Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen (11 page)

Mrs Magnolia started shaking her head again. “Oh, yes, yes … but it hasn’t been sorted and tagged, it’s not ready for sale.”

“Well couldn’t I just kind of look through it?”

I was beginning to wonder if Mrs Magnolia was ever going to stop shaking her head.

“Oh, no, no, dear, I’m afraid that’s out of the question.” She pointed to the door at the back of the room. On it was a hand-written Employees Only sign. “It’s against our rules.”

“But Mrs Magnolia,” I pleaded, my voice hoarse with despair. “Mrs Magnolia, I’m desperate. I’ve been to every second-hand clothes store between here and Dellwood.” The concert was only a week away. I threw myself across the counter. “I have got to have that dress! It’s a matter of life and death!”

“I’m sure there’s nothing like you’re describing,” said Mrs Magnolia. “This isn’t really a Scarlett O’Hara kind of town.” But she’d stopped shaking her head: she was weakening.

I straightened up, my face radiant. “What if I do the sorting, Mrs Magnolia? For nothing.”

“Nothing” did the trick.

“Follow me,” said Mrs Magnolia. “I’ll show you what to do.”

By the time I got home that afternoon I was totally distraught. All those hours! All that pedalling! All that work! And what did I have to show for it? Aching muscles, a clinical dislike of synthetic fabrics, and a depression Hamlet would have recognized. But no dress to wear to the ball. I was Cinderella, but without the fairy godmother.

My mother was totally distraught by the time I got home, too. She must have been watching for me from her studio, because she was in the driveway by the time I pulled in. She was wearing her work clothes and was covered with clay.

“Where on earth have you been?” my mother demanded. “It’s nearly four o’clock. I thought you promised to pick up the car.”

I’d forgotten about the car.

My mother didn’t wait for my excuse; nor did she take any pity on the fact that I was dirty, sweaty, smelled of old clothes, and was traumatized by disappointment. She turned me right around. If I hurried I could make it before the garage closed.

“Remember!” she shouted after me. “Not Jay’s.” Jay was our old mechanic, but he’d sold the business to someone else and my mother didn’t like the new guy. “The one on Stanley.”

I’d never been to the one on Stanley before, but had no trouble finding it; it was the only garage on the street. The yard was full of cars in different states of destruction, and there was a Closed sign in the office window. My heart hit the ground like someone thrown out of an aeroplane. Karen Kapok was going to kill me. Probably slowly.

I was just about to turn around again and ride back into the jaws of death when I realized that all was not lost. The garage itself was still open. There was a pair of combat boots sticking out from under an old Karmann Ghia that was pieced together with parts from so many different cars that it looked like a patchwork quilt on wheels. A portable stereo was blaring. I rode straight into the garage and screeched to a stop by the boots.

“Hi,” I said. No answer. I raised my voice. “Hello? Hello?” I shouted above the roar of The Clash. “I’m here to pick up Karen Kapok’s car?”

From under the car a male voice finally replied. “What?”

I bent down closer to the feet.

“I’m here to pick up Karen Kapok’s car!” I screamed.

“Lola?”

The feet moved and the body followed.

“Sam?” I should have recognized the boots. Sam Creek is the only boy in Deadwood not in the Reserve Officer Training Corps who wears combat boots. “What are you doing here?”

Sam sat up on the trolley. His dreads were tucked up under a filthy knit hat. If you discounted the ring in his nose, he looked almost normal. “I’m working on my car.” He jerked his head. “This is my old man’s place.”

“Oh, thank God.” Ignoring the grease and the grime, I sank down beside him. “I was afraid I was too late. I came to get my mother’s car.”

“You are too late,” said Sam. “The office is locked.” He wiped his grease-smeared forehead with his grease-stained sleeve. “And the keys to your mom’s car are in the office.”

Stricken with despair, I groaned. “Oh, no… Now what am I going to do? My mother’s going to murder me.” I buried my face in my hands. “Does God hate me, or something?” I looked up and groaned again. “I can’t believe you can’t get into the office.”

Sam gave me the wise-guy smile that has so endeared him to the students and staff of Deadwood High.

“I didn’t say I can’t get in,” said Sam. “I just said it was locked.”

I’d never seen anyone unlock a door without a key before. It was pretty impressive.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m a man of many talents,” said Sam, and he slipped inside. He was back in a few seconds with my mother’s key-ring dangling from his fingers.

I was practically prostrate with gratitude and relief.

“I can’t thank you enough,” I told Sam. “My mother really would have killed me.”

He laughed. “Consider it a token of my appreciation for all you’ve done to get up Carla Santini’s nose since you’ve been here. It’s a joy to watch.” He handed me the keys. “Not everyone can take on the Santini and survive.”

“I know,” I said. “Ella told me what happened to Kali Simpson – that she had to move and everything.”

Sam shook his head. “What she did to Kali was really sick. And what she did to Ella, too.”

I gave him a curious look. “What she did to Ella?” Ella had left that bit out of her account of interesting facts about the history of Deadwood and its Princess. “What’d Carla do to Ella?”

It was Sam’s turn to look curious. “She didn’t tell you?” He shrugged. “No, I guess she wouldn’t. Ella’s too nice.”

Sam, however, was not too nice.

It happened just before I moved to Deadwood last spring. Ella was friends with Michael Jasper. Michael Jasper is a year ahead of me, so he isn’t in any of my classes, but I know who he is. He’s the Prince of the BTWs. Michael and Ella were very good friends. They were always hanging around together, in and out of school. Everyone knew they were interested in each other. But only Carla Santini decided to do something about it.

“You mean Carla stopped them from getting together?”

“You know Carla,” said Sam. “She can’t stand seeing someone having something she thinks she should have, even if she doesn’t really want it.” He wiped some grease on his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “I don’t know any of the gory details,” he went on, “but Ella kind of froze up. I know she isn’t the biggest extrovert in the world, but even I could see the difference. She didn’t even seem really mad, just kind of surprised. You know, like her mother had suddenly pulled a gun out over supper and shot her in the heart.”

I shook my head, trying to take it all in. “My God … they’d been friends since forever.”

Sam laughed. “Forever’s not that long for Carla Santini. She swanned around for a couple of weeks, hanging on to Mike like he was a helium balloon, and then she dumped him. But not before she’d totally humiliated Ella. You know, making sure Ella saw her and Mike kissing and crap like that, lording it over Ella every chance she got. It was enough to make you puke.” His face had been intensely serious, but now he smiled. “So,” said Sam, “if you ever need my help in your war against the Santini, all you have to do is ask.”

All you have to do is ask…

I stood there, staring at him. I now had more reason than ever to show up Carla Santini. I had to go to the party. I
had
to have Eliza’s dress. Sam Creek could get into the closet.

I smiled. “Well, it’s funny you should say that,” I said.

MY LIFE OF CRIME

We waited till Friday, the day before the concert, to take the dress. Sam said that the best time to liberate Eliza’s gown from its prison would probably be during rehearsals. There were too many people around during the day, and if we waited till night there was the problem of the alarms. While I was in the auditorium, my eyes firmly fixed on Mrs Baggoli, Sam would slip into the drama club room, open the cupboard, take out the dress and put it in the binbag I’d provided, and then wait for me in his car. The following Monday, we’d repeat the procedure in reverse. Mrs Baggoli wouldn’t be in on Monday, so the dress would be back long before anyone realized it had gone.

I didn’t say anything to Ella about borrowing the dress. All I said was that I’d found the perfect thing to wear. I decided it would be better to present the liberation as a
fait accompli
. If Ella knew what Sam and I were up to, she’d worry – and if she worried too much she might change her mind about going.

Crime has never really appealed to me as a way of life. True, you get to do a lot of acting, but it’s stressful and repetitive. I was, however, willing to step outside the strict boundaries of the law because this was a good, a just, and a noble cause.

Nonetheless, I was a wreck throughout the rehearsal on Friday. To begin with, Carla did nothing but talk about the concert whenever she could. “Are you as excited as I am?” she kept asking me. “Have you decided what you’re going to wear?”

During our first break, she made a big deal of saying, “Don’t worry, Lola, I won’t forget the camera. I know everyone’ll be dying to see the photo of you and me together.”

One of the stage hands choked back a laugh. “Are you kidding?” he muttered. “We’re making bets.”

Besides being wound up like a toy by Carla, I kept thinking I could hear footsteps behind the stage and doors banging. I forgot my lines; I missed my cues. Carla could only have been more pleased if I’d resigned from the play.

“Why don’t we take a five-minute break?” called Mrs Baggoli. “I’m feeling a little cold. I think I’ll get my sweater from the drama club room.”

I practically fell off the stage, I jumped so fast.

“I’ll get it for you, Mrs Baggoli,” I offered. “You just wait right there. I’ll be back in a second.”

“That’s all right, Lola.” Mrs Baggoli held up her key-ring. “It’s locked.”

Locked! My heart had been moving faster than a zebra with a lion on its tail all afternoon, but now it stopped suddenly. What if Sam couldn’t get into the drama club room? What if it took him a while to get it open and he was still inside? I raced from the stage to cut off Mrs Baggoli in the hall.

“Mrs Baggoli!” I screamed, charging down the stairs and falling into step beside her. The drama club room was only a few yards ahead of us. “Mrs Baggoli, I was wondering if I could ask you a question about that last scene.”

Mrs Baggoli gave me a “not-you-too” look.

“There’s no need to shout, Lola,” said Mrs Baggoli. “You’re not on stage now.”

How wrong she was!

I went on as though she’d said yes.

“It’s Henry,” I said, sliding in front of her. “I’m not sure I really understand his feelings about Eliza.”

“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?”