Dyan Sheldon - Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

“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.

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.