Viola in the Spotlight Read Online Free PDF

says.
    I IM Suzanne in Chicago.

    Me: Don’t tell me you have a summer job too.
    SS: I do. Dairy Queen.
    Me: Ugh.
    SS: I’ll be sick of Blizzards by the end of the summer, but right now, I’m having one a day for free.
    Me: Enjoy.
    SS: Ha.
    Me: Mom and Dad rented the basement apartment to a theater director. He has a son. He is exactly fifteen like us.
    SS: Psychic flash: potential new boyfriend for you.
    Me: I doubt it.
    SS: Your heart belongs to Andrew. I knew it!
    Me: You and Marisol should form a chat room to discuss Andrew and me. No, thankfully, he is over Olivia, which gives us time for our BEST FRIENDSHIP. I would never trade best friend for boyfriend. Ever.
    SS: OK. OK. I hear you. What’s the British guy’s name?
    Me: Maurice. But it’s pronounced Morris. When I met Mr. Longfellow, he called me VEE-OH-LA. I didn’t correct him because I don’t know how much of it is accent related. How’s your dad?
    SS: Some days better than others. He sends his love to you.
    Me: Love right back!
    SS: I wish you were here.
    Me: I wish YOU were HERE.

    I imagine Suzanne at the Dairy Queen. I remember how we loved going to the DQ in South Bend. Peppy Trish loved a dip cone, and she turned all the girls from the East on to them. You have to go way south like Virginia or way north like Vermont for a DQ. I hear there’s one in Queens, but that has not been verified.
    I wish there was a way to have my roommates from Prefect close, and still live here and keep my friends that I grew up with, all in conjunction, and simultaneously. I imagine there’s a world where that could happen, I just have to figure out how .

THREE
    MRS. PULLAPILLY MAKES A KILLER TANDOORI CHICKEN. Slow cooked, rubbed with spices, and hot, hot, hot, it’s a perfect summer meal. Andrew and I will do anything to score a dinner invitation when Mrs. P fires up the clay pots. She also makes this very soft bread, which she throws on the grill, to serve with it. Vegetables are always delish at their house, as they are finely chopped and there’s a fresh dressing on them. No matter how many times I ask my mom to try to copy the dressing, it never comes out the way the Pullapillys make it.
    The dessert is always amazing. And at the end of the meal, Mr. Pullapilly roasts pineapple and serves it with some kind of vanilla yogurt. “To cool the taste buds,” he says.
    The Pullapillys live on the outskirts of Bay Ridge in a new Indian section, complete with stores that sell their spices and favorite foods. Their apartment is on the bottom floor of a new apartment building. They have a common garden with the other tenants, which is planted with all sorts of exotic flowers and greens (probably to remind them of the climate they come from). The apartment is decorated in deep green and white, with fabric tapestries on the walls. The living room furniture is low and comfortable. There’s a small gurgling tabletop fountain on a side table in the entry.
    “You know, Mrs. P, when I was marooned in boarding school, one of my dreams of home involved your tandoori chicken.”
    Mrs. P laughs. “Well, you and Andrew are my biggest fans. I assure you that my sisters and mother make a far better chicken than I do.”
    “Let’s hope I never taste theirs, because as far as I’m concerned, yours is the best.”
    “Dad made mint tea,” Caitlin says as she pours me a glass and then Andrew.
    “Did you miss my mint tea, too?” Mr. P wants to know.
    “I sure did.”
    “Did you get a job for the summer?” Mrs. P asks.
    “I’m working on it.” It seems no adult on the planet will rest until I get a summer job.
    “Dr. Balu went to a lot of trouble to give Caitlin a job.”
    “I’m very grateful, Mama.” She smiles.
    “How about you, Andrew?” Mr. P asks.
    “I’m going to camp,” he says, taking a sip of his tea.
    “Wonderful!” Mrs. P says as she serves us the delicious chicken from the clay pot. A mist of spices rises up from the pot, and my mouth waters.
    “I