Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen - Dyan Sheldon [48]
It was raining by the time rehearsals were over. Heedless of the tempest kicking up around me, I streaked across the parking lot to where the multicoloured Karmann Ghia was waiting. The engine started before I reached the door.
“Oh, my God!” I cried as I dropped – more or less literally – into the passenger seat. “I was really scared for a few minutes there.”
“You?” Sam laughed derisively. “I was just about to stuff the dress in the bag when you started shouting in the hall. I felt like I’d been caught by the cops.”
I looked around, enquiringly. There isn’t much room inside a Karmann Ghia. “Where’s the dress? In the boot?”
“The boot’s filled with junk.” Sam jerked his head towards the rear. “I put it back there.”
I looked behind us. The binbag had been crammed into the rear seat that had been provided for people who only give rides to very small children.
“Let’s get out of here,” I ordered, snapping my seat-belt. “The sooner I get it home, the happier I’ll be.”
But instead of putting the car in gear, Sam rolled down his window. I looked over his shoulder. Mrs Baggoli was running towards us through the downpour. Of course, who else would it be?
“Oh, no…” I moaned softly. We were doomed. No wonder they always say crime doesn’t pay.
Sam leaned out the window. “What’s the problem, Mrs Baggoli?” he asked as though there were nothing on the back seat at all.
It’s amazing how many people who have no interest in the theatre can act.
“It’s my car,” gasped Mrs Baggoli. She sounded fraught. “It won’t start.”
Sam went with Mrs Baggoli to see what was wrong with her car while I waited in the Karmann Ghia. I kept glancing behind me to make sure the dress was still there – and still in its bag.
After what seemed like hours of agony, Sam came back. He opened my door. Mrs Baggoli was with him.
“We’re giving Mrs Baggoli a ride home.” He gave me a “what-could-I-do” look. “You see if you can squeeze into the back.”
“The back?”
“I don’t want to put you two to any trouble,” Mrs Baggoli was saying from over his shoulder. “I didn’t realize your car was so small. I can call a cab.”
I could easily imagine what would happen then. All too well. The storm would increase, the cab wouldn’t turn up, Mrs Baggoli would start walking home as night fell and the first trees were flung to the ground by the gale-force winds… They might not find her body for days. And whose fault would it be? First I steal the dress from under Mrs Baggoli’s nose, and then I kill her.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs Baggoli,” I said quickly. “There’s plenty of room.”
To illustrate this statement, I stretched over the front seat and flung myself on top of the bag.
Mrs Baggoli peered into the car. “What if I take that bundle on my lap? That would give you more room back there.”
Stifling a cry of excruciating pain, I wedged myself in on top of the dress.
“No, no, it’s fine.” I tried to make a little room for my left hip. “It’s actually surprisingly comfortable.”
Sam got in behind the wheel. “So, Mrs Baggoli, where do you live?”
ONCE MORE INTO THE BREACH
The night before the concert was a restless one for me. Killer wasps buzzed in my stomach, wild stallions stampeded through my heart. Stu Wolff, I repeated over and over to myself, by this time tomorrow you’ll be dancing with Stu Wolff… Or talking to him. Or laughing with him. Or just gazing into his eyes with cosmic love…
Minutes passed like hours; hours dragged by like days. There were moments in that dark torment when I thought the sun would never rise again. But the day of the concert finally dawned.
It was a moody morning, grey and cold and mildly vicious. I didn’t care about the weather, of course. I was going to meet Stu Wolff. I was going to dance in his arms. A blizzard couldn’t have stopped me now. I’d find snowshoes. I’d find a team of dogs and a sled. One way or another, I’d get to Manhattan.
Too excited to go through the motions of daily life – eating and talking