Viola in Reel Life by Adriana Trigiani Read Free Book Online Page B

pick up our phones to make sure they weren’t damaged. Now, when Mrs. Carleton collects the devices, she leaves the basket on the floor by the door so if anything vibrates it will just shake the basket, not hurl it into infinity and beyond.
    Mrs. Carleton wakes me from my daydreams of makeovers. “Viola, tell us about the ghost in Hamlet .”
    “Well, he’s Hamlet’s father, who was murdered by his brother. Now the evil brother will be king in Hamlet’s father’s place.”
    “Why do you think Shakespeare chose a ghost to deliver the prologue?”
    “Well, he probably needed a character to get everybody in the audience up to speed. And a ghost is as good a way as any.”
    Marisol raises her hand. “It was inventive.”
    “And why is that?” Mrs. Carleton leans against the desk. Her khakis are baggy in the front too, where her knees bend. I don’t even know how you’d fix that saggage problem in a beauty/fashion makeover. You’d probably just have to spring for new pants.
    “When someone dies in real life, sometimes the essence of that person remains,” Marisol says.
    “That’s very interesting, Marisol, the idea that a person’s essence lingers in the ether after they have died.”
    “It’s creepy,” I blurt. The girls in the class laugh.
    “It’s supposed to be creepy.” Mrs. Carleton paces before the class. “The father has been murdered but he wants to help his son, who is still living, make important decisions, so he appears to warn and to guide him.”
    Mrs. Carleton checks the clock. “I think this is an excellent avenue for our next discussion. I’d like you girls to research the role of the supernatural in Hamlet and write a one-page essay about it for our next class. Here’s a hint, I happen to know there is an e-book of anold book called Life in Shakespeare’s England in the library. And I’d like you to take a stand in your essay. Argue that there are ghosts, or argue that there can’t be. And back it up with research.”
    At the end of class Marisol and I stand on line waiting to pick up our phones. We pick them up and commence scrolling through our messages as we walk out of the building and into the cold. There’s a text from my grandmother.
    Grand: Your mom and dad tell me you’re adjusting. I sent cookies. I didn’t bake them. Balducci’s did. Love you.
    “Newsflash. Cookies coming from my grandmother,” I tell Marisol.
    “Great.” Marisol tucks her phone into her pocket.
    “She didn’t bake them but they’re not exactly store bought. She got them at Balducci’s and they make their own food. So it’s sort of homemade, once removed.”
    “I’m sure they’ll be delicious,” Marisol says.
    This is definitely something to like about Marisol. It takes very little to please her. There is not an ounce of snark in her entire body, and just the word cookies puts a smile on her face. I wish I had some of that bottomless cheer.
    I text Grand.
    Me: Rockin’ on the cookies. Do you know anything about the ghost in Hamlet ?
    Grand: Played Ophelia at the Cincinnati Playhouse in the
    Park. Glorious production directed by Ed Stern.
    Me: Cool. May need to pick your brain later.
    Grand: Anytime! xoxox
    “How many people have an actual actress for a grandmother?” Marisol asks. “That’s so cool.”
    “She’s a character. That’s what my dad always says about her. And I always found that such a funny thing to say: Grand is a character and she plays them. How weird is that?”
    “It’s fabulous. Are you kidding?” Marisol smiles.
    “She’s been on Broadway. But you know? She doesn’t even care where she acts, just so she gets to be in a play. She even loves dinky productions where she travels to Queens and they lift up the back of a truck and turn it into a stage and she does monologues from the classics for free. She is totally game for anything.”
    We walk to the dining hall as fall leaves, gold and red, swirl around us in the wind. They crunch under our feet on the