Dyan Sheldon - Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

“That’s exactly what I mean!” I strode towards the main building. “One of the most catastrophic events in the history of the universe has just occurred, and everyone here acts as though nothing has happened. You can bet if the President died they’d have the flag at half-mast. And probably a special assembly where everybody has to bend their heads in silence for a minute.”

Ella nodded. “Oh, I get what you mean. National mourning.”

I steered her into the girls’ room so I could put my lipstick and eye shadow back on.

I flung my make-up bag on the sink. “After all, the death of a President isn’t half as devastating as the death of a band like Sidartha. If the President dies, the Vice President takes over for a while, and then they elect a new President. Big deal.” I stared at myself in the mirror. The black eye shadow made me look like a tragic Greek queen who’d just discovered that she’d married her son or eaten her own baby or something like that. “But there’ll never be another Sidartha!” I cried. “It’s like the death of the last whale!”

“It’s too bad we’re not putting on Moby Dick this year, isn’t it?” said a honeyed voice right behind us. “That would have been perfect for you.”

Ella and I looked in the mirror to see one of the stall doors open and Carla Santini waft out. As always, she looked as though at least a dozen photographers were waiting to take her picture, cameras poised. She was wearing DK leggings, a silk Armani top, and spit-polished black boots. Elegant and expensive, but understated. Everything about her said, This is the person you should want to be.

I smiled my most understated smile. “Only if you played the whale.”

Normally I enjoy school. My mother says it’s because I like an audience, and what better audience is there than two dozen students and a teacher who can’t leave the room for fifty-five minutes?

But that black morning when no birds sang, I couldn’t concentrate on anything except the fact that I now lived in a Sidarthaless world.

In history I stared blindly at Mr Stiple while he droned on about some war, but all I heard was Stu Wolff singing, I don’t want to hear you say ‘never again’, tell me tomorrow, tell me a lie, but please never tell me ‘never again’.

In maths I gazed raptly at Ms Pollard while she put equations on the board, but all I saw was Stu Wolff sliding across the stage with his guitar on his knee, smiling that endearing lopsided grin of his.

It was the same in all my other classes. I was so self-absorbed in gym that I got whacked with a hockey stick and had to sit out most of the period. Ms Purdue, my gym teacher, said I should try to concentrate on hitting the puck, not being it.

It wasn’t until lunch that I began to revive.

Carla Santini and her disciples usually sat anywhere that Ella and I weren’t, but that day they sat right behind us.

Because Carla Santini thinks she’s Dellwood’s answer to Julia Roberts, and because she thinks everybody in the universe is interested in every little thing she does, there is no way you can help overhearing her conversation. Carla will never be a great actor – artistic suffering is as alien to her as wearing perfume is to a swamp rat – but she sure can project.

Ella and I sat in communal silence, thinking about Sidartha and ignoring Carla, but then something she said caught my attention.

“I had a long talk with Mrs Baggoli after school yesterday,” said Carla. “You know, about Pygmalion ?”

Pygmalion! I’d been so depressed about Sidartha that I’d actually let the auditions slip to the back of my mind until then.

There was a gentle murmur of interest from the entourage. Once it had died down, Carla continued. There was nothing in her tone to suggest that modesty was one of her strongest virtues.

“I told her how I thought it was very rigid to stick to the original accents,” said Carla. “I mean, we’re not English and it’s not the nineteenth century any more…”

And Carla Santini couldn’t do a cockney accent to save her life – or even her wardrobe.

“We need to adapt classics to reflect our own times, to make them more immediate and relevant…”

“It’s hard to relate to characters you can’t really understand,” agreed Alma. She giggled. “And those clothes…”

Tina Cherry, Carla’s second-best friend, tittered. “And a flower girl! I mean, really, what’s that supposed to be? I mean, she doesn’t even work in a florist’s, does she?”

Carla squealed with triumph. “That’s exactly what I told her. And I pointed out all the successful, meaningful modernizations that have been done in the last twenty years. You know, like Romeo and Juliet .”

“Good for you,” said Marcia Conroy, the third disciple. “It’s about time Mrs Baggoli woke up and smelled the coffee.”

The true significance of what Carla was saying was, of course, not lost on me. I was dumbfounded, truly dumbfounded. Carla Santini, knowing she didn’t stand a chance against me when it came to playing an Eliza Doolittle who sold flowers on the streets of London, had decided to change the script. She’s incredible, she really is. You almost have to respect her. You certainly have to make sure you never turn your back on her.

“So what’d she say?” asked Tina.

Carla became touchingly coy. I was facing away from her, but I had no trouble seeing the way she smiled and cocked her head to one side so she’d look shy but mischievous. It’s one of her favourite poses. She was undoubtedly tossing her curls. It was enough to make you vomit.

“Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I told her my idea about changing the location to New York today, and making Eliza a check-out girl in a supermarket…”

“Uh-huh…” chimed in Alma. “It’s a great idea.” Alma thinks everything Carla Santini says and does is great. She probably gives Carla a standing ovation when she goes to the bathroom.

“So what’d she say?” pressed Tina, whining slightly with impatience.

“Yeah,” said Marcia, “tell us what she said.”

“Well…” Carla paused dramatically. The suspense was really killing. “Mrs Baggoli said she thought it was a really excellent idea.” The table behind us erupted in girlish squeals of delight. “She said she’d been thinking it was time to do something a little different,” Carla went on, nobly controlling her own excitement, but not quite keeping the smug triumph out of her voice, “and she thought my idea was just the thing.”

“That’s incredible!” gushed Alma. “That’s truly incredible!”

Tina and Marcia, like myself, were at a loss for words. All they managed were a few awestruck “Gee”s.

Carla’s laughter rumbled around us. “Didn’t I tell you you wouldn’t believe it?”

Carla was right, I didn’t believe it. The major problem with Carla Santini – aside from her character, her personality, and her annoying personal habits – is that she was born and raised in Deadwood. As were all her friends. She established her image and territory in kindergarten. She can make anybody believe anything. Even teachers are fooled by Carla. Even Ella had been fooled. But Mrs Baggoli? Mrs Baggoli has done repertory all over the country; she once directed an off-Broadway play; she even had some small parts in a couple of movies and she’s travelled just about all over the world. I couldn’t believe that someone of Mrs Baggoli’s sophistication and worldliness could possibly be fooled by Carla.

“Carla Santini strikes again!” crowed Alma.

Out of the mouths of yes-girls…

“I really have to hand it to you, Carla,” said Marcia admiringly. “You always go after what you want, don’t you?”