Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

The reason the band split up was because Bryan Jeffries, the drummer, was a drug addict.

No, it was because Jon Waldaski, the bass player, was dying of AIDS.

Because Steve Maya, the lead guitarist, was an alcoholic.

Because Stu Wolff was an alcoholic and/or a drug addict.

Because Stu Wolff wanted to change his image.

Because Stu and Steve did nothing but fight because Stu stole Steve’s girlfriend.

Because Stu and Steve did nothing but fight because Stu wouldn’t let Steve play his songs in the band.

Because Bryan attacked Jon with a snare drum.

Because Stu broke Bryan’s jaw.

Because Jon was suing the others for not giving him credit for songs that were his.

Blahblahblah…

“I can’t believe Bryan’s into drugs,” I said. “Stu wouldn’t tolerate it. He has too much integrity.” It went without saying that despite the historical connection between genius and mind-altering substances, we had dismissed the accusations of drug addiction against Stu automatically. Not only did he have integrity, he was passionate about his music. There was no way he would risk it for some superficial thrill.

Ella started arranging the plastic containers in an orderly line. She’s not related to Marilyn Gerard for nothing.

“Maybe he didn’t know at first,” said Ella. “Maybe he only just found out.”

I opened my beat-up Zorro lunch box. I bought it in a junk store on the Lower East Side. I’ve always loved Zorro. I guess it’s the cape.

“He’s too smart.” I took out the chunk of cheese and the apple I’d packed before I raced from the house. “He’d have noticed right away.”

“Well, maybe they have creative differences,” said Ella, opening each container in turn.

I wiped the clay from my apple. Everything in our house is covered with clay. It’s what you call an occupational hazard. “I think it’s much more likely to be personality clashes. From what I’ve read, Steve can be really selfish and bossy.”

It was at that point that Carla Santini more or less joined our conversation.

“Did I tell you?” she shouted. “My father just called me on my mobile to tell me what he found out about Sidartha.”

Carla’s father is a phenomenally successful media lawyer who knows everybody who’s been famous for even fifteen seconds. He dines with movie stars. He gets drunk with famous musicians. He plays golf with producers, directors and television personalities. When she was six, Marlon Brando took Carla Santini on his knee and kissed the top of her head. She has a photo to prove it.

“You’re kidding!” shrieked Alma. “You mean your dad talked to Stu?” She sounded as if she were reading her lines from a cue card.

The air itself quivered with the shaking of Carla’s head.

“Stu told my father that he’s really angry about all the rumours that have been circulating about them,” blared Carla. “He hates the way the press always misrepresents things.”

The disciples all murmured sympathetically – as though they cared what the press did.

“So guess what they’re going to do?” squealed Carla, loudly enough to get a response from the house across the street. She paused dramatically.

My curiosity was greater than my disdain for anything Carla Santini might have to say. I leaned back in my seat just a tiny bit. Was she going to say that Sidartha wasn’t disbanding after all?

When not even Alma hazarded a guess, Carla took a deep, meaningful breath. “They’re going to have a big farewell concert at Madison Square Garden to say goodbye to all their friends and fans.” If anyone else in the universe had made that announcement, she would have sounded excited; Carla sounded as though it had been her idea.

Alma, Tina and Marcia all started to sigh and screech, but Carla wasn’t finished yet.

“And guess what else?” she demanded.

I swear to God that the three of them gasped. “What?”

“My father already has seats in the press box.”

Alma, Tina and Marcia all went off like smoke alarms, but I didn’t blink. So this was Carla’s revenge. She didn’t even like Sidartha that much. She just wanted to get even with me.

“But that’s not the best part,” said Carla once the noise had died down. “There’s going to be an absolutely mega party afterwards for all their closest friends.” If I’d had a pair of scissors on me, I think I would have turned around and cut off her hair. “And guess who already has an invitation?”

I don’t know why I did it. I really and truly don’t. It wasn’t like I planned it or anything. But the smug triumph in Carla Santini’s voice really annoyed me.

I turned my head so that I was officially part of the conversation.

“It just so happens that Ella and I do,” I said sweetly.

Carla Santini’s eyes locked with mine.

“Oh, really?” Smug triumph now had a companion: sarcasm. Carla didn’t believe me. Which meant that no one else did either.

I, however, was cool and unruffled; I was self-possessed. Ignoring the horrified expression on Ella’s face, I met Carla’s eyes.

“Yeah,” I said. “Really.”

There were a few darting glances and smirks around the table. Carla caught them all. A smile slipped over her face like a snake through water.

“And just how did you manage that?” she asked.

“The same way you did,” I immediately answered. “Through parental connections.”

“Connections?” Carla made a sound that would have been a snort if a pig and not a perfect person were making it. “What connections do you have, except to the phone?”

To be a truly great thespian you have to be able to do more than act from a script. You have to be able to improvise. I improvised.

“My mother got them. Marsh Foreman bought a piece from her in the summer. I met him when he came to pick it up. He remembered that I liked Sidartha, so he gave my mother two invitations.”

This wasn’t technically true, of course, but it was definitely possible. Marsh Foreman was Sidartha’s manager. It stood to reason that he had money to spend on handcrafted goods. Lots of rich people bought my mother’s stuff. Why shouldn’t Marsh Foreman be one of them?

Carla arched one eyebrow. “Your mother must be some potter.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “She is.” I laughed as if suddenly understanding something – something too silly for words. “Oh, you think she makes bowls and plates and stuff like that…” Bowls and plates and stuff like that are what my mother does make, but there are lots of other potters who aren’t obsessed with use and function. “Oh, no, my mother makes things like six-foot fish in suits. In fact, the piece that Marsh Foreman bought was a badger, a racoon and a fox playing Monopoly.” I smiled. “He put it in his garden.”

Me And My Big Mouth

Carla’s announcement lifted my soul to the heavens themselves. All was not lost, after all. Sidartha was having one last concert! Now Ella and I had the chance to see them at their very very best in a concert that would be part of the rock legend for centuries to come. Decades from now, Ella and I would be telling our grandchildren how we were at Sidartha’s farewell gig – how we’d even gone to the party afterwards and met Stu Wolff.

Ella, however, had a slightly different take on things.

“I really can’t believe you sometimes, Lola,” said Ella. She dumped a bag of crisps into a shining dark blue bowl. No clay dust or outrageous colours here. Mrs Gerard was at her cooking class, or pushing a book trolley around the hospital, or something like that, so Ella was fixing our snack for a change. “I really can’t. What exactly