Viola in Reel Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

my “Vote for Pedro” T-shirt and cupcake jam pants because they had holes in them. I’ll be mad at her until the day I die for that one. This is one thing all mothers have in common. When it comes to boarding school, or sleepaway camp, or a visit with the grand-p’s, a girl needs a new wardrobe from the underwear out.
    Besides that, there won’t be time to shop for clothes or anything else because we’ll be too busy studying, and there aren’t any mothers around to run to the mall on a whim and pick up something we might have left behind. You have to have everything you need from day one. My stuff is all packed in Ziploc bags and marked by season. My mother is very methodical that way.
    Every once in a while, Marisol unconsciously sings a bar of music, which is irritating. If she keeps doing it, I’ll have to say something. People who sing aloud while wearing earpieces should be banned from group living.
    I slip on my headphones and listen to my voice-over, which I already recorded over the footage of my exile from Brooklyn. My mom films Andrew and me saying good-bye on the steps of our house in the neighborhood that I love.
    The car is packed and Dad is motioning for me to get into the rental car the color of a ripe tomato. Mom hands me the camera as she climbs into the front seat.
    I move the camera back to Andrew. He does this hilarious thing where he drapes himself on the wrought-iron fence in front of our house and pretends to sob like it’s going to kill him that I’m leaving. He looks like Buster Keaton in those old silents that Dad makes me watch. I keep the camera on Andrew’s histrionics as I climb into the car and shoot him out of the window until Dad makes the turn at the end of Austin Street, and Andrew ends up the size of a chocolate chip in the shot. Then, fade to black. Andrew Bozelli is gone. Or I’m the one who’s gone.
    I left Brooklyn two days ago with my parents. We drove through Pennsylvania, a bit of Ohio (staying the night in Sandusky), and then to Indiana, north to South Bend. It already seems like a hundred years ago. It’s been just eight hours since they unpacked and left me, and I really miss them. It’s only ever been the three of us, and I guess Ithought it always would be. To be fair, my parents wanted to take me with them to Afghanistan. But they will be traveling with a news division filming a women’s solidarity group and there was no way that I could be homeschooled, as they would be on the move. It’s also dangerous—but I refuse to think about that .
    Mom spent a “wonderful” year at the Prefect Academy when she was in the eleventh grade and is still friends with the girls she met here. Her mom, Grand, is an actress who was touring with the national company (bus ’n’ truck they call it) of the Broadway musical Mame starring Angela Lansbury (who Grand adores). Grand was the understudy for the Vera Charles character, and there was just no way to take Mom on the road with her. Mom’s father had remarried and Mom didn’t want to live with his new family, so she wound up at the Prefect Academy.
    The footage of my parents from this afternoon jumps onto the screen. I must have been nervous because the camera moves in fits and starts, like it has the jitters.
    I first filmed my mom as she stood on the tree-lined avenue that leads to the fountain. Mom’s hair was a mess from the car trip. She gave herself highlights from a home kit the night before we left, and they look like strands of red yarn on brown velvet on this video. My dad joins her, putting his arm around her waist.
    My dad is losing his hair and has a strong profile, as sharp as a cartoon. He is handsome, my mom always says so. I don’t think daughters can give proper assessment of their father’s looks; he is just Dad to me.
    My parents are a team—they met in film school. They are great cameramen, though Mom is a far better editor than Dad, who my mom says can be indulgent. I don’t think that’s true.