Viola in Reel Life by Adriana Trigiani

and it was a sellout crowd, mostly because every teacher in every class at PA made attendance mandatory for credit.
    Some of the teachers who have been around here since the 1980s tell me it’s the best Founder’s Day they ever saw, and I got my own applause because Diane Davis made me stand up and take a bow during the curtain call. Now I’m sure I’ll be hit up for every camera- and scenery-related project on campus. That’s okay. I can always say no. And who knows, I might even say yes. I’ve never been treated this well. Trish made big comedy and tragedy masks for our quad door and trimmed them in glitter in honor of opening night. She made sure that I had a bunch of roses too. She’s cool that way.
    Mom and Dad video conference from Afghanistan:
    “You guys look exhausted,” I tell them.
    “We are,” Dad says.
    “How’s it going?”
    “We’re hanging in there. It’s grueling,” Mom says.
    “We’re on the move a lot,” Dad explains.
    “So come home,” I say. “You’re coming home in December anyhow, so just cut it short. Remember—you did that when you shot the documentary about street gangs in L.A.”
    “We’ve made a commitment and we’re going to see it through,” Dad says. “Besides, we’ve rented out the house until the end of your school year. The guy is nice enough to let us take it for two weeks over Christmas break; I don’t want to push it.”
    My dad is always the font of practicality. “Okay, Dad.”
    “How are things going?” Mom leans forward. I can see in her eyes that she’s afraid to ask.
    “Good,” I tell them.
    Dad leans forward. “You’re kidding.”
    “Nope. I’m totally blooming where I’m planted. And it’s a complete freak accident.”
    “Honey, you know I don’t like the words freak and accident together,” Mom says.
    “Sorry,” I apologize cheerfully.
    “We got the images you shot for the play. Your hand is steady and your eye is keen,” Dad says proudly. “Must have been a great show.”
    “I guess I got a little bit of the theater bug, like Grand.”
    Mom and Dad look at each other, relieved. “I knew you’d find your place at the academy.” Mom smiles. I like when my mother smiles. And I especially like it when I make her smile.
    “It could all be ruined after the dance at Grabeel Sharpe Academy.”
    “That’s where they got the boys for school dances when I went to PA.” Her face lights up. “Oh, it’s a lot of fun.”
    “Are they dorks over there?” I ask her.
    “Well, it was 1983 and all of them had Rick Astley haircuts. There was one really cute guy….”
    “Hey,” Dad says.
    “Not as cute as you, honey. Anyhow, he looked like the lead singer from The Cars. And we were all after him.”
    “What happened?”
    “He didn’t go for any of us. But we had so much fun chasing him.”
    The thought of my mother chasing someone that looks like Ric Ocasek is too weird to think about.
    “Oh, Viola, have fun!” Mom says. “You’re going to have a ball.”
    “And behave yourself,” Dad adds halfheartedly.
    “I’m going to dress up and be a girl.” I make a face that makes my parents laugh.
     
    I can’t sleep. I check the clock. It’s quarter to three in the morning. I turn over, punch the pillow, and slam my eyes shut. I never had trouble sleeping in New York. I slept through sirens and all sorts of noise, but here in South Bend there’s hardly any noise. Maybe that’s part of my problem. I need noise.
    I hear Suzanne sniffling in her bunk.
    “Are you okay?” I whisper.
    “Yeah.” She blows her nose.
    “Is something wrong?” I ask her. Sometimes Suzanne gets upset after she checks her email. I wonder if there’s some awful boyfriend back home giving her heartache. She has never said she has a boyfriend, but what else could make a girl cry in the middle of the night: ninth-grade algebra? I don’t think so. Plus, Suzanne is a math whiz, so it’s definitely not that. “You can tell me if something’s wrong.” I