Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen (17 page)

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 important 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.”

Carla swept her smile by me. “He’ll be so happy!” she gushed. “He’s really looking forward to it.”

I sank into a depression that was deeper than the ocean and just as wide. I’d never before felt so totally defeated, so completely without hope, in my entire life. Not even the dark days when we first moved to Dellwood were this dark. Even if I was fantastic in
Pygmalion
– which, of course, I would be – no one would remember me as Lola Cep, the girl who was Eliza Doolittle. They’d remember me as Lola Cep, the girl who was pathetic.

That night, I lay on my bed, listening to the sounds of daily life emanating from the rest of the house, while the anxiety monsters crawled out of the darkness, thrashing and roaring around me.

I was clawed at by self doubt. Maybe I wasn’t as good an actor as I’d thought. Maybe it didn’t matter whether I was or I wasn’t. Maybe, no matter how pure your passion or true your heart, you can never win against the Carla Santinis of this world.

I slept fitfully, tormented by dreams. It was the night of the play. I was up on stage, but I was also in the audience. Everyone around me was talking about
me
. But not about my performance; not about the wit and insight I brought to Eliza. “Isn’t that the girl who lies?” they were saying. “Isn’t that the girl who told everyone that her father was dead so she wouldn’t seem so boring?” Every time Carla walked on stage they cheered. “She should have gotten the part of Eliza,” the audience whispered. “They must have given it to that other girl out of pity. Because she’s so pathetic.”

I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, my face damp with sweat. I could hear the house groaning and the pipes creaking and the scratching of the pine tree against the front window. But I could hear something else.

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

By the time I was getting ready for school the next day, I’d made my decision. I wasn’t going to be in the play. For the first time in my life, I was giving up. It wasn’t just the Santini Big Freeze. It wasn’t just the way the rest of the cast avoided me in order to have a quiet life. It wasn’t the fed-up way Mrs Baggoli watched my every move. It wasn’t even the fact that Carla had managed to move the party to her house where she could swan around like she was the star. It was the way everyone looked at me – even the kids I knew really liked me – as though I’d just been released from jail for a crime they were sure I’d done.

To answer Carla’s question, I’d had enough. She’d beaten me. Not fairly and squarely, maybe, but she’d definitely beaten me. Carla Santini could be Queen of Deadwood forever, for all I cared.

I didn’t say anything to anyone, not even Ella. Cataclysmic personal defeat isn’t the kind of thing you want to share, not even with your best friend. Like a deer that’s been hit by a Land-Rover, I just wanted to slink into the forest and die by myself.

In fact, Ella and I didn’t talk much that day. I was in too deep a state of grief for idle chit-chat, and besides that, I was laying the ground for a sudden attack of influenza. It was the easiest way. I mean, I couldn’t very well go to Mrs Baggoli and say, “I’ve decided to step down as Eliza, since Carla wants the part so much.”

I was quiet and distracted in my classes.

My teachers noticed that the student they relied on for animated participation was listless and withdrawn.

“Lola,” they said. “Are you all right? You’re very quiet today.”

“It’s nothing,” I answered. “I have a headache”, or “My throat’s a little sore”, or, by the end of the afternoon, “I think I have a fever.”

As soon as I got home, I took to my bed.

My mother found me, prostrate on the couch, wrapped in the old granny-square afghan my dad crocheted when he hurt himself falling off a mountain in the Catskills and was laid up for a few weeks. Whenever anyone’s sick in Ella’s house, they take an aspirin and go to bed. But whenever anyone’s sick in my house, they lie on the couch with the afghan and watch TV.

“What’s wrong?” asked my mother. “Aren’t you feeling well?” Her usual suspiciousness had been replaced with maternal concern. She knew the play meant more to me than anything; it wouldn’t occur to her that I was only acting.

I raised my head as she crossed the room. “My throat hurts,” I croaked, barely loud enough to be heard. “And my head…” I fell back against the pillows. “I think I have a fever…” I stifled a moan of pain. “My skin feels like it’s on fire.”

My mother wiped her hands on her clay-covered apron and felt my forehead. Her face clouded with concern. “You do feel warm…”

I should have felt warm; I’d been lying there with the hot water bottle pressed to my head, waiting for her to come out of her studio.

“I hope you’re not coming down with something…”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I whispered hoarsely. “Stress…”

“It could be the flu,” said my mother. “There’s a lot of it going around…” She started feeling my glands. “Serves you right for running around in that storm on Saturday.”

“I can’t be sick,” I moaned feebly. “Tomorrow’s
Pygmalion
. I have to be all right for that.”

“I’ll make you a herbal tea,” said my mother, “and a compress for your fever. Maybe it’s just one of those twenty-four hour bugs.”

I moaned again. “It has to be,” I said as she bustled out of the room. “I can’t miss the play.”

My mother’s voice was respectfully low and full of concern. “I’m really sorry, Ella,” she was saying, “but I’m afraid she can’t come to the phone. She isn’t feeling well.”

She paused while Ella spoke.

“It looks like some kind of flu,” my mother continued. “You know, throat, head and fever. But despite all appearances, she isn’t going to die. It doesn’t look like she’ll be going to school tomorrow, though.”

I could hear the sound of Ella’s voice coming through the receiver, but not the words themselves.

“I know,” said my mother, “it really is a shame. My folks are coming all the way from Connecticut, and of course there’s Mary’s dad… They’re all going to be really disappointed.”

I didn’t want to hear about all the people I was supposedly letting down. I lifted my hand and waved it in my mother’s direction. I was much too weak and my voice much too sore to tell her to say hello to Ella for me.

My mother gave me a nod. “She says to say hello,” she said to Ella. My mother looked over at me again. “Ella says hi,” she reported.

“That’d be great,” said my mother. “I’ll tell her.”

“Tell me what?” I asked as my mother hung up the phone.

“Ella says she’ll make sure she gets all your homework for you.”

Struggling against the pain, I smiled my gratitude. What a friend.

As you can imagine, I had another bad night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Carla Santini in the red satin dress, smiling into the spotlight like a glacier. I heard the cheers and cries of “Bravo!”. I watched her step in front of everyone else to take another bow.

I was awake at dawn.

I knew I was doing the right thing; I was sure of it. It meant that I had forever lost the fight against Carla Santini and the forces of darkness, but what did it matter? There’s no point in waging a battle you know you’ll lose even if you win.

All I had to do was stay in bed for the next twenty-four hours, and it would all be over. But I had to stop thinking about it. I had to stop the corkscrew of pain that gouged at my heart every time I imagined Carla Santini in Eliza’s dress.

I heard my mother get up and go into the kitchen. I heard the twins erupt into consciousness. I heard the radio go on. (The weather was going to be mild and sunny. I’d been hoping for rain. Rain’s always so comforting when you’re unhappy.) And then I heard the door bell. I looked at my clock. It was too early for the mailman with a package, or even for the UPS man, come to take some boxes of dinnerware away.

Pam tripped over something and fell, so Paula reached the door first.

“She’s sick!” shouted Paula. “She isn’t going to school today. So now we don’t have to go to her boring play.”

“Now nobody has to go to the boring play,” said Ella.

This was not Ella-like behaviour, this coming to the house at seven-thirty in the morning. She hadn’t been able to bring me my homework the afternoon before because she had to do something with her mother at the last minute, but I’d figured she’d wait till the weekend to come. I had the thought to jump up and lock the door, but before I could it opened and Ella Marjorie Gerard, the girl once destined to be picked as Most Shy in our high-school yearbook, marched in.

“I want to talk to you,” said Ella, and she slammed the door in Pam and Paula’s faces.

“Not now,” I said. I rubbed my eyes sleepily. “I just woke up.”

Ella threw her book bag on the foot of my bed. “Oh, sure you did,” said Ella.

“I really don’t feel well—” I began.

“You can cut the crap,” said the most polite and well-mannered teenager in New Jersey. “I know what you’re doing.” She grabbed the blanket and yanked it off me. “And I’m not going to let you get away with it. Get up now and get dressed for school.”

I stared at her, agog. I’d never heard Ella talk to anyone like that. I didn’t think she was capable of it.

“I’m telling you I’m sick,” I said. I pulled the blanket back around me, shivering slightly. “I have a fever,” I told her. “Ask my mother.”

“What do you think I am, stupid?” asked Ella. “You’re not sick. You’re bailing out of the play.” She folded her arms in front of her and set her jaw. She looked like she was in a play herself. “You’re giving up,” said Ella.

Admitting defeat was beginning to get easier and easier.

“All right,” I snapped. “So what if I am?” I glared at her. “I wish I’d done it when you wanted me to. I could have saved myself a lot of time and trouble.”

“Well, I don’t want you to now,” said Ella. She dropped her arms and sat down on the bed. “You can’t do this, Lola. Everybody’s depending on you.”