Dyan Sheldon - Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

I turned to Henry Higgins, Colonel Pickering, and the Parlourmaid, who were all standing a few steps from Carla and me with their mouths open and their eyes wide.

“You believe me, don’t you?” I demanded. “Carla’s the one who’s lying, not I.”

The Parlourmaid looked at Carla, and said nothing. Henry Higgins looked at Mrs Baggoli, and said nothing. Colonel Pickering looked up at the lights and shrugged. Mrs Baggoli clapped her hands. “Girls! Please!”

I returned to my argument with Carla. “And anyway,” I screamed, “I’d rather have my wardrobe than yours. If you couldn’t read you’d never be able to get dressed in the morning.”

“Your jealousy is disgusting!” sneered Carla. “You’re so pathetic I almost feel sorry for you.”

“ You feel sorry for me ?” I laughed hollowly. “You’re the one who’s pathetic. Poor little rich girl who can’t stand not to have everything her way. You’re not even big enough to admit that Ella and I did go to the party. Because of who we are, not because of who our fathers are.”

“Girls!” Mrs Baggoli was back on her feet. “Did you hear me?” Mrs Baggoli appeared at the foot of the stage. “I don’t know what’s going on with the two of you, but it’ll stop outside that door.” She pointed to the main entrance. “Am I making myself clear?”

I nodded. I couldn’t trust myself to speak. It was all so unfair! Hot tears of self-pity welled in my eyes. But no one noticed.

“I mean it,” said Mrs Baggoli. “All of us have worked very hard for this production. I’m not having it ruined by you two. No more. Do you understand? We’ve all had enough.”

“Have you, Lola?” whispered Carla. “Have you finally had enough?”

Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? Carla’s words echoed in my mind for the rest of the day.

All through rehearsal, even during Eliza’s big showdown with Henry Higgins, I watched the others watching me – the rest of the cast impassive, Mrs Baggoli frowning critically, Carla looking bored – and thought, Have you Lola…? Have you finally had enough…?

At supper, my mother brought up the play.

“We’re all really looking forward to it,” said my mother. She smiled at her youngest as they snuffled at their food and kicked each other under the table. “Aren’t we, girls?”

“What?” asked Paula, through a mouthful of potato.

Pam lobbed a piece of broccoli at her twin’s head. “What’s it about?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to play with your food?” shouted my mother. “Pam, you get down on the floor and pick that up right now.”

Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? asked the voice in my head.

It whispered to me while I did my homework; it hissed at me through the splashing of the shower. Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? Enough…? Enough…? Have you finally had enough…?

I didn’t know what the answer was. All I knew was that I had seriously underestimated a couple of things, only one of them being Carla Santini. I hadn’t realized what the limits were to what people would believe. The man in the ticket store had believed my improbable – but possible – story of a dying sister. The bus driver had believed my improbable – but possible – story of a sister with a broken foot. The bouncer had believed the improbable – but possible – story of my sudden illness. Ella had believed in the deaths of my father and Elk – both possible but not all that probable. The one story I’d told that was both probable and possible was the one that was true. And no one believed it. Not even Mrs Baggoli. I’d always thought it was possible to control your life, but it seemed that it wasn’t. To everyone in Deadwood, there was no way I would ever get into the Sidartha party, and so I hadn’t.

Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…?

“You know what really gets me?” I said to Ella that night on the phone. “What really gets me is that Sam’s right. We could never have won. It’s like playing cards with a river-boat gambler. The deck’s marked. You couldn’t win if you played for the rest of your life.”

“What does it matter any more?” asked Ella.

“What does it matter?” Was this the same girl who only weeks before had been begging me to stay out of Carla’s way?

“Well, we know we went to the party,” said Ella. “ We know we met Stu Wolff. I mean, that’s what really counts, isn’t it?”

Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…?

From then on, Mrs Baggoli was cool to the point of frostbite through every rehearsal. She was warm and encouraging to the rest of the cast, but when she spoke to Carla or me she was like a ringmaster entering the lions’ cage, chair first.

The others kept their distance, too – at least from me. Carla Santini made sure that they did.

Mrs Baggoli may have said that whatever was going on between Carla and me would stop outside the auditorium, but that wasn’t what Carla heard. Carla heard, “Escalate this battle into a full-scale war, and take no prisoners”.

She stopped talking to me completely again. Whenever I made some comment on the play, Carla would pretend to study her nails. Whenever I tried to strike up a conversation with one of the other actors, she’d cut in – smoothly, effortlessly, smilingly – and ice me out. No one even bothered trying to strike up a conversation with me if Carla was around; it wasn’t worth the effort. All someone had to do was ask me the time and she’d swoop down like a vulture on a dead rabbit.

And then, on Wednesday, Carla sailed into rehearsal with her curls shaking and a floodlight smile. The rest of us were all at the front of the auditorium. We all looked warily at one another.

“Mrs Baggoli,” screeched Carla. “Mrs Baggoli, guess what? You won’t believe my news!”

Mrs Baggoli looked up with an expression on her face that suggested that she was prepared to believe anything. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” said Mrs Baggoli.

Carla laughed. “Oh, no, you’re going to love this.” She spread out her arms as though about to make an important announcement. She took a deep breath. She was ready to burst with excitement.

“My father wants us to have the cast party at our house!” she shrieked. “Isn’t that fantastic? He says he insists!”

I’ll bet he did.

The cast party isn’t exactly the social event of the year. It’s what you would call a symbolic celebration. Usually it’s held backstage. We are all supposed to bring in something to eat or drink, and Mrs Baggoli contributes the cake.

Mrs Baggoli was taken by surprise. “Why Carla,” she said. “That’s very kind of your father, but it’s very short notice—”

“Oh, I know, I know…” Carla wrung her lily-white hands. “He’s been so busy that it kind of snuck up on him.”

Which meant that she’d only just thought of it. It had taken her a while, but she’d finally come up with the way she could play a supporting part and still be the star.

Mrs Baggoli looked unsure. “Well…”

“And he’ll pay for everything, of course,” said Carla. She smiled on us happily, Lady Bountiful distributing fresh fruit to the poor. “I’ve been telling him all about the play, of course, and he says it sounds to him like we all deserve something special.”

Still blinking in bewilderment, Mrs Baggoli appealed to the rest of us. “What does everyone else think?” she asked.

“And don’t forget, there’s the indoor pool,” said Carla. “And, of course, we have so much room that everybody’s welcome to bring guests.” She quivered with girlish excitement. “Oh, please say yes, Mrs Baggoli. It’ll be so much fun!”