Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

“You know what really gets me?” I said to Ella that night on the phone. “What really gets me is that Sam’s right. We could never have won. It’s like playing cards with a river-boat gambler. The deck’s marked. You couldn’t win if you played for the rest of your life.”

“What does it matter any more?” asked Ella.

“What does it matter?” Was this the same girl who only weeks before had been begging me to stay out of Carla’s way?

“Well, we know we went to the party,” said Ella. “We know we met Stu Wolff. I mean, that’s what really counts, isn’t it?”

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

My Wilderness Days

From then on, Mrs Baggoli was cool to the point of frostbite through every rehearsal. She was warm and encouraging to the rest of the cast, but when she spoke to Carla or me she was like a ringmaster entering the lions’ cage, chair first.

The others kept their distance, too – at least from me. Carla Santini made sure that they did.

Mrs Baggoli may have said that whatever was going on between Carla and me would stop outside the auditorium, but that wasn’t what Carla heard. Carla heard, “Escalate this battle into a full-scale war, and take no prisoners”.

She stopped talking to me completely again. Whenever I made some comment on the play, Carla would pretend to study her nails. Whenever I tried to strike up a conversation with one of the other actors, she’d cut in – smoothly, effortlessly, smilingly – and ice me out. No one even bothered trying to strike up a conversation with me if Carla was around; it wasn’t worth the effort. All someone had to do was ask me the time and she’d swoop down like a vulture on a dead rabbit.

And then, on Wednesday, Carla sailed into rehearsal with her curls shaking and a floodlight smile. The rest of us were all at the front of the auditorium. We all looked warily at one another.

“Mrs Baggoli,” screeched Carla. “Mrs Baggoli, guess what? You won’t believe my news!”

Mrs Baggoli looked up with an expression on her face that suggested that she was prepared to believe anything. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” said Mrs Baggoli.

Carla laughed. “Oh, no, you’re going to love this.” She spread out her arms as though about to make an important announcement. She took a deep breath. She was ready to burst with excitement.

“My father wants us to have the cast party at our house!” she shrieked. “Isn’t that fantastic? He says he insists!”

I’ll bet he did.

The cast party isn’t exactly the social event of the year. It’s what you would call a symbolic celebration. Usually it’s held backstage. We are all supposed to bring in something to eat or drink, and Mrs Baggoli contributes the cake.

Mrs Baggoli was taken by surprise. “Why Carla,” she said. “That’s very kind of your father, but it’s very short notice—”

“Oh, I know, I know…” Carla wrung her lily-white hands. “He’s been so busy that it kind of snuck up on him.”

Which meant that she’d only just thought of it. It had taken her a while, but she’d finally come up with the way she could play a supporting part and still be the star.

Mrs Baggoli looked unsure. “Well…”

“And he’ll pay for everything, of course,” said Carla. She smiled on us happily, Lady Bountiful distributing fresh fruit to the poor. “I’ve been telling him all about the play, of course, and he says it sounds to him like we all deserve something special.”

Still blinking in bewilderment, Mrs Baggoli appealed to the rest of us. “What does everyone else think?” she asked.

“And don’t forget, there’s the indoor pool,” said Carla. “And, of course, we have so much room that everybody’s welcome to bring guests.” She quivered with girlish excitement. “Oh, please say yes, Mrs Baggoli. It’ll be so much fun!”

Mrs Baggoli’s eyebrows rose. “Any objections?” she asked.

I had an objection. I had several objections. My first objection was that I didn’t want to have the cast party at the Castle Santini. A cast party should be held in the theatre, with the smell of greasepaint all around and the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears. Secondly, I knew Carla well enough to know that with the party at her house, she’d be the one who would act like the star. My third was that I doubted I’d be allowed in. Fourthly, if – through some oversight or minor miracle – I were allowed in, I knew that, somehow, some way, Carla would make sure that I had less fun than a turkey at Thanksgiving. But I didn’t say anything. How could I? Carla’s cleverness had reached new heights. In spite of all my objections, there was no way I could not go without seeming petty and ungrateful. Mrs Baggoli wouldn’t give me so much as a walk-on in the future if I let down the drama club and didn’t turn up.

“Well, that’s settled then,” said Mrs Baggoli. “Thank your father very much and tell him we’ll see him Friday night.”

Carla swept her smile by me. “He’ll be so happy!” she gushed. “He’s really looking forward to it.”

I sank into a depression that was deeper than the ocean and just as wide. I’d never before felt so totally defeated, so completely without hope, in my entire life. Not even the dark days when we first moved to Dellwood were this dark. Even if I was fantastic in Pygmalion – which, of course, I would be – no one would remember me as Lola Cep, the girl who was Eliza Doolittle. They’d remember me as Lola Cep, the girl who was pathetic.

That night, I lay on my bed, listening to the sounds of daily life emanating from the rest of the house, while the anxiety monsters crawled out of the darkness, thrashing and roaring around me.

I was clawed at by self doubt. Maybe I wasn’t as good an actor as I’d thought. Maybe it didn’t matter whether I was or I wasn’t. Maybe, no matter how pure your passion or true your heart, you can never win against the Carla Santinis of this world.

I slept fitfully, tormented by dreams. It was the night of the play. I was up on stage, but I was also in the audience. Everyone around me was talking about me. But not about my performance; not about the wit and insight I brought to Eliza. “Isn’t that the girl who lies?” they were saying. “Isn’t that the girl who told everyone that her father was dead so she wouldn’t seem so boring?” Every time Carla walked on stage they cheered. “She should have gotten the part of Eliza,” the audience whispered. “They must have given it to that other girl out of pity. Because she’s so pathetic.”

I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, my face damp with sweat. I could hear the house groaning and the pipes creaking and the scratching of the pine tree against the front window. But I could hear something else.

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

By the time I was getting ready for school the next day, I’d made my decision. I wasn’t going to be in the play. For the first time in my life, I was giving up. It wasn’t just the Santini Big Freeze. It wasn’t just the way the rest of the cast avoided me in order to have a quiet life. It wasn’t the fed-up way Mrs Baggoli watched my every move. It wasn’t even the fact that Carla had managed to move the party to her house where she could swan around like she was the star. It was the way everyone looked at me – even the kids I knew really liked me – as though I’d just been released from jail for a crime they were sure I’d done.

To answer Carla’s question, I’d had enough. She’d beaten me. Not fairly and squarely, maybe, but she’d definitely beaten me. Carla Santini could be Queen of Deadwood forever, for all I cared.

I didn’t say anything to anyone, not even Ella. Cataclysmic personal defeat isn’t the kind of thing you want to share, not even with your best friend. Like a deer that’s been hit by a Land-Rover, I just wanted to slink into the