Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen - Dyan Sheldon [47]
I didn’t say anything to Ella about borrowing the dress. All I said was that I’d found the perfect thing to wear. I decided it would be better to present the liberation as a fait accompli. If Ella knew what Sam and I were up to, she’d worry – and if she worried too much she might change her mind about going.
Crime has never really appealed to me as a way of life. True, you get to do a lot of acting, but it’s stressful and repetitive. I was, however, willing to step outside the strict boundaries of the law because this was a good, a just, and a noble cause.
Nonetheless, I was a wreck throughout the rehearsal on Friday. To begin with, Carla did nothing but talk about the concert whenever she could. “Are you as excited as I am?” she kept asking me. “Have you decided what you’re going to wear?”
During our first break, she made a big deal of saying, “Don’t worry, Lola, I won’t forget the camera. I know everyone’ll be dying to see the photo of you and me together.”
One of the stage hands choked back a laugh. “Are you kidding?” he muttered. “We’re making bets.”
Besides being wound up like a toy by Carla, I kept thinking I could hear footsteps behind the stage and doors banging. I forgot my lines; I missed my cues. Carla could only have been more pleased if I’d resigned from the play.
“Why don’t we take a five-minute break?” called Mrs Baggoli. “I’m feeling a little cold. I think I’ll get my sweater from the drama club room.”
I practically fell off the stage, I jumped so fast.
“I’ll get it for you, Mrs Baggoli,” I offered. “You just wait right there. I’ll be back in a second.”
“That’s all right, Lola.” Mrs Baggoli held up her key-ring. “It’s locked.”
Locked! My heart had been moving faster than a zebra with a lion on its tail all afternoon, but now it stopped suddenly. What if Sam couldn’t get into the drama club room? What if it took him a while to get it open and he was still inside? I raced from the stage to cut off Mrs Baggoli in the hall.
“Mrs Baggoli!” I screamed, charging down the stairs and falling into step beside her. The drama club room was only a few yards ahead of us. “Mrs Baggoli, I was wondering if I could ask you a question about that last scene.”
Mrs Baggoli gave me a “not-you-too” look.
“There’s no need to shout, Lola,” said Mrs Baggoli. “You’re not on stage now.”
How wrong she was!
I went on as though she’d said yes.
“It’s Henry,” I said, sliding in front of her. “I’m not sure I really understand his feelings about Eliza.”
“Really?” said Mrs Baggoli. “I should have thought his feelings were an open book to all of us by now. We’ve been through them enough times with Carla.”
“I mean his deep, inner feelings. His—”
Mrs Baggoli put a hand on my shoulder. “Lola,” she said, “would you please get out of my way so I can get my sweater?”
I threw myself against the door. “I know we’ve discussed it before superficially—” I began as I danced backwards into the drama club room and almost fell over.
Mrs Baggoli didn’t even ask me if I was all right.
“That’s funny,” she said, looking puzzled. “I was sure I locked that door.”
A great actor has to be able to recover quickly from minor setbacks – like a fluffed line, or not knowing that the door wasn’t shut properly. I recovered quickly enough to notice a bit of red satin sticking through the crack in the cupboard door while Mrs Baggoli was checking that nothing had been taken from the desk. I hurled myself in front of the crack.
“You probably did lock it,” I assured her. “We have a lock like that at home. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.”
Mrs Baggoli shut the bottom drawer. “Well, nothing seems to be missing…” She removed her sweater from the back of the chair. “Maybe I didn’t lock it after all.”
“So, Mrs Baggoli,” I said. “What do you think of Henry’s feelings?”
Mrs Baggoli gave me a look that was very similar to the one my mother always gives me when I confuse her.
“You know, Lola,” said Mrs Baggoli as she shoved me out of the room,