Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

“Mary,” I breathed. “Her name’s Mary.” I smiled bravely. “She’s only eighteen.” I bit my lip. “Eighteen, but never nineteen.”

Still gasping slightly, Ella wandered away to check out the posters on the walls.

“Really,” said Mr Alvarez. He was almost pleading. “If there were something I could do to help you, I would. But there isn’t. I simply don’t have any more tickets.”

I was leaning so close by now that I could smell the traces of Mr Alvarez’s lunch (fish and garlic).

“But there must be some way,” I insisted, forcing back a sob. “Someone somewhere must have tickets left.”

“Maybe,” Mr Alvarez conceded. He made an apologetic face. “I really wish I could help you, but I just don’t have any.”

A single tear slid down my careworn cheek. “Not even one?”

He shook his head again. “Not even one. If I did, believe me, I’d let you have it.”

I touched his hand. “Thank you,” I whispered. “God bless you. And I’m sure poor Mary would thank you if…” I paused, choked with emotion, “if she could.”

Ella and I walked out of the store in silence. But as soon as the door of Ticketsgalore shut behind us, she turned on me almost hysterically.

“God bless you?” she shrieked. “My poor sister Mary’s dying of a rare blood disease? She’d thank you herself if she could?” Ella looked torn between shock and awe. “I’m surprised you didn’t invite him to the funeral.”

I led the way to a nearby bench. “What are you getting so worked up about?” I demanded. “We would have had the tickets if he really wasn’t sold out, and you know it. I bet if he had a couple put aside he would have given them to us for nothing.”

“Yeah,” said Ella. “Just to get rid of us.”

We collapsed side by side under a palm tree. Even though it’s located in the temperate north-east, for some reason the Dellwood Mall has a tropical decor.

“If my mother wasn’t too cheap to let me have my own credit card, this would never have happened,” I grumbled. You could bet Carla Santini had her own credit card. Undoubtedly gold.

“It’s probably for the best,” said Ella, placid again. She sighed. “I don’t think I could have handled all the lying involved if we really did go. Your mother … my parents…” She gave another sigh. “I’ve always been taught that honesty is the best policy. It’s a hard habit to break.”

“Well, you’d better start practising,” I informed her, my mind already steaming on to the next solution. “Because we’re still going, tickets or no tickets.”

Ella gave me one of her long, hard looks. “You know, it’s just as well you want to be an actor,” she informed me, “because you definitely have no talent for reality. Don’t you get it, Lola? No ticket, no entry. That’s the rule.”

I gave her a withering look.

“Touts,” I said simply. “Or, even better, we could crash the concert, too.”

But Ella was shaking her head. “I can’t do it, Lola, I—”

She broke off as Carla, Alma, and at least half a dozen glossy shopping bags came out of the Armani store to our left. Even though they were both talking faster than the speed of light, Carla and Alma spotted us immediately – and immediately swooped towards us, smiles flashing.

“Oh no, company,” muttered Ella.

The company of hyenas.

“I think I liked it better when they weren’t speaking to us,” I whispered.

“Well, look who’s here!” boomed Carla. She gave me a low-beam smile. “I thought you were crippled with cramps.”

Several passing shoppers, hearing her roar, looked over at me and Ella.

“I’m feeling better, thanks,” I replied smoothly. “How come you’re not at rehearsal?”

Carla’s expression became serious. “Mrs Baggoli’s neighbour called just as we were starting, to say that her house alarm was going off again, so she had to go home.”

“Carla and I have been doing a little shopping,” said Alma. She giggled.

Carla’s eyes were running over Ella and me like ants over a picnic. One eyebrow rose. “What,” she grinned, her eyes resting on me, “no booty?”

I grinned back. “We just got here. You know what the buses are like.”

“Oh,” said Carla, who had probably never been on a bus in her life, “so that’s it.” She laughed loudly. “You had me worried for a minute,” she went on. “I thought you must have come out of there.” Her eyes darted behind me to where the neon Ticketsgalore sign shone. “I was afraid you hadn’t gotten your tickets after all.” Her expression changed to one of sisterly concern. “And that would be such a shame.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It certainly would.”

“Of course,” Carla went on, “Ella doesn’t have to worry. She can still come with me.”

This time I could see Alma’s reaction. She looked as if she’d been slapped in the face with a piece of wet seaweed. But she still didn’t say anything.

Ella sighed. Whatever she’d been about to say before Carla and Alma turned up about why she couldn’t go through with any of my plans was gone for good. Ella has very strong views on friendship and loyalty.

“I told you before,” said Ella, sweet as a steel bar coated in honey, “I’m going with Lola.”

I Throw Myself Into The Play

Since the concert was still weeks away, I gave myself body and soul to Pygmalion. Naturally, this helped to ease the deep pain inside me about the break-up. It also won me points with Mrs Baggoli. She’d already congratulated me on how hard I was working. “I always knew you were right for Eliza,” she’d said, “but I have to admit that you’ve immersed yourself in the part beyond even my expectations.” The only thing it didn’t do was shut Carla Santini up.

“It really is a problem,” Carla Santini was saying to Colonel Pickering and the Parlourmaid. “I mean, what does one wear to a party like this? There are going to be so many fantastically famous people there dressing down…” She glanced in my direction. “And so many hangers-on trying to dress up…” Her sigh was like the sound of a nearly-empty aerosol can. “I mean, I’m going to meet Stu Wolff, guaranteed. I want to make the right impression.”

Stu Wolff and Carla Santini, guaranteed. I looked towards the door, hoping to see Mrs Baggoli hurrying in with the cup of coffee she’d gone to get. The doorway was empty.

The Parlourmaid giggled. “I wish I had problems like that.”

Colonel Pickering, who was obviously as tired of hearing about Carla’s dress dilemma as I was, mumbled something about going over his lines again before the break was over, and drifted away.

“I was thinking I might just wear my Calvins and a silk shirt,” Carla went on to the Parlourmaid without missing a beat, “but Daddy thinks I should wear a dress. You know, because so many of these people are clients or potential clients. We do have an image to maintain.” She smiled coyly. “Of course, Daddy will buy me something new. He doesn’t expect me to go in just any old rags…”

Heaven forbid.

I tried to shut out the sound of her voice, as annoying as the sound of a mosquito in the middle of the night. I started thinking about how unfair life is. Why should some people have so much, and others so little? Why should some people have so many teeth, expensive clothes, mobile phones and guaranteed introductions to Stu Wolff, while others sleep on the porch, have to use the family phone, and have no guarantee that they won’t be arrested trying to meet Stu Wolff?

I became so involved in the incredible unfairness of it all, that I didn’t realize Mrs Baggoli was back until she clapped her hands for silence.

I looked up.

“All right everyone,” shouted Mrs Baggoli. “Break’s over. Let’s take it from the top again. Andy and Jon, take