Free Viola in Reel Life by Adriana Trigiani Page A

of the show,” Mr. Robinson confides as he closes his laptop.
    “Thanks for your help,” I tell him.
    “Nope, don’t thank me. This is all you, Viola. And that program you bogarted out of Brooklyn.”
    “That made a difference,” I agree. I’m really happy with how it turned out.
    Romy, Suzanne, and Marisol come down the aisle to join me.
    “That was amazing,” Romy says.
    “Sorry I shouted like that. It’s just that the backdrop was so gorgeous,” Marisol gushes.
    “You knocked it out of the park,” Suzanne agrees.
    I look at my roommates who are so proud of me that it makes me proud.
    “Group hug!” Marisol says. Suzanne and Romy swarm me with Marisol. This is the closest thing I will ever feel to having actual sisters. I’m so glad they came.
    “Viola? Can you come down here please?” Diane calls from the orchestra.
    “Gotta go. I’m getting notes,” I tell them. Two weeks and I’ve already got theatrical lingo down. As I gather my stuff, my roommates turn to go. “Hey, guys.”
    They turn as one and look at me expectantly.
    “Thanks for showing up. You’re the best.”
    My roommates smile and I watch them push through the door of the mezzanine to the upper lobby. I feel, for the first time since I unpacked at PA, that I have a purpose. I’m doing something. Who knew that something would be a Founder’s Day show? And who knew that the best audience would be my roommates?
     
    I head back to Hojo after dinner to do a run-through of my computer images on the stage. It was hard to concentrate earlier when there were so many people around. Diane gave me my notes and there are a couple of adjustments I have to make. I wish Andrew were here to help me. We’d knock it out in no time.
    I push open the door to the theater. The work lights are on, bright beams of white light that turn into murky gray pools when they hit the painted black floor of the stage. I walk down the side aisle and climb the steps to the stage. I turn and face the 300 seats in the theater. It scares me to stand here when the place is totally empty. I feel tiny, as though I’m standing on the ledge of the Grand Canyon. I don’t know how actors do it. I admire Grand even more knowing she has to actually act on different stages all around the country in front of total strangers. She is very brave.
    The scent of a flowery, powdery perfume fills the air. Theaters have a specific smell, a mix of wax, paint, and perfume that is worn either by the audience or the actresses—or maybe a mix of both. Whenever I went to the theater with Grand, I noticed the heavy perfume, and she said it was “the ghosts of drama past.” I should’ve put that in my paper for Mrs. Carleton’s English class. I bet I would have swung a B+ instead of a B-. Oh well.
    I walk backstage into the wings and look over the racks of costumes. The characters’ names dangle off the crook of the hangers. The costumes are pressed neatly in place and are organized by scene. The corresponding shoes rest in a neat row on the shelf above the rolling rack. On a table close by are wooden forms that hold the hats of each era, also arranged by scene. The hats smell like expensive perfume, roses, and honey. They’re vintage hats with brims of velvet, satin bows, and fronds of feathers. Some have flounces of netting, others have hat pins made of rhinestones and pearls stuck into them. The work lights catch the facets of the rhinestones. They sparkle like the sun hitting the water in the fountain outside our room at dawn.
    There’s a table along the backstage wall, behind the skrim, marked with tape for the props from each scene. Putting on a play is a very methodical and organizedprocess. I pick up a wooden ladle and a matching bucket, careful to place them back where I got them. After we do our show all of this will be put away, stored for another production. I’m a little sad to think I don’t have an artistic venture planned after this one. And I wasn’t counting on