Dyan Sheldon - Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

Maybe a little too much.

Ella folded her arms in front of her. “So,” she said. “Why did you lie?”

It was time, I could tell, to unleash the truth. I turned my eyes on the rich mix of life that was milling around the front desk while I answered.

“I didn’t lie,” I said quietly as some guy in handcuffs was dragged down the hall. “My father does live on Second Avenue. He has a rent-controlled apartment and a dog named Negus.”

Stu cleared his throat. “Look,” he said, “this is really fascinating, but could one of you please tell me what happened? The last thing I remember is throwing a CD at Steve.” He made a face. “And I only remember that vaguely.”

But Ella was no longer interested in Stu. She leaned close to me. “You told me your father died in a motorcycle accident,” she said very loudly and clearly.

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “All right,” I gave in. “So I exaggerated a little.”

She almost laughed. “You exaggerated a little? You killed off your own father, and you call that exaggerating a little?” Her Gestapo gaze bored into the side of my head. “What do you call exaggerating a lot?”

“Look,” I said, still trying to avoid direct eye contact. “Can’t we talk about this later? Don’t you think we should tell Stu what happened first?”

The old Ella would have backed down instantly. She would have apologized for being rude and, remembering all the rules about politeness and manners instilled in her by her parents, would have started being helpful to Stu. But the new Ella couldn’t care less.

She shook her head. “I think you should tell me what happened. Why did you say that your father was dead?”

I shrugged. “I had a reason.”

“Well that’s a start,” said Ella. “And what, pray tell, was that?”

Pray tell? Since when had Ella started stealing my lines?

Stu’s head moved back and forth between us as though he were watching a tennis match.

Before I could answer, Ella held up a hand. “And don’t tell me you lied because he’s a criminal or was tragically maimed rescuing a baby from a burning building, either,” she warned me. “This time I want the truth.”

“The truth?”

“Yes,” said Ella. “The truth. You do remember what that is, don’t you?”

Sure , I thought, it’s boring .

“Were we in a diner?” asked Stu. “I have this image of old Christmas decorations…”

Ella stopped staring at me. Temporarily. “If you could just hold on a minute,” she said, “I’d be happy to explain. But right now I’m talking to her .” She turned back to me as she said “ her ”.

Stu turned to me, too. “Tell her, will you? I’d like to know what’s going on.”

I sighed. I know when I am beaten. “All right,” I said. “The total truth.” I looked at Stu. He had no idea who I was and wasn’t as hostile as Ella. I took a deep breath. “I lied because I wanted to make myself seem more interesting, that’s all.”

“More interesting?” repeated Ella. She glanced around the room as though taking a quick inventory, starting with the two women of the night who were standing at the front desk and ending with Stu. “We’re sitting here, in a New York police station with a cultural icon, waiting for your dead father to show up, and you want to be more interesting? More interesting than what?”

“You don’t understand,” I said – sadly, as a person used to being misunderstood would. “It was a new town, a new school…”

“I understand,” said Stu. “I think.”

I immediately felt less defensive. I believed him. If anyone could understand, I was pretty sure he, a true artist and kindred spirit, could.

“It wasn’t intentional,” I told Stu. “It just came out like that and then I couldn’t change it.” I smiled dauntedly. “I mean, if I’d been thinking more clearly I’d have had him move to Tibet or something.”

“Tibet’s good,” said Stu. “It’s mystic and nobody’s going to go look for him there.”

Ella, however, is more attached to a narrow, pedestrian concept of truth.

“So were they really married?” asked Ella. “Or did you make that up, too?”

“Of course I didn’t make that up. They really loved – love each other.” This, too, was true. My parents are largely incompatible, but they’re really good friends. “He just didn’t die in a road accident, that’s all.” I gave Ella an accusatory look. “I don’t lie about fundamentals,” I explained, not hiding my hurt. “Only minor details.”

But Ella was stuck in the minor details.

“What about Elk?” she persisted. “Where’s he?”

I kept my eyes on Stu. “California.”

Ella shook her head. “This is incredible,” she said. “I feel like I’m in a movie or something.” She smiled bitter sweetly. “ The Life and Times of Lola Cep. ”

“You know,” said Stu, who was much less self-obsessed when relatively sober than when relatively not, “I really would like to know what’s going on.”

Nor was he the only one. Even as I was sitting there with both Ella and Stu staring at me expectantly, the main door opened and a large mixed-breed dog walked in, followed by a thin, fair man in faded jeans and a black leather jacket, his hair close-cropped and a diamond stud in one ear. The man looked around uneasily.

“You think that’s Marsh Foreman?” whispered Ella.

The man’s eyes fell on Ella, Stu and me.

“Mary!” cried my father. “What the hell’s going on?”

As the rain continued to fall on the dark, heartless streets, we gathered around Officer Lentigo’s cluttered desk and I told our tale. Succinctly, but with passion and raw honesty. I told how desperate Ella and I had been to see Sidartha’s last concert but our parents, insensitive to the intensity of our needs and feelings, refused to let us go. How we tried so hard but couldn’t get tickets. How we decided to crash the party rather than have our dreams forever denied. How everything had gone so incredibly wrong, as though the Fates themselves were pulling the strings. How we’d seen Stu storm out of the Soho loft and followed him to make sure he didn’t come to any harm. It was a slightly edited version. I didn’t mention Carla Santini and I didn’t mention telling Ella that my father had been dead for sixteen years – I didn’t want to complicate it too much.

I’d been right to resurrect my father, rather than wake up my mother. My mother would have interrupted my story every sentence or two to ask annoying questions – like, how did you know about the party? or, where did you get that dress? – but my father only interrupted once to say, “But I said I’d take you to the concert,” and was satisfied with my explanation of our desperate desire to get to the party without an escort. He could understand, he’d been young once, too.

My father kept shaking his head while I talked, but Officers Lentigo and Grimkin and Stu Wolff, riveted by my story, were motionless and staring.

“I know I should be furious,” said my father when we were through. He sighed, looking at me with a mixture of paternal love and paternal frustration. “But I’m not up to fury right now. I’m just thankful nothing worse happened.”

Officers Lentigo and Grimkin were stern but not unkind. They agreed we were lucky they’d become interested in us before someone less savoury did.

Stu said, “Well, now that that’s settled, does anyone want to go to a party with me?”

My mother would have said, “No.” She has a very rigid sense of justice.

My father looked at me and Ella. “Oh, what the hell,” said my father. “Is it OK if we bring the dog?”