Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

said flatly. “I’m really sorry, but I honestly felt that I had no choice.”

“Eliza’s dress?” Mrs Baggoli repeated. “No choice?”

I nodded. “Yes.” I shook my head. “No, I really had no choice.”

Mrs Baggoli, to her credit, picked up her line automatically.

“But why?” she asked. “Why would you borrow Eliza’s dress?”

You could have heard a feather crash to the floor, the room was so quiet. Even Carla Santini wasn’t saying anything under her breath – for a change.

“So I could go to the Sidartha party,” I informed her.

Mrs Baggoli frowned. “The Sidartha party?”

“But you didn’t go to the party,” said Henry Higgins. “Carla said—”

I turned to him with a small smile. “I know what Carla said … but it isn’t true. Ella and I were at the party.” I clasped my hands together, looking beseechingly at Mrs Baggoli. “It was Sidartha’s last concert,” I explained. “I had to go…”

“Oh, please…” Carla groaned. “When are you going to give up, Lola?” she demanded. “No one’s interested in your lies any more. First you lied about being invited to the party and now you’ve come up with this ridiculous story about Eliza’s dress—”

“But how could you possibly have taken the dress?” Mrs Baggoli was asking. “The cupboard’s always locked.”

“There are ways…” I said vaguely.

“Oh, sure,” muttered Carla. “Now you want us to believe you’re a lock-picker as well as a liar.”

Mrs Baggoli scowled in her direction. “Carla, if you don’t mind…” She turned back to me. “And where is the dress now?”

“I put it back in the drama room.”

Mrs Baggoli got to her feet. “Well, there’s one way of settling this,” she said more or less to herself. She marched off out of the room.

Carla took advantage of Mrs Baggoli’s absence to take centre stage.

“You really are too much, you know?” she declaimed. “I don’t know where you get off, thinking you can manipulate everyone the way you do. Just because we don’t come from New York City doesn’t mean we’re stupid, you know.” She glanced around at our fellow actors, so they’d understand that she was including them in this.

“You’re the one who manipulates everyone,” I hissed back. “You treat everybody like they’re puppets. Everything you say is a lie.”

“Here comes Mrs Baggoli,” said Colonel Pickering. He sounded relieved.

Both Carla and I smiled as Mrs Baggoli came back in the room.

“Well, the dress is back in the cupboard,” says Mrs Baggoli. “But in all honesty, Lola, I have to say that it doesn’t look as though it’s been touched.” She sounded relieved, too.

“That’s because Stu Wolff had it cleaned.” I nearly laughed out loud. At last I had my chance to explain – and to an eager audience. “You see, just as we got there, Ella and I saw Stu Wolff leave the party, and we followed him. It’d been raining all afternoon, so the dress got kind of wet and dirty, and Stu said he’d have it cleaned for me.” I glanced at Carla out of the corner of my eye. “He said it was the least he could do, seeing as Ella and I practically saved his life.”

Mrs Baggoli’s eyes shifted between Carla and me. She wasn’t sure what to believe any more.

“Well, maybe you took the dress and maybe you didn’t,” she said almost vaguely. “As far as I’m concerned, what’s important is that it’s where it should be now, and in the condition it came to us in.”

“But Mrs Baggoli!” Why wouldn’t anyone ever follow the script I was using? “Mrs Baggoli, I did take the dress.” I pulled at my T-shirt. “See? Stu Wolff gave me this to wear so I wouldn’t catch pneumonia.”

Mrs Baggoli sat down with finality. “Lola,” said Mrs Baggoli, “I really don’t want to continue this discussion now. We have a lot to do before Friday night.”

Carla stepped up behind me. “Sure, he did…” she whined in my ear. “Maybe he gave you his class ring, too.”

Colonel Pickering and Henry Higgins chortled softly.

Driven by my righteous sense of indignation, I ignored Mrs Baggoli and turned on Carla. “He did give it to me!” I shouted. “It’s a roadie T-shirt from their last tour. Where else would I get it?”

“You got it where you get all your clothes,” shrieked Carla. “In a junk store.”

I turned to Henry Higgins, Colonel Pickering, and the Parlourmaid, who were all standing a few steps from Carla and me with their mouths open and their eyes wide.

“You believe me, don’t you?” I demanded. “Carla’s the one who’s lying, not I.”

The Parlourmaid looked at Carla, and said nothing. Henry Higgins looked at Mrs Baggoli, and said nothing. Colonel Pickering looked up at the lights and shrugged. Mrs Baggoli clapped her hands. “Girls! Please!”

I returned to my argument with Carla. “And anyway,” I screamed, “I’d rather have my wardrobe than yours. If you couldn’t read you’d never be able to get dressed in the morning.”

“Your jealousy is disgusting!” sneered Carla. “You’re so pathetic I almost feel sorry for you.”

“You feel sorry for me?” I laughed hollowly. “You’re the one who’s pathetic. Poor little rich girl who can’t stand not to have everything her way. You’re not even big enough to admit that Ella and I did go to the party. Because of who we are, not because of who our fathers are.”

“Girls!” Mrs Baggoli was back on her feet. “Did you hear me?” Mrs Baggoli appeared at the foot of the stage. “I don’t know what’s going on with the two of you, but it’ll stop outside that door.” She pointed to the main entrance. “Am I making myself clear?”

I nodded. I couldn’t trust myself to speak. It was all so unfair! Hot tears of self-pity welled in my eyes. But no one noticed.

“I mean it,” said Mrs Baggoli. “All of us have worked very hard for this production. I’m not having it ruined by you two. No more. Do you understand? We’ve all had enough.”

“Have you, Lola?” whispered Carla. “Have you finally had enough?”

Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? Carla’s words echoed in my mind for the rest of the day.

All through rehearsal, even during Eliza’s big showdown with Henry Higgins, I watched the others watching me – the rest of the cast impassive, Mrs Baggoli frowning critically, Carla looking bored – and thought, Have you Lola…? Have you finally had enough…?

At supper, my mother brought up the play.

“We’re all really looking forward to it,” said my mother. She smiled at her youngest as they snuffled at their food and kicked each other under the table. “Aren’t we, girls?”

“What?” asked Paula, through a mouthful of potato.

Pam lobbed a piece of broccoli at her twin’s head. “What’s it about?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to play with your food?” shouted my mother. “Pam, you get down on the floor and pick that up right now.”

Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? asked the voice in my head.

It whispered to me while I did my homework; it hissed at me through the splashing of the shower. Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…? Enough…? Enough…? Have you finally had enough…?

I didn’t know what the answer was. All I knew was that I had seriously underestimated a couple of things, only one of them being Carla Santini. I hadn’t realized what the limits were to what people would believe. The man in the ticket store had believed my improbable – but possible – story of a dying sister. The bus driver had believed my improbable – but possible – story of a sister with a broken foot. The bouncer had believed the improbable – but possible – story of my sudden illness. Ella had believed in the deaths of my father and Elk – both possible but not all that probable. The one story I’d told that was both probable and possible was the one that was true. And no one believed it. Not even Mrs Baggoli. I’d always thought it was possible to control your life, but it seemed that it wasn’t. To everyone in Deadwood, there was no way I would ever get into the Sidartha party, and so I hadn’t.

Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…?