Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

by Dyan Sheldon

  After school, Ella went home looking down, and Sam and I got the dress out of his car and snuck it back into the drama room cupboard. At least some things were going according to plan.

  “Maybe Carla really didn’t see you,” said Sam as we climbed into the Karmann Ghia. “I mean, it is possible. The party was really crowded, right? And it was late.”

  I snorted with derision. “Oh, please… She saw us all right.” I opened the passenger door again and freed my cape. “You should have seen her face. She looked like she’d just swallowed her tongue.”

  We pulled out of the parking lot.

  “You should have taken your own camera with you,” said Sam. He shook his head. “I mean, if you think about it, it always was a ‘heads Carla wins; tails you and Ella lose’ proposition. Even if she’d taken a photo of all of you together, she would never have admitted it.”

  “Thanks for thinking of that now,” I said. I hadn’t even thought about bringing a camera with us because I knew Carla would have one. The last thing I’d needed to do was lose or break my mother’s Pentax on top of all my other crimes. “And anyway,” I went on more pleasantly, “I do have proof. I have Stu’s T-shirt.”

  Sam gave me a look. It was not an encouraging one.

  “Have you been paying any attention to what’s happening?” he asked. He sounded as though he was worried about my sanity. “So what if you have Stu Wolff’s T-shirt, Lola? How are you planning to prove he gave it to you, or even that it’s his?”

  I opened my mouth to answer. “Well … I … uh…” I closed it again. Sam was right, of course. It was like agreeing to fight a duel with pistols and discovering that your opponent had a nuclear bomb. I mean, it wasn’t exactly what you’d call playing by the rules. But then, as even Carla had tried to explain to me, Carla has her own rules, and everyone else has to play by them.

  “People will believe me,” I said firmly. I wasn’t going to let Carla Santini shake my faith in all mankind. “Why would I lie about something like that?”

  He winked. “Why would any of us lie, Lola?” asked Sam.

  The Big Freeze had settled over Deadwood High once again. I had no opportunity to explain to anyone where my new T-shirt had come from, because no one was specifically talking to me. Or to Ella.

  “Gee,” said Ella as we walked to the auditorium together after English through a sea of indifference, “seems like old times, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m really starting to get tired of this,” I answered angrily. It’s one thing being humiliated when you know you’re slightly in the wrong; but it’s something else when you know you’re totally in the right. The injustice of it all was galling! “If she doesn’t back down, I may seriously have to consider killing her.”

  “You’d get caught,” said Ella. “And either she wouldn’t die, or she’d just come back as someone worse.”

  Enveloped in gloom, Ella came to a stop at her bike.

  “All is not lost,” I informed her. “I may be down, but I’m not beaten.”

  “Really?” Ella eyed me curiously. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going to do what I promised.” I grinned. “I’m going to tell the truth.”

  The mood at that afternoon’s rehearsal was nervous. Nervous and tense. I exchanged polite greetings with everyone except Carla, but that was as far as conversation went. You could tell the others were all waiting to see what would happen between Princess Santini and me.

  I gave away nothing until we were ready to start.

  “All right!” boomed Mrs Baggoli. “Places, everyone!”

  “Mrs Baggoli?” I stepped to the edge of the stage. “Mrs Baggoli,” I said loudly and clearly. “There’s something I have to say before we begin.”

  The expression on Mrs Baggoli’s face was like a sigh. Opening night was only three days away. She didn’t want any interruptions.

  “Now what?” asked Mrs Baggoli.

  I held my head up, bathed by the spotlight. “Mrs Baggoli,” I said. “I have a confession to make.” My eyes met hers. “A confession and an apology.”

  Someone made a gagging sound from behind me.

  “A confession?” Mrs Baggoli smiled a little uneasily. “A confession about what?”

  “I did a terrible thing, Mrs Baggoli.” I spoke slowly, with dignity, dragging the attention of everyone to me.

  “Lola…” Mrs Baggoli laughed a little. “What on earth have you done?”

  I took a deep breath, the moral torment I’d been enduring showing in my face. “I borrowed Eliza’s dress,” I said flatly. “I’m really sorry, but I honestly felt that I had no choice.”

  “Eliza’s dress?” Mrs Baggoli repeated. “No choice?”

  I nodded. “Yes.” I shook my head. “No, I really had no choice.”

  Mrs Baggoli, to her credit, picked up her line automatically.

  “But why?” she asked. “Why would you borrow Eliza’s dress?”

  You could have heard a feather crash to the floor, the room was so quiet. Even Carla Santini wasn’t saying anything under her breath – for a change.

  “So I could go to the Sidartha party,” I informed her.

  Mrs Baggoli frowned. “The Sidartha party?”

  “But you didn’t go to the party,” said Henry Higgins. “Carla said—”

  I turned to him with a small smile. “I know what Carla said … but it isn’t true. Ella and I were at the party.” I clasped my hands together, looking beseechingly at Mrs Baggoli. “It was Sidartha’s last concert,” I explained. “I had to go…”

  “Oh, please…” Carla groaned. “When are you going to give up, Lola?” she demanded. “No one’s interested in your lies any more. First you lied about being invited to the party and now you’ve come up with this ridiculous story about Eliza’s dress—”

  “But how could you possibly have taken the dress?” Mrs Baggoli was asking. “The cupboard’s always locked.”

  “There are ways…” I said vaguely.

  “Oh, sure,” muttered Carla. “Now you want us to believe you’re a lock-picker as well as a liar.”

  Mrs Baggoli scowled in her direction. “Carla, if you don’t mind…” She turned back to me. “And where is the dress now?”

  “I put it back in the drama room.”

  Mrs Baggoli got to her feet. “Well, there’s one way of settling this,” she said more or less to herself. She marched off out of the room.

  Carla took advantage of Mrs Baggoli’s absence to take centre stage.

  “You really are too much, you know?” she declaimed. “I don’t know where you get off, thinking you can manipulate everyone the way you do. Just because we don’t come from New York City doesn’t mean we’re stupid, you know.” She glanced around at our fellow actors, so they’d understand that she was including them in this.

  “You’re the one who manipulates everyone,” I hissed back. “You treat everybody like they’re puppets. Everything you say is a lie.”

  “Here comes Mrs Baggoli,” said Colonel Pickering. He sounded relieved.

  Both Carla and I smiled as Mrs Baggoli came back in the room.

  “Well, the dress is back in the cupboard,” says Mrs Baggoli. “But in all honesty, Lola, I have to say that it doesn’t look as though it’s been touched.” She sounded relieved, too.

  “That’s because Stu Wolff had it cleaned.” I nearly laughed out loud. At last I had my chance to explain – and to an eager audience. “You see, just as we got there, Ella and I saw Stu Wolff leave the party, and we followed him. It’d been raining all afternoon, so the dress got kind of wet and dirty, and Stu said he’d have it cleaned for me.” I glanced at Carla out of the corner of my eye. “He said it was the least he could do, seeing as Ella and I practically saved his life.”

  Mrs Baggoli’s eyes shifted between Carla and me. She wasn’t sure what to believe any more.

  “Well, maybe you took the dress and maybe you didn’t,” she said almost vaguely. “As far as I’m concerned, what’s i
mportant is that it’s where it should be now, and in the condition it came to us in.”

  “But Mrs Baggoli!” Why wouldn’t anyone ever follow the script I was using? “Mrs Baggoli, I did take the dress.” I pulled at my T-shirt. “See? Stu Wolff gave me this to wear so I wouldn’t catch pneumonia.”

  Mrs Baggoli sat down with finality. “Lola,” said Mrs Baggoli, “I really don’t want to continue this discussion now. We have a lot to do before Friday night.”

  Carla stepped up behind me. “Sure, he did…” she whined in my ear. “Maybe he gave you his class ring, too.”

  Colonel Pickering and Henry Higgins chortled softly.

  Driven by my righteous sense of indignation, I ignored Mrs Baggoli and turned on Carla. “He did give it to me!” I shouted. “It’s a roadie T-shirt from their last tour. Where else would I get it?”

  “You got it where you get all your clothes,” shrieked Carla. “In a junk store.”

  I turned to Henry Higgins, Colonel Pickering, and the Parlourmaid, who were all standing a few steps from Carla and me with their mouths open and their eyes wide.

  “You believe me, don’t you?” I demanded. “Carla’s the one who’s lying, not I.”

  The Parlourmaid looked at Carla, and said nothing. Henry Higgins looked at Mrs Baggoli, and said nothing. Colonel Pickering looked up at the lights and shrugged. Mrs Baggoli clapped her hands. “Girls! Please!”

  I returned to my argument with Carla. “And anyway,” I screamed, “I’d rather have my wardrobe than yours. If you couldn’t read you’d never be able to get dressed in the morning.”

  “Your jealousy is disgusting!” sneered Carla. “You’re so pathetic I almost feel sorry for you.”

  “You feel sorry for me?” I laughed hollowly. “You’re the one who’s pathetic. Poor little rich girl who can’t stand not to have everything her way. You’re not even big enough to admit that Ella and I did go to the party. Because of who we are, not because of who our fathers are.”

  “Girls!” Mrs Baggoli was back on her feet. “Did you hear me?” Mrs Baggoli appeared at the foot of the stage. “I don’t know what’s going on with the two of you, but it’ll stop outside that door.” She pointed to the main entrance. “Am I making myself clear?”

  I nodded. I couldn’t trust myself to speak. It was all so unfair! Hot tears of self-pity welled in my eyes. But no one noticed.

  “I mean it,” said Mrs Baggoli. “All of us have worked very hard for this production. I’m not having it ruined by you two. No more. Do you understand? We’ve all had enough.”

  “Have you, Lola?” whispered Carla. “Have you finally had enough?”

  Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? Carla’s words echoed in my mind for the rest of the day.

  All through rehearsal, even during Eliza’s big showdown with Henry Higgins, I watched the others watching me – the rest of the cast impassive, Mrs Baggoli frowning critically, Carla looking bored – and thought, Have you Lola…? Have you finally had enough…?

  At supper, my mother brought up the play.

  “We’re all really looking forward to it,” said my mother. She smiled at her youngest as they snuffled at their food and kicked each other under the table. “Aren’t we, girls?”

  “What?” asked Paula, through a mouthful of potato.

  Pam lobbed a piece of broccoli at her twin’s head. “What’s it about?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to play with your food?” shouted my mother. “Pam, you get down on the floor and pick that up right now.”

  Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? asked the voice in my head.

  It whispered to me while I did my homework; it hissed at me through the splashing of the shower. Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? Enough…? Enough…? Have you finally had enough…?

  I didn’t know what the answer was. All I knew was that I had seriously underestimated a couple of things, only one of them being Carla Santini. I hadn’t realized what the limits were to what people would believe. The man in the ticket store had believed my improbable – but possible – story of a dying sister. The bus driver had believed my improbable – but possible – story of a sister with a broken foot. The bouncer had believed the improbable – but possible – story of my sudden illness. Ella had believed in the deaths of my father and Elk – both possible but not all that probable. The one story I’d told that was both probable and possible was the one that was true. And no one believed it. Not even Mrs Baggoli. I’d always thought it was possible to control your life, but it seemed that it wasn’t. To everyone in Deadwood, there was no way I would ever get into the Sidartha party, and so I hadn’t.

  Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…?

  “You know what really gets me?” I said to Ella that night on the phone. “What really gets me is that Sam’s right. We could never have won. It’s like playing cards with a river-boat gambler. The deck’s marked. You couldn’t win if you played for the rest of your life.”

  “What does it matter any more?” asked Ella.

  “What does it matter?” Was this the same girl who only weeks before had been begging me to stay out of Carla’s way?

  “Well, we know we went to the party,” said Ella. “We know we met Stu Wolff. I mean, that’s what really counts, isn’t it?”

  Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…?

  MY WILDERNESS DAYS

  From then on, Mrs Baggoli was cool to the point of frostbite through every rehearsal. She was warm and encouraging to the rest of the cast, but when she spoke to Carla or me she was like a ringmaster entering the lions’ cage, chair first.

  The others kept their distance, too – at least from me. Carla Santini made sure that they did.

  Mrs Baggoli may have said that whatever was going on between Carla and me would stop outside the auditorium, but that wasn’t what Carla heard. Carla heard, “Escalate this battle into a full-scale war, and take no prisoners”.

  She stopped talking to me completely again. Whenever I made some comment on the play, Carla would pretend to study her nails. Whenever I tried to strike up a conversation with one of the other actors, she’d cut in – smoothly, effortlessly, smilingly – and ice me out. No one even bothered trying to strike up a conversation with me if Carla was around; it wasn’t worth the effort. All someone had to do was ask me the time and she’d swoop down like a vulture on a dead rabbit.

  And then, on Wednesday, Carla sailed into rehearsal with her curls shaking and a floodlight smile. The rest of us were all at the front of the auditorium. We all looked warily at one another.

  “Mrs Baggoli,” screeched Carla. “Mrs Baggoli, guess what? You won’t believe my news!”

  Mrs Baggoli looked up with an expression on her face that suggested that she was prepared to believe anything. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” said Mrs Baggoli.

  Carla laughed. “Oh, no, you’re going to love this.” She spread out her arms as though about to make an important announcement. She took a deep breath. She was ready to burst with excitement.

  “My father wants us to have the cast party at our house!” she shrieked. “Isn’t that fantastic? He says he insists!”

  I’ll bet he did.

  The cast party isn’t exactly the social event of the year. It’s what you would call a symbolic celebration. Usually it’s held backstage. We are all supposed to bring in something to eat or drink, and Mrs Baggoli contributes the cake.

  Mrs Baggoli was taken by surprise. “Why Carla,” she said. “That’s very kind of your father, but it’s very short notice—”

  “Oh, I know, I know…” Carla wrung her lily-white hands. “He’s been so busy that it kind of snuck up on him.”

  Which meant that she’d only just thought of it. It had taken her a while, but she’d finally come up with the way she could play a supporting part and still be the star.

  Mrs Baggoli looked unsure.
“Well…”

  “And he’ll pay for everything, of course,” said Carla. She smiled on us happily, Lady Bountiful distributing fresh fruit to the poor. “I’ve been telling him all about the play, of course, and he says it sounds to him like we all deserve something special.”

  Still blinking in bewilderment, Mrs Baggoli appealed to the rest of us. “What does everyone else think?” she asked.

  “And don’t forget, there’s the indoor pool,” said Carla. “And, of course, we have so much room that everybody’s welcome to bring guests.” She quivered with girlish excitement. “Oh, please say yes, Mrs Baggoli. It’ll be so much fun!”

  Mrs Baggoli’s eyebrows rose. “Any objections?” she asked.

  I had an objection. I had several objections. My first objection was that I didn’t want to have the cast party at the Castle Santini. A cast party should be held in the theatre, with the smell of greasepaint all around and the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears. Secondly, I knew Carla well enough to know that with the party at her house, she’d be the one who would act like the star. My third was that I doubted I’d be allowed in. Fourthly, if – through some oversight or minor miracle – I were allowed in, I knew that, somehow, some way, Carla would make sure that I had less fun than a turkey at Thanksgiving. But I didn’t say anything. How could I? Carla’s cleverness had reached new heights. In spite of all my objections, there was no way I could not go without seeming petty and ungrateful. Mrs Baggoli wouldn’t give me so much as a walk-on in the future if I let down the drama club and didn’t turn up.

  “Well, that’s settled then,” said Mrs Baggoli. “Thank your father very much and tell him we’ll see him Friday night.”