer of Grabeel Sharpe smells like oats and Pine-Sol. They must have scrubbed the place before letting us off the bus. The interior walls are made of big blocks of gray stones, with giant brown crisscross beams on the white ceiling. It has the feeling of the outer lobby of a theater hosting a Renaissance fair.

On the walls are portraits of men who look like versions of Ralph Waldo Emerson and George Washington: oil portraits framed in ornate gold, the men wearing ruffly shirts with black jackets and stand-up collars. Drab Dull Academy deserves its nickname. The people who founded this place look stuffy and stern and boring.

“I hope they have good snacks,” Marisol says as we follow the crowd.

“They will,” Trish says from behind us.

“Like what?” I ask her. Trish looks pretty in a jean miniskirt with a billowy blouse, not unlike the ones worn by the founding fathers of GSA. She has her hair down and poofed out. You hardly notice her Invisaligns.
“Marisol and I like to eat more than dance.”

“They’ll have good stuff like sliders and French fries.”

Marisol smiles. “My kind of party.”

We follow Mrs. Zidar down the grand hallway through a set of wide doors that lead to the party room. The first thing I notice is that it’s very cool in the room, as wide doors at the far side of the room are open to a large garden where there’s a DJ set up. The room has tall windows on both sides, with long navy blue velvet curtains tied back with red braided cords. A series of dimly lit wrought-iron chandeliers hang overhead.

The food table is filled with good stuff, just like Trish promised: I see nachos and quesadillas and sliders and a giant tin of caramel popcorn. There’s a tower of cupcakes by the punch bowl. Marisol’s eyes widen when she sees the cupcakes.

Mrs. Zidar shakes the hand of a man who must be the GSA chaperone of the dance. They laugh like they’ve been through this a million times, which oddly enough, makes me feel better about the whole evening. The freshman dance has probably happened every year since 1890, which takes the pressure off.

Trish is greeted by some hot-looking upperclassmen who must know her from somewhere like resident
advisor training. They flirt with her, which puts Trish in an entirely different category than I have had her in all these weeks. The guys don’t seem to mind the braces, and when I look at Trish from a distance she looks pretty. I see why they like her; she’s easygoing and fun.

Out on the patio, we see the clumps of freshman boys. They wear gray slacks and navy blue blazers with red-and-gray striped ties. I’ll have to get a shot of Mrs. Zidar with them—as they look like pilots on the airline for which she wears plaid. Andrew will get a kick out of this back home. The entire concept of uniforms and mandatory dress codes is lost on him.

“Hi,” a boy says from behind me. I turn around to see a tall boy with a nice face. He wears glasses and his bangs are long and pushed forward, but the back of his black hair is short. There must be rules here about haircuts. I look around. Most of the boys here have short hair; nobody has long hair like Andrew or Tag Nachmanoff.

“Hi,” I reply, suddenly shy.

“What kind of camera is that?” he says.

“A Canon XH A1,” I answer.

“Me too.” He holds up the same camera hanging around his neck. “I’m Jared Spencer.”

“I’m Viola Chesterton.” I smile.

Behind Jared, Suzanne, Romy, and Marisol give me a
thumbs-up and head for the sliders. Now I have to talk to this new boy.

The first thing I notice about Jared is that he’s massively cute (a good but prominent straight nose, nice lips, and long neck—necks are not something you notice unless one is absent—but his is nice). The second thing I notice is that he’s comfortable. He doesn’t seem rattled at all by this strangely formalish dance, or clumsy when it comes to meeting new people. It’s all very natural to him, which puts me at ease. (I kind of can’t believe it. A total surprise.)

“So, would you like something to drink?” Jared asks.

“Sure.”

As we walk to the punch bowl, I can feel a bunch of eyes on us. And I don’t mind it.

“What are you going to film tonight?” he asks.

“I was going to play it by ear, just have some fun with it.”

“Me too. Have you made a film yet?”

“Not exactly. So far, I keep a video diary. My parents are doc makers.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They’re in Afghanistan right now doing some work for a network news division. They’re part of a team filming a movie about Afghan women.”

“That’s really cool.” Jared smiles. He has a wide smile and good teeth. I wonder if he wore braces. It sure looks it. Jared pours a glass of punch and gives it to me. At the far end of the party room, I see Suzanne holding court, introducing Romy and Marisol to a group of boys. “Are those your roommates?”

“How did you know?”

“You came in together. That’s pretty much the way it goes at boarding school—on field trips you stick with your posse.”

I laugh. “A field trip?”

“Well, it’s a dance—but to me, anyplace they take us on a bus is a field trip.”

“Good point.”

“Where are you from?”

“Brooklyn, New York.”

“That’s cool. I’m from Milwaukee.”

“What are you doing here, at this school?”

“Every man in my dad’s family went here. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“Me either. I never wanted to come to boarding school and I sure didn’t want to come to boarding school in Indiana. The good news is I only have one year of this and then my parents will be home and I can go back.”

“A year isn’t so bad,” he says.

He’s right. It’s not the end of the world like it was back in September. Soon it will be Thanksgiving and then Christmas and I figure the spring will go quickly. “No, it’s not.”

Suzanne, Marisol, and Romy are now on the dance floor. Some guys join them—they actually seem like they’re having fun.

“Would you like to dance?” Jared asks.

“I guess so.”

As Jared and I set our cameras on a shelf that is filled with trophies, I think of Tag Nachmanoff. Whenever I imagined my first dance, he was always the boy who would take me in his arms and I would look up at him, and have to go up on tiptoe just to sort of make the waltzing work. And he would whirl me around the room effortlessly and I would follow, like a long silk scarf during an Isadora Duncan-style dance. I imagined this moment so many times that I feel a little disloyal dancing with Jared when it’s been Tag all this time. But I have to get over it. I’m in Indiana, not Brooklyn, and Tag is juggling dances with Lucy and Maxine and wouldn’t even have the time to squeeze me in anyhow.

Jared takes my hand, which seems a little weird but mostly polite. We join my friends on the dance floor and I introduce them over the music.

I glance around and see Mrs. Zidar standing with the GSA chaperone as they look on with approval. Our first freshman dance is already a success and so far nobody has spilled punch, spray painted the walls, or set the velvet curtains on fire.

As we dance, I look off beyond Jared to the fringe of the dance floor. Some of my classmates look bored, and others so uncomfortable this might as well be a trip to the dentist. I feel badly for them. I almost feel guilty having a good time, as if there’s only so much happiness to go around, and it’s just luck if you get a portion.

Marisol dances over and grabs my hand. Led by Suzanne and Romy, we make a ribbon through the crowded dance floor, almost running and laughing. Trish is chewing on a minipizza as she talks with an RA from GSA. She waves as we pass her.

Jared stands by waiting for me, laughing with the other boys. The dance we started went by the wayside when I joined my friends in this nutty conga line. I grab Jared’s hand as we pass, and pretty soon all the guys on the dance floor have joined us. The DJ ramps up the music as we snake through the party room and out onto the terrace. I’m totally out of breath when Jared says, “Follow me. I want to show you something.”

We go back into the party room and pick up our
cameras. I throw the camera strap over my head. It nestles around my neck comfortably. He does the same with his and I follow him outside. Normally, I might feel a little weird going off alone with someone I just met, specifically a boy, but somehow the cameras give us a purpose. We’re two filmmakers, really, like my mom and dad who work together. Even though we’ve just met, my inner voice tells me he is totally cool. So I go with it.

Jared sits down on the low stone wall near the DJ’s stand and flips his legs over the side. He extends his hand for me and I do the same. Once on the other side of the low wall, we head down a footpath with lowlights buried into the ground, lighting the way. I look back at the main building. I can hear the music and the laughter, and for real, the GS Academy looks like a castle.

“Check this out,” Jared says. He motions for me to follow him in a sharp turn on the path.

Before us is a lake with an old rickety pier extending out to the center. A series of canoes lie on the shore like yellow matchsticks. The moon overhead pours silver light onto the lake, turning it a shimmering blue. The cold November wind ruffles the edges of the water. I can hear the soft shift of the moorings as the water laps against it.

“This is beautiful,” I tell Jared. I flip the lens cap off
my camera and look through it. Just enough light to get some movement on the water. Jared slips off his lens cap and takes a different angle of what I’m filming.

“I come down here all the time,” he says. “I was hoping the moon was bright enough for you to get some of the scenery tonight.”

“It’s just bright enough,” I tell him. “This is really nice.”

I focus on the light on the water, then widen out to take in more of the lake until it turns into black murk in the distance.

Jared stops filming before me and walks down to the edge of the pier. I follow him and we sit on the end and look out over the water.

“Milwaukee’s pretty close to Indiana. Do you go home on weekends?”

“Not much. My dad and mom are divorced. My dad remarried and has a family….”

“You could visit your mom, couldn’t you?”

“She just got remarried too.”

“Do you like your stepparents?”

“They’re okay.”

I don’t know why, but I’m very interested in what Jared Spencer comes from. I don’t want to sound like I’m prying, but I’m very comfortable with him. Maybe
all those hours hanging out with the Bozelli brothers have made me a halfway decent conversationalist when it comes to boys. I’m not nervous at all. I want him to like me, I guess. And at the same time, I can tell that he does, and that makes me smile.

Jared looks out over the water. “What about your parents?”

“They’ve been together since college. I’m an only child.”

“That’s really cool.”

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“There’s just me with my parents. And then my dad has two stepkids. And my mom is pregnant with a new baby.”

“So you were an only child until they divorced.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that means we have something else in common.” Jared looks at me and smiles. “And all I’ve ever wanted is to live in New York City.”

“Really?”

“It’s where all the great filmmakers are trained. I read a lot about the USC film school, but I really like NYU. And then there are all the New York filmmakers like Darren Aronofsky, Nancy Savoca, Martin Scorsese, and Spike Lee. I admire them all a lot.”

“So do I.”

“Who inspires you?”

“Well, my parents are really great documentary filmmakers. I love Albert and David Maysles and Constance Marks—she made this amazing documentary called
Green Chimneys
. My mom and dad are big fans. And Michael Patrick King, of course. They call him the King of Romantic Comedy.”

I get up and stretch my legs. I’m feeling a little guilty that I promised to film the party, and I haven’t shot one frame. “Have you ever made a movie?”

Jared stands up next to me. “A short subject. I did a story about an old lady in Milwaukee who decorates sugar cubes,” he says.

“You’re kidding.”

“I know. It seemed like a dumb thing.”

“I didn’t mean that,” I clarify. Boys can be sensitive too. They’re just not known for it. “I meant it sounded interesting.”

“It was. It started off about old-world craftsmanship but became so much more. I interviewed her and watched what she does—she decorates the sugar cubes in miniature with tiny roses, or daisies, or letters, and then she boxes them and sells them.”