Dyan Sheldon - Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

“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?”

The night before the concert was a restless one for me. Killer wasps buzzed in my stomach, wild stallions stampeded through my heart. Stu Wolff , I repeated over and over to myself, by this time tomorrow you’ll be dancing with Stu Wolff… Or talking to him. Or laughing with him. Or just gazing into his eyes with cosmic love…

Minutes passed like hours; hours dragged by like days. There were moments in that dark torment when I thought the sun would never rise again. But the day of the concert finally dawned.

It was a moody morning, grey and cold and mildly vicious. I didn’t care about the weather, of course. I was going to meet Stu Wolff. I was going to dance in his arms. A blizzard couldn’t have stopped me now. I’d find snowshoes. I’d find a team of dogs and a sled. One way or another, I’d get to Manhattan.

Too excited to go through the motions of daily life – eating and talking to my family – I stayed in my room until Ella arrived, shortly after three. There was a four o’clock train that would get us to the City by six. That gave us two hours to find tickets and wait with the bereaved but adoring multitudes for the concert to begin.

Ella was edgy and a little wild-eyed, like the heroine in a romantic novel. I made a mental note that this was a look she should be encouraged to maintain. It made her look less bland.

“This is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done,” Ella gasped as she shut the door of my room behind her. “But it’s also the most terrifying.”

I looked her up and down. She had the black pouch with her pyjamas and toothbrush in it, but nothing else.

“Where’s your stuff?” I was afraid that, in her agitated state, she’d forgotten her clothes for the party.

Ella flung herself on the bed.

“I left my bag outside, under that big bush. I didn’t want your mother to see it.” I was touched by her thoroughness. Maybe she was going to be better at this than I’d hoped.

“What about your mom?” I asked. “Do you think you convinced her not to call?”

“I think so,” said Ella. “Anyway, she hasn’t been nagging me so much lately; she’s been kind of distracted. And she has some charity thing to go to tonight. That’ll keep her occupied.”

Beginning to relax a little, Ella scanned the room.

“So,” she said. “Where’s your dress?”

“I’ll show it to you later,” I promised. Now wasn’t the time to make her more nervous; I could do that when it was too late to turn back.

“Show it to me now,” insisted Ella. “We have time.”

I picked up my bag and slipped the strap over my shoulder. “I’m too anxious. Let’s tell my mom we’re going to your house after all, and get to the station. I’ll show you there.”

“You can’t be as anxious as I am,” said Ella. “Every time my mom spoke to me last night and this morning I practically jumped out of my skin.” She stood up. “And I couldn’t sleep.” As though this was enough justification for boldness, Ella grabbed hold of the front flap on my bag. “Come on,” she urged. “Just one little pee—”

Ella’s mouth held the shape of the word “peek” for several seconds, but no sound came out. Her eyes met mine.

“I don’t believe it.” She was calm like a dead sea. “I don’t believe you stole Eliza’s gown!”

Language is a subtle and intricate thing.

“I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it.”

Ella pounced. “You borrowed it? You mean you asked Mrs Baggoli and she said it was OK?”

I gestured vaguely. “Well, no … not exactly…”

“Exactly what, then?” asked Ella. “I thought Mrs Baggoli kept the costumes locked up.”

I nodded, glad to be able to give a positive response. “Yeah, she does. But Sam Creek—”

“Sam Creek?!” Ella looked as though there would be no more surprises for her in life; she’d seen it all. “You mean you got Sam involved in this? He stole the dress for you?”

“Borrowed,” I corrected. “Sam borrowed it for me. Calm down, will you? It’ll be back in the cupboard by Monday afternoon, and no one will be the wiser.” I shut the bag. “And besides,” I concluded, “technically, it is my dress.”

“No it isn’t,” said Ella. “ Technically , it’s Mrs Trudeo’s. She’s the one who made it.”

“For me ,” I countered. “She made it for me.” For me and Advanced Dressmaking, Spring Term.

Ella collapsed back on the bed. “Lola, I can’t go through with this,” she announced. “It’s bad enough that I’m lying to my parents, but stolen goods is something else. You’re never going to get away with it.”

I grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “You can’t back out now,” I said. “You just can’t.”