Viola in Reel Life by Adriana Trigiani

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’dwear. 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 ankleboots. 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 residentadvisor training. They flirt with her, which puts Trish in an