Dyan Sheldon - Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

A dark figure was passing in front of the restaurant. Slowly and uncertainly. Almost stumbling, it braced itself against the window for a second. Joy, relief and total panic all surged through me at once. It was Stuart Harley Wolff! He must have found a way out the back. No mean feat for a man in his condition.

I raced to our booth and grabbed my things. “Come on,” I said. “We have to go.”

“But Stu—”

“Now!” I gave her a yank. “He got out!”

Ella scrambled to her feet. “What about the bill?”

The bill! The greatest talent of our times was staggering unhappily through the tempest-tossed night and all Ella could think about was the bill! Her parents really have a lot to answer for.

I picked up the bill and pretended to examine it carefully. The deluxe hamburger platter was $5.95. The large onion rings were another $2.50. The coffees were nearly three.

“Put whatever you have on the table,” I ordered. I put down my five-dollar bill and fifty-eight cents.

Ella put down $1.40. “You had the rest of my money,” said Ella. And then, in case I’d overlooked the obvious, added, “We don’t have enough.”

One of the cops had disappeared; the other was watching us in the mirror behind the counter.

I got a firm grip on Ella’s arm. “Just walk to the door like nothing’s wrong,” I whispered.

“And then what?” she whispered back.

“Then run.”

It would have worked, I’m sure it would have. But we never got a chance to run. The cop got up as we started walking; he blocked our way to the door.

“Not so fast,” he said, in a friendly tone. “I want to ask you two a couple of questions.”

“Now?” I asked, feigning panic and urgency. “I’m afraid we’re in a hurry. Our friend—” I tried to push past him.

He took each of us gently but firmly by the arm.

“Don’t worry about your friend,” said the cop. “He’s going to be just fine.”

I will never forget that ride to the precinct house. The streets were dark and blurred with rain; the blue lights flashed; the neon signs shone feebly through the storm; the windshield wipers whispered like demons. Given her views on being driven home in a patrol car, I’d expected Ella to feel equally strongly about being driven to the precinct house in a patrol car, but she sat calmly in the back seat between me and the dozing Stuart Wolff, humming a Sidartha song under her breath.

I was the one who was upset. It was obvious that Officer Lentigo didn’t believe my story. Which was that we were eighteen-year-old New York University students, that we were out on a date with Stu and another guy, that the other guy had gone to get his car, and that we’d taken Stu to the diner to sober him up a little while we waited.

“You know what college guys are like,” I’d joked.

“He looks a little old to be in college,” said Officer Lentigo.

I laughed, indulgently. “He’s doing his master’s in literature.”

Officer Lentigo didn’t so much as crack a smile. “You got any ID?” he asked.

It was then that Officer Grimkin came back with Stu, and Officer Lentigo decided to take us all back to the precinct to call our folks.

The desk sergeant recognized Stu the minute he leaned against the front desk, demanding a drink, under the misapprehension that he’d finally found a bar.

“Hey,” said the sergeant. “I know this guy.” He wagged his pen at Stu. “Aren’t you a singer?”

It was as if – like Sleeping Beauty kissed by the Prince – Stu had been under a spell that had finally been broken. He looked around, blinking in confusion. “What’s going on?”

The sergeant shook his head emphatically. “Yeah, you are a singer.” He looked over at Officers Lentigo and Grimkin. “Janellen’s got pictures of him all over her walls,” he explained.

“Lucky her,” said Officer Grimkin.

“I thought you told me he was a grad student,” Officer Lentigo said to me.

“That, too,” I said.

Perhaps realizing that his fellow officers weren’t as impressed by Janellen’s wall decorations as they might have been, the sergeant became more business-like.

“OK,” he said brusquely. “Let’s have some names, addresses, and telephone numbers.” He pointed his pen at Stu again. “You first.”

“Stuart Harley Wolff,” said Stu immediately. He frowned. “Are we being arrested?”

“Not yet,” said the sergeant. “Address and phone?”

Stu gave him his address and number, and then turned his frown on me and Ella. “Are we together? Who are you?”

The sergeant tapped on the desk with his pen. “I was just about to ask them the same thing.”

Now, I thought, was the moment when Ella would lose it. The moment when she had to put the New York Police Department in touch with Marilyn Gerard. I turned to give her a smile of support, but to my surprise Ella wasn’t looking at me, she was looking at the desk sergeant.

“Ella Gerard, 58 Birch Hollow Road, Dellwood, New Jersey, 201 238 4917,” she said almost regally. You’d think she did this kind of thing all the time.

Then everyone looked at me.

“Lola Cep,” I said. I’d been giving this moment a lot of thought on the drive over; I didn’t hesitate for a nanosecond. The last thing I needed was for the police to wake up Karen Kapok in the middle of the night. Besides, what could my mother do? No one could expect her to drive down in a hurricane with her two little daughters, could they? Tragedy could only result from such a rash action. I was doing her a favour. My father could tell her – later. He isn’t as volatile as my mother. “My father’s address is 311 Second Avenue, Apartment F, 460 5517.”

I felt, rather than saw, Ella’s expression change from one of princessly serenity to cataclysmic horror.

“OK,” said Officer Lentigo. “Why don’t you two take the literature student here, and go sit down while I make some calls.”

I don’t know if it was all the walking in the rain or the sobering effect of being taken in by the cops, but though Stu was kind of dazed, he definitely wasn’t as drunk as he’d been earlier. Walking almost steadily, he followed us to the row of chairs against the wall.

Ella didn’t seem to notice him. Her calm and cool totally gone, she turned on me.

“What’s wrong with you?” she hissed. “Why did you lie like that? Don’t you think they’re going to find out that your father doesn’t live on Second Avenue?”

Stu tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said, obviously struggling to clear his head, “but what’s going on? Who are you two?”

I’d been so absorbed in what was happening, that I’d forgotten Ella thought my father was a road statistic. Stress wreaks havoc with delicate fabrications. That’s one fact of life that I’ve learned. Another is that the best defence is a quick offence.

I ignored Stu, too.

“What’s with you?” I snapped at Ella. “All of a sudden you’re giving your address and phone number to the first policeman who asks for it. How come you’re not afraid of what your parents are going to say?”

“I’m resigned to my fate,” said Ella rather dramatically. She shrugged. “Besides, what’s the use of more lies? They’re going to find out one way or another.” She shrugged again. “At least this’ll be something to tell our grandchildren, won’t it?” She forgot her outrage enough to smile. “The only things my parents will have to tell their grandchildren are their golf handicaps.”

It really had been quite a day. I could hardly believe I was hearing this from Ella Gerard, perfect daughter of perfect parents. Her true soul and spirit were finally beginning to emerge.