Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

you don’t have one and get it over with? It’ll save you a lot of humiliation later on.”

I counter-clamped. “I’m sure there’ll be lots of photographers at the party,” I said. “Maybe we can have our picture taken together.”

“It’s a deal,” said Carla. She turned to face Ella for the first time. “You know,” she went on, gently waving the invitation in the air over our table, “this does admit two, El. If you really want to go you could always come with me.”

Behind me, Alma gasped in surprise. She was obviously under the impression that she was going with Carla. But she didn’t so much as bleat in protest – she never dares to open her mouth unless it’s to agree.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Ella loyally. “I’m sure I’ll see you there.”

Desperate Measures For Desperate Times

“Maybe moving’s not such a bad idea,” said Ella on the phone that afternoon. “I mean, unless Carla suddenly contracts some rare but fatal disease and dies, there really isn’t any other solution.”

My mother was in her studio, working on a rush order, and the twins were over at a friend’s for supper, so for a change I had a little privacy while I conversed.

“Of course there’s another solution,” I said with a certain amount of exasperation.

“Murder’s out of the question,” said Ella primly. “I don’t like blood.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to jail for Carla Santini. All we have to do is what I’ve been saying all along; beat her at her own game.”

Ella’s voice flattened. “You mean go to the party.”

“Well, of course I mean go to the party,” I shrieked. “You seemed to agree with me at lunch.”

“I was acting,” said Ella. “Remember acting?”

“We have to go,” I insisted. “This clinches it.”

“We can’t go,” replied Ella. “You’re just going to have to live with that fact.”

But I didn’t want to live with that fact.

“Don’t you see?” I pleaded. “I can’t let Carla Santini get the better of me, El. Not now. Not when she’s finally on the run.”

“Carla doesn’t run anywhere,” said Ella. “She drives.”

“Ella, be reasonable. If she’s decided to be all nice again it’s because she’s planning to wipe the courtyard with us later. You’re the one who’s always saying how dangerous she is. Well, if she’s that dangerous, we have to stop her.”

“So what are you going to do?” Ella demanded. “You heard Carla, the tickets go on sale next week.”

I stared at the bowl of fruit on the kitchen table, like a pagan priest staring at a steaming heap of sheep intestine, looking for the answer. And it worked. Just as the priest would see the future in the bleeding innards, I saw the future in the dusty apples and bananas. I smiled to myself. Desperate measures for desperate times…

“I’m going to go on a hunger strike.”

“You really are crazy,” said Ella. “You really and truly are.”

“No I’m not. Passive resistance works, El. Look at Gandhi. Look at Martin Luther King.”

“They were both assassinated,” said Ella.

I sighed. Sometimes she can be as stubborn as my mother.

“That was afterwards. After their methods had worked.”

“OK,” said Ella. “What about Bobby Sands?”

I knew this was a trick question, but I said, “Who?” anyway.

“Bobby Sands,” Ella repeated. “He was in prison for IRA activities and he went on a hunger strike against the British Government.”

I took a wild guess. “It didn’t work?”

“Not exactly,” said Ella. “He starved to death.”

Even though she couldn’t see me, I threw up my arms.

“Well that’s not going to happen to me, is it?” I demanded.

“You mean because your mother will put you in hospital and have you force-fed?”

I laughed heartily. “Of course not. Because I’m not going to stop eating. I’m just going to make her think that I have.”

My mother doesn’t alphabetize the canned and packaged foods the way Ella’s mother does, and our refrigerator doesn’t look like a display model when you open it up, with an orderly and attractive assortment of fruits, vegetables and juices inside. Our fridge is filled with spoonfuls of this and dollops of that in bowls my mother couldn’t sell, a few bendable carrots and a couple of bottles of juice with bits of food floating in them because the twins never bother using glasses. But I knew my mother would still know if anything was missing. I blame her occupation. She has an eye for detail.

So the next afternoon after rehearsal, I stopped at the supermarket and filled my book bag with supplies: cheese, apples, crackers, a couple of containers of salads and juices, a jar of pickles and a box of doughnuts. I figured that should get me through supper and breakfast.

I hid everything in different places in my room, just to be on the safe side. In her one-woman war on dirt and disorder, Ella’s mother goes through Ella’s room with the thoroughness of a policeman searching for evidence, but my mother doesn’t mind a little dirt and disorder, especially if it isn’t hers and the door is kept shut. On the other hand, although my father would believe I was doing what I’d said I was doing – fasting – my mother was almost certain to be suspicious. This was partly because she’s been feeding me since I was born and knows how much I like food, and partly because she has a sceptical nature. I think this is because she’s a woman. In my experience, women are a lot less trusting than men.

I hid the cheese under the pile of shoes on the floor of my closet; the fruit under my papier mâché bust of Shakespeare; the crackers behind my dresser; the pickles at the bottom of my dirty clothes basket; the salads behind my bookcase; and the juices under my bed. Then I put on a Sidartha album, lit some candles and lay down to wait for the clarion cry that signified supper.

It was Paula who called me.

“Mary!” she shrieked through the door. “Mary, Mom says to come and eat!”

“Tell her, if I can’t go to the Sidartha concert, I’m never eating again,” I shouted back.

She returned in under a minute.

“Mom says to come out now,” bellowed Paula.

“I told you,” I screamed. “I’m not eating. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever!”

“If you’re not eating, can I have your dessert?” asked Paula.

“Have my dessert, have my supper, have anything you want.”

I could hear Paula shouting as she went back to the kitchen, “Mary says I can have her dessert.”

The next person at my door was Karen Kapok herself. Banging.

“What’s going on?” demanded my mother.

“I’m on a hunger strike,” I screamed back over Stu Wolff singing No more … no more… I’ve found the door…, “I’m like Gandhi, driven to desperate measures by the insensitivity of the British Government. Not one morsel will pass my lips until you say I can go see Sidartha.”

“You have two minutes to get to the table,” said my mother. “If you don’t, the insensitive British Government is going to take your door off its hinges and drag you out.”

You have to appreciate the way an unimaginative, practical mind like my mother’s works. She thought that if I was forced to sit at the table and watch the rest of them feeding, hunger would overcome my iron resolve and I would give in.

Ignoring my pale skin and the dark circles under my eyes, she made me sit through every meal.

At first my mother kept asking me to pass her stuff: “Mary, could you please pass the salad?”; “Mary, would