Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

by Dyan Sheldon

  My own smile dimmed slightly. Even though I hadn’t heard it yet, I could tell I wasn’t going to like the price.

  “So are you going to tell me how things work?” I purred back.

  Carla Santini said, “Yes,” and stopped smiling. Then she told me. I was sitting in her seat in English. I was attracting too much attention. I was committing social suicide by hanging out with Ella-Never-Had-a-Fella.

  “I thought you and Ella were friends.” I still had a smile on my face.

  “Of course we’re friends.” She held up her hand, the first and second fingers crossed. “We were like that when we were little. But she doesn’t have your potential, does she?” She openly turned and flicked her head to where Ella was sitting with her lunch in front of her, waiting for me. “I mean, look at her. She dresses like a politician’s wife. I know she’s very sweet, but, let’s face it, she’s about as exciting as lettuce.” The curls shuddered and she looked back to me. “But you … you’re different. You could really be somebody at Dellwood.”

  I could hear her adding silently, If I let you… That’s how Carla Santini works: you don’t do anything or get anything unless she says so. It’s like dealing with the Godfather.

  “Wow…” I said. “Then I could die happy.”

  If it could be bottled, the Santini smile could be used as a chemical weapon.

  “It’s a lot better than dying unhappy,” cooed Carla.

  I picked up my tray.

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I nodded to where Ella was staring at us, her mouth open and a forkful of food hovering in the air beside it, like a politician’s wife whose lunch has been disturbed by the arrival of Martians. “My friend is waiting for me.”

  Those were the first shots fired in what turned out to be a pretty ugly war.

  I TRY TO LIVE WITH DISASTER

  My mother was still sitting at the table, reading the newspaper, when I finally staggered into the kitchen the morning after the end of the world, but the twins had already left for school. Thank the gods for their small mercies. I could face my mother – she, at least, usually tries to act like an adult – but I couldn’t have faced her other progeny on that black, black morn. To have to sit with them while they shrieked at each other, babbled about nothing, and spat half-chewed cereal everywhere while my heart was being devoured by the worms of death would have killed me on the spot.

  My mother gave me a glance when I came in.

  “I called you twice,” she said, her eyes already back on the article she was reading. “What happened? Did you fall asleep again?”

  I took a dragon mug from the shelf, but I was almost too weak to lift it. I leaned against the counter for support.

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” I said in a voice that had lost all trace of joy. Probably forever. “I had a very fraught night.” Which was a phenomenal understatement.

  My parent responded to this shocking announcement with her usual lack of concern for anyone else, especially me. “I had a very difficult night, too. Someone was playing one of her audio-migraines for hours.”

  My mother doesn’t call what Sidartha plays “music”. My mother calls improvisational jazz “music”. Sidartha’s music she calls “audio-migraine”.

  I poured some coffee into the mug. Very slowly, watching it flow into the cup like blood. “I’m sorry if my music disturbed you.” I sighed again. “But I’m afraid it’s the only comfort I have right now.”

  “Well comfort yourself a little more quietly next time,” said my mother.

  I picked up my mug and collapsed in the chair across from her.

  She finally looked up and noticed that I was all in black, including my lips and eyelids. “So what’s it today? You in an Addams Family mood, or have you and Ella had a fight?”

  I stared into the blackness that filled my cup. “It’s nothing,” I whispered, the words strained with pain. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “That’s not all you’re having for breakfast, is it?” demanded my mother. “You can’t go to school on a cup of coffee.”

  I looked at her as a ghost might look at an old friend who is still alive. “I can’t eat anything,” I informed her patiently. “It would turn to ashes as it touched my lips.”

  My mother made a face of exaggerated concentration. “Bette Davis?” she guessed. “Joan Crawford?” She shook her head. “It can’t be Glenn Close.”

  “This isn’t an act,” I said hollowly. “This happens to be a day of great unhappiness for me.”

  “You’ll be a lot more than unhappy if you don’t at least eat a piece of fruit.” She raised her paper. “And you’ll wash all that junk off your face before you leave this house, as well. You look like the living dead.”

  My mother’s a potter. Potters aren’t like painters or musicians or actors; they’re much more pedestrian. It was unusual for her to be so perceptive. This unexpected sensitivity on her part surprised me so much that, even though I must have cried about ten million tears since I heard about the break-up, fresh ones flooded my eyes.

  “That’s exactly what I am,” I sobbed. “I’m the living dead.”

  “Pretend you’re the walking wounded instead,” said my mother. “And get yourself something to eat.”

  * * *

  “I wonder what really made them break up,” Ella was musing as we neared the sprawl of gleaming modern buildings that is Dellwood High. “I mean, ‘solo careers’ doesn’t really tell you much, does it? It’s what they always say. It’s like when politicians start talking about freedom and liberty; it could mean anything.”

  “Artistic differences,” I decided. “I’m sure I read somewhere that Stu feels stifled by the rest of the group.” Stu Wolff was the lead singer and song-writer of Sidartha and, in my humble opinion, one of the greatest geniuses who has ever lived. Maybe even greater than the Bard himself.

  “I bet Stu’s hard to get along with,” said Ella. “You can sort of tell that he’s moody.”

  “Haunted,” I corrected her. “All true geniuses are haunted. It’s part of what they have to suffer for their art.”

  “I’m happy I’m so normal,” said Ella. “I don’t think I could stand the stress of being artistically gifted.” She readjusted her book bag on her shoulder and stifled a smile. “Or the pain.”

  “It isn’t easy,” I assured her. “It’s a great deal to—”

  I stopped, paralyzed by the shocking sight in front of my eyes.

  “Ye gods!” I wailed. “We really do live in a cultural wasteland. Look at this place, will you? Just look at it!” If my heart weren’t already as dead and dry as a bone in the desert, this would have destroyed it for sure.

  Ella looked at the rambling brick edifices spread out before us.

  “It looks the same as always to me,” said Ella.

  Ella’s the very best friend I’ve ever had, but if I were being totally honest I’d have to admit that she doesn’t always have much imagination. She’s intelligent, but not really creative. It comes from growing up with a woman who arranges the spices and canned goods in alphabetical order and has the sheets ironed. That’s why she’s lucky to have me around. I open her horizons. And I benefit from Ella’s down-to-earthness, of course. Extremely sensitive and imaginative people need someone steady to balance them.

  “That’s exactly what I mean!” I strode towards the main building. “One of the most catastrophic events in the history of the universe has just occurred, and everyone here acts as though nothing has happened. You can bet if the President died they’d have the flag at half-mast. And probably a special assembly where everybody has to bend their heads in silence for a minute.”

  Ella nodded. “Oh, I get what you mean. National mourning.”

  I steered her into the girls’ room so I could put my lipstick and eye shadow back on.

  I flung my make-up bag on the sink. “After all, the death of a President isn’t half as devastating as the death of a band like Sidartha.
If the President dies, the Vice President takes over for a while, and then they elect a new President. Big deal.” I stared at myself in the mirror. The black eye shadow made me look like a tragic Greek queen who’d just discovered that she’d married her son or eaten her own baby or something like that. “But there’ll never be another Sidartha!” I cried. “It’s like the death of the last whale!”

  “It’s too bad we’re not putting on Moby Dick this year, isn’t it?” said a honeyed voice right behind us. “That would have been perfect for you.”

  Ella and I looked in the mirror to see one of the stall doors open and Carla Santini waft out. As always, she looked as though at least a dozen photographers were waiting to take her picture, cameras poised. She was wearing DK leggings, a silk Armani top, and spit-polished black boots. Elegant and expensive, but understated. Everything about her said, This is the person you should want to be.

  I smiled my most understated smile. “Only if you played the whale.”

  Normally I enjoy school. My mother says it’s because I like an audience, and what better audience is there than two dozen students and a teacher who can’t leave the room for fifty-five minutes?

  But that black morning when no birds sang, I couldn’t concentrate on anything except the fact that I now lived in a Sidarthaless world.

  In history I stared blindly at Mr Stiple while he droned on about some war, but all I heard was Stu Wolff singing, I don’t want to hear you say ‘never again’, tell me tomorrow, tell me a lie, but please never tell me ‘never again’.

  In maths I gazed raptly at Ms Pollard while she put equations on the board, but all I saw was Stu Wolff sliding across the stage with his guitar on his knee, smiling that endearing lopsided grin of his.

  It was the same in all my other classes. I was so self-absorbed in gym that I got whacked with a hockey stick and had to sit out most of the period. Ms Purdue, my gym teacher, said I should try to concentrate on hitting the puck, not being it.

  It wasn’t until lunch that I began to revive.

  Carla Santini and her disciples usually sat anywhere that Ella and I weren’t, but that day they sat right behind us.

  Because Carla Santini thinks she’s Dellwood’s answer to Julia Roberts, and because she thinks everybody in the universe is interested in every little thing she does, there is no way you can help overhearing her conversation. Carla will never be a great actor – artistic suffering is as alien to her as wearing perfume is to a swamp rat – but she sure can project.

  Ella and I sat in communal silence, thinking about Sidartha and ignoring Carla, but then something she said caught my attention.

  “I had a long talk with Mrs Baggoli after school yesterday,” said Carla. “You know, about Pygmalion?”

  Pygmalion! I’d been so depressed about Sidartha that I’d actually let the auditions slip to the back of my mind until then.

  There was a gentle murmur of interest from the entourage. Once it had died down, Carla continued. There was nothing in her tone to suggest that modesty was one of her strongest virtues.

  “I told her how I thought it was very rigid to stick to the original accents,” said Carla. “I mean, we’re not English and it’s not the nineteenth century any more…”

  And Carla Santini couldn’t do a cockney accent to save her life – or even her wardrobe.

  “We need to adapt classics to reflect our own times, to make them more immediate and relevant…”

  “It’s hard to relate to characters you can’t really understand,” agreed Alma. She giggled. “And those clothes…”

  Tina Cherry, Carla’s second-best friend, tittered. “And a flower girl! I mean, really, what’s that supposed to be? I mean, she doesn’t even work in a florist’s, does she?”

  Carla squealed with triumph. “That’s exactly what I told her. And I pointed out all the successful, meaningful modernizations that have been done in the last twenty years. You know, like Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Good for you,” said Marcia Conroy, the third disciple. “It’s about time Mrs Baggoli woke up and smelled the coffee.”

  The true significance of what Carla was saying was, of course, not lost on me. I was dumbfounded, truly dumbfounded. Carla Santini, knowing she didn’t stand a chance against me when it came to playing an Eliza Doolittle who sold flowers on the streets of London, had decided to change the script. She’s incredible, she really is. You almost have to respect her. You certainly have to make sure you never turn your back on her.

  “So what’d she say?” asked Tina.

  Carla became touchingly coy. I was facing away from her, but I had no trouble seeing the way she smiled and cocked her head to one side so she’d look shy but mischievous. It’s one of her favourite poses. She was undoubtedly tossing her curls. It was enough to make you vomit.

  “Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I told her my idea about changing the location to New York today, and making Eliza a check-out girl in a supermarket…”

  “Uh-huh…” chimed in Alma. “It’s a great idea.” Alma thinks everything Carla Santini says and does is great. She probably gives Carla a standing ovation when she goes to the bathroom.

  “So what’d she say?” pressed Tina, whining slightly with impatience.

  “Yeah,” said Marcia, “tell us what she said.”

  “Well…” Carla paused dramatically. The suspense was really killing. “Mrs Baggoli said she thought it was a really excellent idea.” The table behind us erupted in girlish squeals of delight. “She said she’d been thinking it was time to do something a little different,” Carla went on, nobly controlling her own excitement, but not quite keeping the smug triumph out of her voice, “and she thought my idea was just the thing.”

  “That’s incredible!” gushed Alma. “That’s truly incredible!”

  Tina and Marcia, like myself, were at a loss for words. All they managed were a few awestruck “Gee”s.

  Carla’s laughter rumbled around us. “Didn’t I tell you you wouldn’t believe it?”

  Carla was right, I didn’t believe it. The major problem with Carla Santini – aside from her character, her personality, and her annoying personal habits – is that she was born and raised in Deadwood. As were all her friends. She established her image and territory in kindergarten. She can make anybody believe anything. Even teachers are fooled by Carla. Even Ella had been fooled. But Mrs Baggoli? Mrs Baggoli has done repertory all over the country; she once directed an off-Broadway play; she even had some small parts in a couple of movies and she’s travelled just about all over the world. I couldn’t believe that someone of Mrs Baggoli’s sophistication and worldliness could possibly be fooled by Carla.

  “Carla Santini strikes again!” crowed Alma.

  Out of the mouths of yes-girls…

  “I really have to hand it to you, Carla,” said Marcia admiringly. “You always go after what you want, don’t you?”

  “And she always gets it,” I whispered to Ella.

  Carla laughed with what passed in her for good nature. It sounded like a knife going through live tissue.

  “My parents didn’t raise any losers,” said Carla.

  Ella gave me a look. I could tell from the way her mouth was turned down that Ella thought that my parents had.

  THE SHOW MUST GO ON

  Perhaps it was that look of futility and hopelessness on the face of the best friend I have ever had; perhaps it was the knowledge that – even if they didn’t know it – the rest of the student body was depending on me to strike the first blow for freedom from the tyranny of Carla Santini; perhaps it was the sense of outrage I felt over Carla Santini’s backstage manoeuverings; perhaps it was a combination of these things, but even though my grief still flowed through me like ice water, I forced myself to rally in the afternoon. I was now more determined than ever. The only way Carla Santini was going to get that part was if she killed me.

  I was a little late for the auditions because I had to go to the girls’ room after English to
touch up my make-up. Mrs Baggoli broke off when I burst through the door of the auditorium.

  “You’re just in time, Lola,” boomed Mrs Baggoli. “I was telling the others about the idea I’ve had for our production of Pygmalion.”

  “The others” were my fellow drama club members, all of whom were clutching their scripts and watching me walk down the middle aisle. All, that was, except Carla Santini. As amazing as it was for her to play co-star, Carla was gazing raptly at Mrs Baggoli as though Mrs Baggoli were God and she were Moses.

  Relief swept through me with such force that I almost felt weak. It was Mrs Baggoli’s idea we were going with, not Carla Santini’s. I knew Mrs Baggoli couldn’t be fooled!

  Before I had a chance to ask Mrs Baggoli what her idea was, she told us.

  Mrs Baggoli had decided to set Pygmalion in modern-day New York. Henry Higgins would be a professor at New York University and Eliza Doolittle would be a check-out girl in a supermarket. The revised scripts would be ready by the end of the week. For now, we’d just wing it.

  I felt like I’d fallen down the rabbit hole with Alice. I glanced around at my fellow thespians. They were all looking serious and nodding their heads.

  Carla Santini went off like the fountain at Lincoln Center.

  “What a brilliant idea!” she shouted. “This will give the play a new resonance, an immediacy for today!”

  “And it also means we won’t have to put on those stupid accents,” muttered one of the boys.

  I gaped in horror at my favourite teacher. “You mean it’s your idea?”

  “Yes, Lola,” said Mrs Baggoli. She gave me an amused look. “I know I’m just a high-school teacher, but I am capable of thought.”

  There was a ripple of laughter.

  I laughed along with my usual good humour. “Oh, I know that,” I said quickly. I turned up the wattage on my smile. “It’s just that Carla said at lunch that it was her idea that’s all. That’s why I was surprised.”

  Mrs Baggoli looked from me to Carla. “Oh, really?”

  Carla gazed back at her with the innocence of an angel. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, Mrs Baggoli.” She shrugged, an angel trying to understand the workings of the treacherous human mind. “She must have been eavesdropping when I was telling my friends about your idea at lunch and misunderstood…” Her words trailed off meaningfully. And gotten it wrong as usual.