Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

stories one hundred per cent of the time.

“I was a love child,” I said, ad-libbing quickly. “I mean, they were madly in love when my mother got pregnant. They weren’t planning to get married, of course … my father was a loner by nature, but as soon as they found out that I was on the way they drove his motorcycle to Las Vegas.”

“Las Vegas?” Ella had yet to stop frowning. “I thought your mother always lived in New York. Isn’t Las Vegas a little far to go for a wedding?”

You can see why Ella’s in all the advanced classes in school. She has a first-rate analytical mind.

“They wanted to honeymoon in New Mexico,” I went on, beginning to get into my tale. I could actually see my parents, charging down the highway on a vintage Harley, fuelled by love. “New Mexico is a very spiritual place. They wanted to camp in the desert and count the stars.” I could see them doing that, too. Their arms were around each other, their heads were sticking out of their tiny tent. It was incredibly romantic.

Ella thought so, too.

“Geez…” she sighed. “My parents went on a cruise to Jamaica for their honeymoon. They stayed on the boat the whole time. They were afraid to go into town.”

My voice became heavy and solemn. “Maybe your parents were right to be so cautious,” I said very softly. “New Mexico is where my father met his tragic death.”

“Oh, Lola…!” Ella’s face was the picture of empathetic pain. She has a kind nature, as well as being smart. “I’m so sorry… I had no idea…”

I gulped back a tear that even the long years of being fatherless hadn’t managed to dry up.

“Of course you didn’t.” My voice trembled bravely. “He was killed on his way back from town one afternoon.” Inspiration flowed through me like current through a wire. “He’d slipped away on the Harley to get my mother her favourite flowers.” I stared at the patch of sunlight that illuminated the immaculateness of the carpet. “They found them strewn across the road—” I paused, too choked to continue. But then I forced myself to rally. “They were splattered with blood.”

A genuine tear glistened in the corner of Ella’s eye.

“Your poor mother…” She was practically sobbing. “What a horrible thing for her to go through.”

“I know.” I shook my head several times very slightly, the way people do when they’re remembering something especially painful. “It took her years to get over it. But then she met Elk, the twins’ dad. They got married before she was pregnant. At least she knew a little domestic bliss…”

I could hear Ella swallow. “What happened to him?”

I hadn’t been planning to kill off Elk, too, but the words came tumbling out, beyond my control.

“Elk was a lawyer for Greenpeace,” I explained. “He was on his way to England for a conference.” I spent a few more seconds re-examining the patch of light again. “He never came back.”

“Oh, no…” Ella clutched my hand. “Oh, Lola…”

You had to give it to her, she was a terrific audience.

I went on, quietly, in a voice in which time has numbed but not erased the pain.

“His plane went down near Greenland.” I could hear the shattering of the plane as it smashed into the ocean. Red and orange flames that burned like the fires of hell exploded in my mind. Men, women and children screamed without hope. And then, suddenly, a dreadful silence fell over the cold, depthless water. “My mother had to fly out to identify what was left of the body.”

Ella’s face was whiter than Wonder Bread. “Oh, my God…”

I smiled a small but courageous, so-it-goes smile. “The twins were only a year old.”

Ella shook her head in shock and horror. “Your poor mom, what horrible things she’s gone through.” She wiped away another tear with the sleeve of her blouse. “I feel like I should apologize to her or something…”

Ella was more than capable of apologizing to my mother for having misunderstood her situation. This, however, was not an especially good idea. Elk really is a lawyer for Greenpeace, and he really didn’t come back from England – at least not to us – but it wasn’t a plane crash that kept him, it was a woman named Margot.

“It’s best not to mention the past to her at all,” I said quickly. “You know, too many agonizing memories.” I sighed as only one who has known real suffering can. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” I said. “Your parents think my mother’s the destroyer of our social order, and she’s merely a victim of Fate.”

“I feel so awful.” Ella chewed nervously on her lower lip. “I really would like your mother to know that —”

“Whatever happened to the music?” I asked brightly. I picked up the CD Ella had abandoned and put it into the machine.

“Sidartha!” Ella managed a smile. “I forgot about them!”

“God…” I groaned. “That’s like forgetting how to breathe.”

I pedalled home beneath a silver crescent of moon, like a nick in the plush velvet of the sky. Ella and I are the only ones who ride our bikes to school. For all I know, we are the only ones who own bikes; most of the kids our age already have cars. But I don’t mind. A great actor needs to have good lungs so she can project her voice for the whole theatre to hear. Ella stopped taking rides from Carla Santini and her buddies when I convinced her that riding a bike is not only environmentally friendly, it’s good exercise as well.

I was still aware that Sidartha existed, but I have to admit that it wasn’t about the greatest band in the history of the world that I was thinking as I rode along. I was thinking about Karen Kapok, my mother.

I couldn’t get over the fact that of all the things the Gerards could have held against me – my clothes, my hair, my earrings and nose ring, and my attempts to turn Ella into a vegetarian, to name but a few – they’d chosen Karen Kapok! Ms Normal. It just shows you how ironic the world really is, doesn’t it?

But that, of course, was about to change. I was pretty sure that by the time I got home Mrs Gerard would already have heard all about my mother’s tragic marital history. That meant Mr Gerard would know by the end of his dinner – assuming, that was, he made it home for dinner for once. And that meant that by the time the Gerards settled down to watch TV together, their opinion of my mother would have radically altered.

I watched the sliver of moon as I turned up Maple Drive. It hung over the trees like a broken halo.

It was important to me that the Gerards liked me. I wanted them to encourage Ella to see me, not discourage her. Besides, if they didn’t like me, I’d never be able to convince them to let Ella go to a Sidartha concert.

I was whistling as I pulled into our driveway.

Because it was my turn to cook that night (my mother considers herself a potter, not the family chef), I didn’t get a chance to phone Ella before supper.

After supper I locked myself in the bathroom for an hour or so to rehearse my lines for the auditions the next day. This year Mrs Baggoli had chosen Pygmalion for the school’s annual production. I knew I was a shoe-in for Eliza – my cockney accent’s a lot better than Audrey Hepburn’s in My Fair Lady – but I wanted my reading to be perfect. The only competition I had for the lead was, naturally, Carla Santini, if only because no one else would even think of challenging her for a role she wanted. They might try out, but they’d make sure they weren’t too good. Carla Santini had starred in everything since she was in kindergarten and it was tacitly understood that she always got the lead and that everyone else got whatever they got. I’d been too late to try out for the play the year before, but this year I was ready for her. I felt I owed it to all the other mere mortals at Dellwood not to let Carla star this year. Just for a change.

It was almost ten by the time I finally got around to calling Ella. Her father had given her twenty-five bucks for getting a distinction in her history test, and her mother, who’d just started a new cooking course, had made her own ravioli for supper (Ella’s father is always giving her money for doing things my mother takes for granted, and Ella’s mother is always taking a course in something), but otherwise it was a quiet night.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Ella after she’d stopped enthusing about the home-made ravioli, “but I told my folks about your mom.”

I pretended to mind – just a little.

“Well…” I said. “I wouldn’t want it to get back to my mother that I’d been talking about the tragedies in her life. She’s a very private person, you know.”

“My parents won’t tell anyone,” Ella quickly assured me. “They’re not gossips.”

This is probably true of Mr Gerard, who doesn’t have any time to gossip since he’s always working, but it isn’t true of Mrs Gerard. The women of Woodford are a communication system unto themselves. They might not know