Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen - Dyan Sheldon [14]
My parent responded to this shocking announcement with her usual lack of concern for anyone else, especially me. “I had a very difficult night, too. Someone was playing one of her audio-migraines for hours.”
My mother doesn’t call what Sidartha plays “music”. My mother calls improvisational jazz “music”. Sidartha’s music she calls “audio-migraine”.
I poured some coffee into the mug. Very slowly, watching it flow into the cup like blood. “I’m sorry if my music disturbed you.” I sighed again. “But I’m afraid it’s the only comfort I have right now.”
“Well comfort yourself a little more quietly next time,” said my mother.
I picked up my mug and collapsed in the chair across from her.
She finally looked up and noticed that I was all in black, including my lips and eyelids. “So what’s it today? You in an Addams Family mood, or have you and Ella had a fight?”
I stared into the blackness that filled my cup. “It’s nothing,” I whispered, the words strained with pain. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“That’s not all you’re having for breakfast, is it?” demanded my mother. “You can’t go to school on a cup of coffee.”
I looked at her as a ghost might look at an old friend who is still alive. “I can’t eat anything,” I informed her patiently. “It would turn to ashes as it touched my lips.”
My mother made a face of exaggerated concentration. “Bette Davis?” she guessed. “Joan Crawford?” She shook her head. “It can’t be Glenn Close.”
“This isn’t an act,” I said hollowly. “This happens to be a day of great unhappiness for me.”
“You’ll be a lot more than unhappy if you don’t at least eat a piece of fruit.” She raised her paper. “And you’ll wash all that junk off your face before you leave this house, as well. You look like the living dead.”
My mother’s a potter. Potters aren’t like painters or musicians or actors; they’re much more pedestrian. It was unusual for her to be so perceptive. This unexpected sensitivity on her part surprised me so much that, even though I must have cried about ten million tears since I heard about the break-up, fresh ones flooded my eyes.
“That’s exactly what I am,” I sobbed. “I’m the living dead.”
“Pretend you’re the walking wounded instead,” said my mother. “And get yourself something to eat.”
* * *
“I wonder what really made them break up,” Ella was musing as we neared the sprawl of gleaming modern buildings that is Dellwood High. “I mean, ‘solo careers’ doesn’t really tell you much, does it? It’s what they always say. It’s like when politicians start talking about freedom and liberty; it could mean anything.”
“Artistic differences,” I decided. “I’m sure I read somewhere that Stu feels stifled by the rest of the group.” Stu Wolff was the lead singer and song-writer of Sidartha and, in my humble opinion, one of the greatest geniuses who has ever lived. Maybe even greater than the Bard himself.
“I bet Stu’s hard to get along with,” said Ella. “You can sort of tell that he’s moody.”
“Haunted,” I corrected her. “All true geniuses are haunted. It’s part of what they have to suffer for their art.”
“I’m happy I’m so normal,” said Ella. “I don’t think I could stand the stress of being artistically gifted.” She readjusted her book bag on her shoulder and stifled a smile. “Or the pain.”
“It isn’t easy,” I assured her. “It’s a great deal to—”
I stopped, paralyzed by the shocking sight in front of my eyes.
“Ye gods!” I wailed. “We really do live in a cultural wasteland. Look at this place, will you? Just look at it!” If my heart weren’t already as dead and dry as a bone in the desert, this would have destroyed it for sure.
Ella looked at the rambling brick edifices spread out before us.
“It looks the same as always to me,” said Ella.
Ella’s the very best friend I’ve ever had, but if I were being totally honest I’d have to admit that she doesn’t always have much imagination. She’s intelligent, but not really creative. It comes from growing up with a woman who arranges the spices and canned goods in alphabetical order and has the sheets ironed. That’s why she’s lucky to have