Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen - Dyan Sheldon [42]
“But everyone’s going to be really dressed up,” I informed her. “Carla Santini—”
“Please,” begged my mother. “Not Carla Santini again. Isn’t there anyone else at your school?”
You’d think she actually listened to me now and then.
“It’s my big night,” I reminded her. “I want to look right.”
“Forget it,” said my mother. “There’s no way you’re getting a new dress, Mary. Last week it was the boiler, and this week it’s the car. I can’t afford it.”
“Who asked?” I snapped back. “I didn’t ask for anything. God knows I would never expect anyone in this house to worry about me. To care about how I look on one of the most important days of my life. I’ll just don my usual rags, shall I? Maybe you’d like me to wear a bag over my head as well. That way no one will be able to report you to the NSPCC for neglect of a minor.”
Paula looked at my mother. “What’s Mary talking about?”
My mother rolled her eyes.
Pam looked at me. “Why are you wearing a bag over your head? How are you going to be able to see?”
My mother patted Pam’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey,” she said kindly. “Mary can cut eyes in the bag.”
“How typical!” I proclaimed. “How typical that you would mock me in my torment.”
“What does torment mean?” asked Paula as I turned on my heels and marched from the room.
“It means Mary’s had a bad day,” said my mother.
* * *
Ella hadn’t thought about what she was wearing, either.
“I’m trying not to think about it,” she admitted. “I get cold chills every time I do. It makes it seem so real.” She shuddered. “I just know something’s going to go wrong.”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” I assured her. “My plan is awesome in its simplicity.”
Ella would ask her mother if she could stay over at my house; I’d ask my mother if Ella could stay at ours. Mrs Gerard would call my mother to make sure it was all right. Then, after that was all settled, I’d tell my mother we’d changed our minds and I was going to Ella’s instead. My mother would never think of calling Mrs Gerard to make sure it was all right. She’d just assume that it was.
I flopped down on the couch beside Ella. Mrs Gerard wasn’t there. Mrs Gerard was taking a course in aromatherapy. She said essential oils helped her to de-stress. I couldn’t see that Mrs Gerard had the kind of life that stressed you out, but, as the great philosophers say, everything is relative.
“Well, you’re going to have to think about it. It’s not that far away.”
“I know,” said Ella. “I know.” She bent down and took two uncreased magazines from the neat stacks under the coffee-table. “Here.” She handed me one of the magazines. “I guess the first thing we should do is decide what kind of thing we want to wear.”
We spent the afternoon flicking through her mother’s magazines. The only magazines my mother subscribes to involve ceramics, but Mrs Gerard gets every women’s glossy going. Reading them one after the other was like being in a hall of mirrors; you know, lots of images but they’re all the same.
On every page were beautiful models wearing beautiful clothes and stunning accessories. Shoes: $175, Handbag: $250, Dress $900…
I leaned back in frustration. If Mrs Gerard wanted to know about stress, she should have my life.
“What’s the use?” I cried. “You can get something perfect, your parents give you money just for breathing, but I can’t afford more than a pair of tights.” It was galling to think that such a great and noble enterprise should be brought to its knees by a mere dress.
Ella leaned over and put the magazine I’d abandoned back in its place.
“Well, why don’t I lend you some money to buy something?” she suggested. “You can pay me back whenever.”
“No.” I shook my head firmly. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t accept charity. We Ceps have our pride.”
“It isn’t charity,” reasoned Ella. “It’s a loan. Only no time limit, and no interest.”
I shook my head even more firmly.
“I still can’t. I don’t like to borrow money.” This is my mother’s fault. My mother hates debt. “If you can’t afford it, don’t buy it,” my mother always