Dyan Sheldon - Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

Like cows, they turned together. There was no sweat on Carla or her friends. They all looked as though they were waiting for the photographer. Considering the amount of make-up they all wore, they must have been up at dawn.

“Well, will you look what the wind’s blown in,” cooed Carla.

I knew that coo. If it had been a weapon, it would have been a submachine-gun. Carla was happy. I hadn’t gotten the part.

But a great actor acts, whether she got the part or not.

I smiled. “I couldn’t stand the suspense,” I said, as if I was interested but personally unconcerned. “I had to see how the casting went.”

“Oh, did you?” Carla smiled. A switchblade joined the Santini arsenal.

“Yeah.” I forced myself to smile back. A great actor puts the play before her own petty needs and desires. She doesn’t sulk or get grumpy when she loses out to a lesser talent. She is generous even in the most ignominious defeat. “Well,” I said brightly, “are congratulations in order?”

Alma, Tina, and Marcia all looked to Carla. Carla just stared at me.

When no one responded I went on. “I can’t wait to see what part I got. No matter what, it’s going to be a great production.”

“If it is a great production, it’ll be thanks to Carla,” said Alma. I thought she meant because Carla was going to play Eliza, but she didn’t. “I mean, whose idea was it to update the play in the first place?”

Surprise, I’ve noticed, can often provoke honesty.

“Well, actually, it was—”

Carla cut me off before I could say “Mrs Baggoli’s”.

“Oh, please…” she sneered. The teaching staff of Dellwood High would have been pretty shocked to hear the venom in her lovely, well-modulated voice. “Stop pretending, will you? You’d rather kill yourself than play anyone but Eliza, and you know it.”

I was about to say that, actually, I’d rather kill her, but before I could even open my mouth Carla stepped right up to me, as though she were going to invite me behind the school to have a fight.

“Well, you’re going to wish you had killed yourself when I get through with you,” she whispered.

Alma, Tina and Marcia smiled, nodding.

I felt like Macbeth, but with one extra witch.

I flung my cape over my shoulder, defiantly. Carla jumped back with a cry of surprise.

“Are you threatening me?” I asked in a calm and reasonable voice.

Carla gave me one of her “what’s this bug doing on my sleeve?” looks.

“You’ve gone too far,” said Carla Santini in this dead-calm voice. “You always have to have things your way, but this time you’ve really gone too far.” She smiled. It wasn’t what you could call a pleasant sight. “I didn’t think you were this stupid,” she continued. “But now it’s time you learned your place.”

And with that she swept away, the other three hurrying behind her.

I knew, of course, why Carla was so furious, but I pushed my bike up to the list on the door anyway. I had to see it for myself. I started at the top of the list and worked my way down. Henry Higgins: Jon Spucher. Colonel Pickering: Andy Lightman. Mrs Higgins: Carla Santini. Eliza Doolittle: Lola Cep.

Carla Santini is not the sort of person to slink quietly away into a corner after a defeat. There are a lot of negative things you can say about Carla, but giving up easily isn’t one of them.

That’s why Ella and I wound up sitting near Carla at lunch. When we got to the cafeteria, Carla was already in our place, talking and laughing as though she were a total stranger to jealousy and anger.

“There’s a couple of spaces in the far corner,” said Ella, starting to veer to the right.

I grabbed her wrist. “We’ll sit where we always sit.”

She gave me one of her looks. “What?” hissed Ella. “You want to sit in Carla’s lap?”

It was true. In order to sit where we always sat I’d be in Carla’s lap and Ella would be in Tina’s.

“OK, OK,” I said, “not exactly where we always sit. There’re two empty chairs behind their table. We’ll sit there.”

“Why can’t you ever just lie low?” muttered Ella, but she muttered as she followed me across the room.

Surprise surprise, Carla Santini was talking about the play.

Enthusiastically.

“Actually,” she was saying as we took our seats, “the character of Mrs Higgins is more interesting than Eliza’s in many ways. I’ve always thought of her as a symbol of feminism.”

Ella glanced at me as she began to remove a series of pastel plastic containers from her lunch bag. Mrs Gerard’s cooking class had moved on to salads.

“Even though she’s not the female lead, it’s a part with depth and true contemporary resonance.”

I was happy I hadn’t started eating yet; I might have been sick.

Carla sighed. It was a sigh full of sadness and regret.

“To be totally honest,” said Carla, “I think Mrs Baggoli made the right decision.”

There were a few gasped protests and a couple of sympathetic snorts.

“Really,” insisted Carla. “I mean, what is Eliza when you get down to it? She’s a loser, isn’t she? She’s illiterate, she’s ignorant, she’s in a dead-end job with no future or opportunities…” She sighed again. Poor Eliza. “She’ll probably end up on drugs or as a prostitute – what else is there for her?”

I could feel her shudder delicately but distastefully behind me. I felt a few Santini curls hit my head.

“Now that I think about it, I really don’t think I could identify with someone like that,” said Carla. She laughed sharply. “It takes a thief to catch a thief, doesn’t it?”

“Huh?” said Alma.

A few more curls slapped against me. Carla was rolling her eyes.

“You know ,” moaned Carla, “it takes a thief to know how a thief thinks…” You could almost hear her start to purr. “Just as it takes a low-life to know how a low-life feels.”

Alma, Tina and Marcia all collapsed in hysterics.

I could have turned around and said something. You know, something subtle but apt. Like, “Well then, it is amazing that you didn’t get the part, isn’t it?” But I didn’t. To answer would be to play right into Carla’s game. To ignore her and act as though I hadn’t heard what she said would drive her nuts.

I raised my juice container over the table. “Let’s toast,” I said loudly to Ella. “After all, this is really a celebratory lunch, isn’t it?”

Ella’s expression was about as celebratory as a death mask, but she nodded and held up her stainless-steel thermos.

“To Pygmalion !” I cried gaily.

“To Pygmalion ,” muttered Ella. And immediately afterwards and much louder she said, “So, what do you think of all the rumours?”

Despite the shocking initial disinterest of everyone at Deadwood High School in the death of a legend, there were now more rumours about Sidartha going around than Carla Santini had teeth.

The reason the band split up was because Bryan Jeffries, the drummer, was a drug addict.

No, it was because Jon Waldaski, the bass player, was dying of AIDS.

Because Steve Maya, the lead guitarist, was an alcoholic.

Because Stu Wolff was an alcoholic and/or a drug addict.

Because Stu Wolff wanted to change his image.

Because Stu and Steve did nothing but fight because Stu stole Steve’s girlfriend.

Because Stu and Steve did nothing but fight because Stu wouldn’t let Steve play his songs in the band.

Because Bryan attacked Jon with a snare drum.

Because Stu broke Bryan’s jaw.

Because Jon was suing the others for not giving him credit for songs that were his.

Blahblahblah…

“I can’t believe Bryan’s into drugs,” I said. “Stu wouldn’t tolerate it. He has too much integrity.” It went without saying that despite the historical connection between genius and mind-altering substances, we had dismissed the accusations of drug addiction against Stu automatically. Not only did he have integrity, he was passionate about his music. There was no way he would risk it for some superficial thrill.