Dyan Sheldon - Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

Mrs Baggoli’s eyebrows rose. “Any objections?” she asked.

I had an objection. I had several objections. My first objection was that I didn’t want to have the cast party at the Castle Santini. A cast party should be held in the theatre, with the smell of greasepaint all around and the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears. Secondly, I knew Carla well enough to know that with the party at her house, she’d be the one who would act like the star. My third was that I doubted I’d be allowed in. Fourthly, if – through some oversight or minor miracle – I were allowed in, I knew that, somehow, some way, Carla would make sure that I had less fun than a turkey at Thanksgiving. But I didn’t say anything. How could I? Carla’s cleverness had reached new heights. In spite of all my objections, there was no way I could not go without seeming petty and ungrateful. Mrs Baggoli wouldn’t give me so much as a walk-on in the future if I let down the drama club and didn’t turn up.

“Well, that’s settled then,” said Mrs Baggoli. “Thank your father very much and tell him we’ll see him Friday night.”

Carla swept her smile by me. “He’ll be so happy!” she gushed. “He’s really looking forward to it.”

I sank into a depression that was deeper than the ocean and just as wide. I’d never before felt so totally defeated, so completely without hope, in my entire life. Not even the dark days when we first moved to Dellwood were this dark. Even if I was fantastic in Pygmalion – which, of course, I would be – no one would remember me as Lola Cep, the girl who was Eliza Doolittle. They’d remember me as Lola Cep, the girl who was pathetic.

That night, I lay on my bed, listening to the sounds of daily life emanating from the rest of the house, while the anxiety monsters crawled out of the darkness, thrashing and roaring around me.

I was clawed at by self doubt. Maybe I wasn’t as good an actor as I’d thought. Maybe it didn’t matter whether I was or I wasn’t. Maybe, no matter how pure your passion or true your heart, you can never win against the Carla Santinis of this world.

I slept fitfully, tormented by dreams. It was the night of the play. I was up on stage, but I was also in the audience. Everyone around me was talking about me . But not about my performance; not about the wit and insight I brought to Eliza. “Isn’t that the girl who lies?” they were saying. “Isn’t that the girl who told everyone that her father was dead so she wouldn’t seem so boring?” Every time Carla walked on stage they cheered. “She should have gotten the part of Eliza,” the audience whispered. “They must have given it to that other girl out of pity. Because she’s so pathetic.”

I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, my face damp with sweat. I could hear the house groaning and the pipes creaking and the scratching of the pine tree against the front window. But I could hear something else.

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

By the time I was getting ready for school the next day, I’d made my decision. I wasn’t going to be in the play. For the first time in my life, I was giving up. It wasn’t just the Santini Big Freeze. It wasn’t just the way the rest of the cast avoided me in order to have a quiet life. It wasn’t the fed-up way Mrs Baggoli watched my every move. It wasn’t even the fact that Carla had managed to move the party to her house where she could swan around like she was the star. It was the way everyone looked at me – even the kids I knew really liked me – as though I’d just been released from jail for a crime they were sure I’d done.

To answer Carla’s question, I’d had enough. She’d beaten me. Not fairly and squarely, maybe, but she’d definitely beaten me. Carla Santini could be Queen of Deadwood forever, for all I cared.

I didn’t say anything to anyone, not even Ella. Cataclysmic personal defeat isn’t the kind of thing you want to share, not even with your best friend. Like a deer that’s been hit by a Land-Rover, I just wanted to slink into the forest and die by myself.

In fact, Ella and I didn’t talk much that day. I was in too deep a state of grief for idle chit-chat, and besides that, I was laying the ground for a sudden attack of influenza. It was the easiest way. I mean, I couldn’t very well go to Mrs Baggoli and say, “I’ve decided to step down as Eliza, since Carla wants the part so much.”

I was quiet and distracted in my classes.

My teachers noticed that the student they relied on for animated participation was listless and withdrawn.

“Lola,” they said. “Are you all right? You’re very quiet today.”

“It’s nothing,” I answered. “I have a headache”, or “My throat’s a little sore”, or, by the end of the afternoon, “I think I have a fever.”

As soon as I got home, I took to my bed.

My mother found me, prostrate on the couch, wrapped in the old granny-square afghan my dad crocheted when he hurt himself falling off a mountain in the Catskills and was laid up for a few weeks. Whenever anyone’s sick in Ella’s house, they take an aspirin and go to bed. But whenever anyone’s sick in my house, they lie on the couch with the afghan and watch TV.

“What’s wrong?” asked my mother. “Aren’t you feeling well?” Her usual suspiciousness had been replaced with maternal concern. She knew the play meant more to me than anything; it wouldn’t occur to her that I was only acting.

I raised my head as she crossed the room. “My throat hurts,” I croaked, barely loud enough to be heard. “And my head…” I fell back against the pillows. “I think I have a fever…” I stifled a moan of pain. “My skin feels like it’s on fire.”

My mother wiped her hands on her clay-covered apron and felt my forehead. Her face clouded with concern. “You do feel warm…”

I should have felt warm; I’d been lying there with the hot water bottle pressed to my head, waiting for her to come out of her studio.

“I hope you’re not coming down with something…”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I whispered hoarsely. “Stress…”

“It could be the flu,” said my mother. “There’s a lot of it going around…” She started feeling my glands. “Serves you right for running around in that storm on Saturday.”

“I can’t be sick,” I moaned feebly. “Tomorrow’s Pygmalion . I have to be all right for that.”

“I’ll make you a herbal tea,” said my mother, “and a compress for your fever. Maybe it’s just one of those twenty-four hour bugs.”

I moaned again. “It has to be,” I said as she bustled out of the room. “I can’t miss the play.”

My mother’s voice was respectfully low and full of concern. “I’m really sorry, Ella,” she was saying, “but I’m afraid she can’t come to the phone. She isn’t feeling well.”

She paused while Ella spoke.

“It looks like some kind of flu,” my mother continued. “You know, throat, head and fever. But despite all appearances, she isn’t going to die. It doesn’t look like she’ll be going to school tomorrow, though.”

I could hear the sound of Ella’s voice coming through the receiver, but not the words themselves.

“I know,” said my mother, “it really is a shame. My folks are coming all the way from Connecticut, and of course there’s Mary’s dad… They’re all going to be really disappointed.”

I didn’t want to hear about all the people I was supposedly letting down. I lifted my hand and waved it in my mother’s direction. I was much too weak and my voice much too sore to tell her to say hello to Ella for me.

My mother gave me a nod. “She says to say hello,” she said to Ella. My mother looked over at me again. “Ella says hi,” she reported.