Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

by Dyan Sheldon

  “Really?” said Mrs Baggoli. “I should have thought his feelings were an open book to all of us by now. We’ve been through them enough times with Carla.”

  “I mean his deep, inner feelings. His—”

  Mrs Baggoli put a hand on my shoulder. “Lola,” she said, “would you please get out of my way so I can get my sweater?”

  I threw myself against the door. “I know we’ve discussed it before superficially—” I began as I danced backwards into the drama club room and almost fell over.

  Mrs Baggoli didn’t even ask me if I was all right.

  “That’s funny,” she said, looking puzzled. “I was sure I locked that door.”

  A great actor has to be able to recover quickly from minor setbacks – like a fluffed line, or not knowing that the door wasn’t shut properly. I recovered quickly enough to notice a bit of red satin sticking through the crack in the cupboard door while Mrs Baggoli was checking that nothing had been taken from the desk. I hurled myself in front of the crack.

  “You probably did lock it,” I assured her. “We have a lock like that at home. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.”

  Mrs Baggoli shut the bottom drawer. “Well, nothing seems to be missing…” She removed her sweater from the back of the chair. “Maybe I didn’t lock it after all.”

  “So, Mrs Baggoli,” I said. “What do you think of Henry’s feelings?”

  Mrs Baggoli gave me a look that was very similar to the one my mother always gives me when I confuse her.

  “You know, Lola,” said Mrs Baggoli as she shoved me out of the room, “I think maybe you’ve been working too hard. There’s no rehearsal until Tuesday. Why don’t you really try to relax this weekend?”

  It was raining by the time rehearsals were over. Heedless of the tempest kicking up around me, I streaked across the parking lot to where the multicoloured Karmann Ghia was waiting. The engine started before I reached the door.

  “Oh, my God!” I cried as I dropped – more or less literally – into the passenger seat. “I was really scared for a few minutes there.”

  “You?” Sam laughed derisively. “I was just about to stuff the dress in the bag when you started shouting in the hall. I felt like I’d been caught by the cops.”

  I looked around, enquiringly. There isn’t much room inside a Karmann Ghia. “Where’s the dress? In the boot?”

  “The boot’s filled with junk.” Sam jerked his head towards the rear. “I put it back there.”

  I looked behind us. The binbag had been crammed into the rear seat that had been provided for people who only give rides to very small children.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I ordered, snapping my seat-belt. “The sooner I get it home, the happier I’ll be.”

  But instead of putting the car in gear, Sam rolled down his window. I looked over his shoulder. Mrs Baggoli was running towards us through the downpour. Of course, who else would it be?

  “Oh, no…” I moaned softly. We were doomed. No wonder they always say crime doesn’t pay.

  Sam leaned out the window. “What’s the problem, Mrs Baggoli?” he asked as though there were nothing on the back seat at all.

  It’s amazing how many people who have no interest in the theatre can act.

  “It’s my car,” gasped Mrs Baggoli. She sounded fraught. “It won’t start.”

  Sam went with Mrs Baggoli to see what was wrong with her car while I waited in the Karmann Ghia. I kept glancing behind me to make sure the dress was still there – and still in its bag.

  After what seemed like hours of agony, Sam came back. He opened my door. Mrs Baggoli was with him.

  “We’re giving Mrs Baggoli a ride home.” He gave me a “what-could-I-do” look. “You see if you can squeeze into the back.”

  “The back?”

  “I don’t want to put you two to any trouble,” Mrs Baggoli was saying from over his shoulder. “I didn’t realize your car was so small. I can call a cab.”

  I could easily imagine what would happen then. All too well. The storm would increase, the cab wouldn’t turn up, Mrs Baggoli would start walking home as night fell and the first trees were flung to the ground by the gale-force winds… They might not find her body for days. And whose fault would it be? First I steal the dress from under Mrs Baggoli’s nose, and then I kill her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs Baggoli,” I said quickly. “There’s plenty of room.”

  To illustrate this statement, I stretched over the front seat and flung myself on top of the bag.

  Mrs Baggoli peered into the car. “What if I take that bundle on my lap? That would give you more room back there.”

  Stifling a cry of excruciating pain, I wedged myself in on top of the dress.

  “No, no, it’s fine.” I tried to make a little room for my left hip. “It’s actually surprisingly comfortable.”

  Sam got in behind the wheel. “So, Mrs Baggoli, where do you live?”

  ONCE MORE INTO THE BREACH

  The night before the concert was a restless one for me. Killer wasps buzzed in my stomach, wild stallions stampeded through my heart. Stu Wolff, I repeated over and over to myself, by this time tomorrow you’ll be dancing with Stu Wolff… Or talking to him. Or laughing with him. Or just gazing into his eyes with cosmic love…

  Minutes passed like hours; hours dragged by like days. There were moments in that dark torment when I thought the sun would never rise again. But the day of the concert finally dawned.

  It was a moody morning, grey and cold and mildly vicious. I didn’t care about the weather, of course. I was going to meet Stu Wolff. I was going to dance in his arms. A blizzard couldn’t have stopped me now. I’d find snowshoes. I’d find a team of dogs and a sled. One way or another, I’d get to Manhattan.

  Too excited to go through the motions of daily life – eating and talking to my family – I stayed in my room until Ella arrived, shortly after three. There was a four o’clock train that would get us to the City by six. That gave us two hours to find tickets and wait with the bereaved but adoring multitudes for the concert to begin.

  Ella was edgy and a little wild-eyed, like the heroine in a romantic novel. I made a mental note that this was a look she should be encouraged to maintain. It made her look less bland.

  “This is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done,” Ella gasped as she shut the door of my room behind her. “But it’s also the most terrifying.”

  I looked her up and down. She had the black pouch with her pyjamas and toothbrush in it, but nothing else.

  “Where’s your stuff?” I was afraid that, in her agitated state, she’d forgotten her clothes for the party.

  Ella flung herself on the bed.

  “I left my bag outside, under that big bush. I didn’t want your mother to see it.” I was touched by her thoroughness. Maybe she was going to be better at this than I’d hoped.

  “What about your mom?” I asked. “Do you think you convinced her not to call?”

  “I think so,” said Ella. “Anyway, she hasn’t been nagging me so much lately; she’s been kind of distracted. And she has some charity thing to go to tonight. That’ll keep her occupied.”

  Beginning to relax a little, Ella scanned the room.

  “So,” she said. “Where’s your dress?”

  “I’ll show it to you later,” I promised. Now wasn’t the time to make her more nervous; I could do that when it was too late to turn back.

  “Show it to me now,” insisted Ella. “We have time.”

  I picked up my bag and slipped the strap over my shoulder. “I’m too anxious. Let’s tell my mom we’re going to your house after all, and get to the station. I’ll show you there.”

  “You can’t be as anxious as I am,” said Ella. “Every time my mom spoke to me last night and this morning I practically jumped out of my skin.” She stood up. “And I couldn’t sleep.” As though this was enough justification for boldness, Ella grabbed hold of the front flap on my bag. “Come on,” she urged
. “Just one little pee—”

  Ella’s mouth held the shape of the word “peek” for several seconds, but no sound came out. Her eyes met mine.

  “I don’t believe it.” She was calm like a dead sea. “I don’t believe you stole Eliza’s gown!”

  Language is a subtle and intricate thing.

  “I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it.”

  Ella pounced. “You borrowed it? You mean you asked Mrs Baggoli and she said it was OK?”

  I gestured vaguely. “Well, no … not exactly…”

  “Exactly what, then?” asked Ella. “I thought Mrs Baggoli kept the costumes locked up.”

  I nodded, glad to be able to give a positive response. “Yeah, she does. But Sam Creek—”

  “Sam Creek?!” Ella looked as though there would be no more surprises for her in life; she’d seen it all. “You mean you got Sam involved in this? He stole the dress for you?”

  “Borrowed,” I corrected. “Sam borrowed it for me. Calm down, will you? It’ll be back in the cupboard by Monday afternoon, and no one will be the wiser.” I shut the bag. “And besides,” I concluded, “technically, it is my dress.”

  “No it isn’t,” said Ella. “Technically, it’s Mrs Trudeo’s. She’s the one who made it.”

  “For me,” I countered. “She made it for me.” For me and Advanced Dressmaking, Spring Term.

  Ella collapsed back on the bed. “Lola, I can’t go through with this,” she announced. “It’s bad enough that I’m lying to my parents, but stolen goods is something else. You’re never going to get away with it.”

  I grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “You can’t back out now,” I said. “You just can’t.”

  Ella’s cry was tinged with despair. “Oh, Lola…”

  As many people are in life, Ella was torn between the need for excitement and the demands of terror. She wanted to go to the concert and the party; but she didn’t want to go to jail. I could understand that. I didn’t want to go to jail, either.

  “Ella, please… The deed’s done. If I am going to get caught, at least let me wear the dress. At least let me have one night of pure joy if I’m going to spend the rest of my precious youth behind bars.”

  Ella didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no, either.

  I pushed my advantage.

  “And besides,” I went on, “unless you turn me in, you’re already an accessory after the fact.”

  I had no idea what “an accessory after the fact” was. It’s something they say in cop shows. But, like Mr Santini, Ella’s father is a lawyer. She seemed to know what it means.

  “This better be one great party,” said Ella.

  “Stop!” shrieked Ella. “I think I’ve cracked a rib.”

  At the time, I was trying to find a position that would let me move enough to pull off my jeans. “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” I grunted. “You couldn’t have cracked a rib. There’s not enough room in here.”

  Neither Ella (who, admittedly, had led a very sheltered life) nor I (who at least once resided in a metropolis teeming with life on all levels) had ever actually tried to dress in the toilet of a train before. If we had, we definitely wouldn’t have tried it again.

  “But I’m in pain,” wailed Ella. “Can’t you move back just a little?”

  I glared at her, though she probably didn’t notice because the lighting was so bad.

  “Maybe we should take turns, then,” said Ella.

  I shook my head, and banged it against the flimsy wall. “No. We need each other to zip up and put on our make-up.” I fell on to the toilet as the train took a sudden bend. “And, anyway, we’re already half undressed. We may as well keep going.”

  We kept going, but, unfortunately, the train kept going, too. My memory of the route to the city was that it was pretty straight, but either my memory was wrong or the route had been changed to take in every bend between Dellwood and New York. It was lucky the toilet was no bigger than a broom closet or Ella and I would have spent a lot of time on the floor.

  Bruised and exhausted, we finally got our regular clothes off and our party dresses on.

  “What do you think?” asked Ella.

  “It’s a little hard to tell when we’re practically touching noses.” I wedged my make-up bag behind the taps. “Let’s do our faces, and then we can check ourselves outside.”

  As I always say, you live and you learn. Changing in a moving train turned out to be nothing next to putting on make-up in a moving train. Putting on make-up in a train that’s weaving through the sleepy suburbs at a rate of knots is like trying to eat a bowl of hot soup on a roller coaster. And no less painful. If I wasn’t poking myself in the eye with my liner, I was poking my elbow in Ella. And it was no more successful than eating soup on a roller coaster, either. In the end, we took turns bracing ourselves against the door while the other one very carefully applied the mascara and the blush.

  “That’s going to have to do,” said Ella. She pulled back as far as she could to examine her handiwork. “I’m afraid I’m going to blind you.”

  “Do I look sophisticated and enigmatic?”

  Ella cocked her head to one side. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “You do. Of course, you also look like you’ve been crying a lot.” Mascara can really sting.

  “It’ll clear,” I said dismissively.

  “And the eyeliner’s not totally even.”

  “I can live with it for now. I”ll fix it when we’re on terra firma. Let’s just get out of here before we suffocate.”

  Once we got out of the toilet, we took a long critical look at each other.

  “You look fantastic,” said Ella. “Even though your eyes are still bloodshot.” She nervously licked her lips. “What about me?”

  It had been a Herculean task, but after months of trying I’d finally managed to talk Ella into wearing her hair down. I’d also convinced her to buy something for the party that wasn’t plain, tailored and so basic you could wear it to church in the morning and a cocktail party in the evening: a full black taffeta skirt and a black lace bodysuit. Simple but effective. The transformation was astounding. Henry Higgins couldn’t have been half as pleased with Eliza as I was with Ella. In her regular clothes and with her hair up, Ella looked like she was practising for middle age; in the black ensemble with her hair down she looked like the mysterious heroine from a gothic novel.

  “You look spectacular,” I assured her. “Eat your heart out, Carla Santini. Your day of reckoning has come at last!”

  Ella and I found two seats facing backwards, so that we watched New Jersey disappear rather than New York City approach.

  “I can’t believe this!” Ella kept saying. She was practically vibrating from excitement. “We’re really doing it. We’re really going to see Sidartha!” She squeezed my arm. “Lola, we’re really going to see Sidartha!” She was smiling so much that even though it had started to rain, it seemed like a sunny day. “Me! I’ve never even been on a train before without my mother.”

  Inside, my heart and soul were in ecstatic turmoil, but on the outside I was trying to be cool. All of the other passengers were dressed as you would expect people to be dressed on a Saturday afternoon: you know, normal. Ella and I were attracting a lot of attention. I don’t usually mind attracting attention, but I was worried that one of the anonymous women with her bag on her lap and a paperback in her hands might be a friend or acquaintance of Mrs Gerard who would recognize Ella and want to know what she was doing on a train without parental supervision.

  “Keep it down, will you?” I hissed. “The whole car can hear you.”

  But it was too late for caution.

  The woman behind us leaned over the seat and tapped me on the shoulder.

  As soon as I felt her hand on me I started thinking of excuses: my mother was in the next car, we were going to a masquerade party, Ella who?

  “Excuse me,” she said, “but where are the cameras?”

  Ella groaned. “Oh, my God, Lola. We didn’t br
ing a camera!”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” The woman laughed. “It’s the clothes…” She laughed again. “I thought you must be shooting a commercial.”

  A commercial! Ella and me! Carla Santini was going to die.

  THE BEST LAID PLANS OF MICE AND MEN OFTEN GET MESSED UP

  I had no trouble imagining Carla Santini’s arrival in New York City. Except for the lack of ticker-tape and cheering crowds, she glided into the metropolis like visiting royalty, watching the teeming multitudes from behind the tinted windows of her father’s Mercedes while she thought about how awful it must be not to be her. The pearl-grey sedan silently slid to a stop behind Madison Square Garden. A uniformed doorman opened a solid-steel door and Carla Santini stepped out into the rainy evening, cool and relaxed, her dress unwrinkled, her make-up flawless, her press pass in her hand. The doorman held an umbrella over her head as he led her inside, lest one small drop should mar her perfection. “Miss Santini,” he cooed. “Please step this way.”

  At about the same time that I imagined Carla Santini, all teeth and curls, was being offered refreshment in the Garden’s VIP lounge, Ella and I made our own, less auspicious arrival in New York.

  “I’m sure I read somewhere that Stu Wolff’s a very regular, down-to-earth guy,” Ella was saying as we fought our way out of Penn Station. “His dad’s a truck driver or something like that, and he loves baseball and beer. He doesn’t like all the show-business hype. He’s a real man of the people.”

  I grabbed her arm and pulled her past a few of “the people” – the ones who didn’t dress as well as Stu Wolff and who were begging for money.

  I didn’t want to talk about Stu or what was going to happen any more. We were there, in my favourite place on the planet, about to meet one of the greatest – and sexiest – poets who’d ever lived. I wanted action, not words.

  We hurled ourselves through a herd of travellers trying to get into the building, and then ground to an abrupt halt. It was raining a lot harder in New York than it was in New Jersey.

  I let out a heartfelt moan. “Oh, no. We’re going to get soaked.”