Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen - Dyan Sheldon [50]
I pushed my advantage.
“And besides,” I went on, “unless you turn me in, you’re already an accessory after the fact.”
I had no idea what “an accessory after the fact” was. It’s something they say in cop shows. But, like Mr Santini, Ella’s father is a lawyer. She seemed to know what it means.
“This better be one great party,” said Ella.
“Stop!” shrieked Ella. “I think I’ve cracked a rib.”
At the time, I was trying to find a position that would let me move enough to pull off my jeans. “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” I grunted. “You couldn’t have cracked a rib. There’s not enough room in here.”
Neither Ella (who, admittedly, had led a very sheltered life) nor I (who at least once resided in a metropolis teeming with life on all levels) had ever actually tried to dress in the toilet of a train before. If we had, we definitely wouldn’t have tried it again.
“But I’m in pain,” wailed Ella. “Can’t you move back just a little?”
I glared at her, though she probably didn’t notice because the lighting was so bad.
“Maybe we should take turns, then,” said Ella.
I shook my head, and banged it against the flimsy wall. “No. We need each other to zip up and put on our make-up.” I fell on to the toilet as the train took a sudden bend. “And, anyway, we’re already half undressed. We may as well keep going.”
We kept going, but, unfortunately, the train kept going, too. My memory of the route to the city was that it was pretty straight, but either my memory was wrong or the route had been changed to take in every bend between Dellwood and New York. It was lucky the toilet was no bigger than a broom closet or Ella and I would have spent a lot of time on the floor.
Bruised and exhausted, we finally got our regular clothes off and our party dresses on.
“What do you think?” asked Ella.
“It’s a little hard to tell when we’re practically touching noses.” I wedged my make-up bag behind the taps. “Let’s do our faces, and then we can check ourselves outside.”
As I always say, you live and you learn. Changing in a moving train turned out to be nothing next to putting on make-up in a moving train. Putting on make-up in a train that’s weaving through the sleepy suburbs at a rate of knots is like trying to eat a bowl of hot soup on a roller coaster. And no less painful. If I wasn’t poking myself in the eye with my liner, I was poking my elbow in Ella. And it was no more successful than eating soup on a roller coaster, either. In the end, we took turns bracing ourselves against the door while the other one very carefully applied the mascara and the blush.
“That’s going to have to do,” said Ella. She pulled back as far as she could to examine her handiwork. “I’m afraid I’m going to blind you.”
“Do I look sophisticated and enigmatic?”
Ella cocked her head to one side. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “You do. Of course, you also look like you’ve been crying a lot.” Mascara can really sting.
“It’ll clear,” I said dismissively.
“And the eyeliner’s not totally even.”
“I can live with it for now. I”ll fix it when we’re on terra firma. Let’s just get out of here before we suffocate.”
Once we got out of the toilet, we took a long critical look at each other.
“You look fantastic,” said Ella. “Even though your eyes are still bloodshot.” She nervously licked her lips. “What about me?”
It had been a Herculean task, but after months of trying I’d finally managed to talk Ella into wearing her hair down. I’d also convinced her to buy something for the party that wasn’t plain, tailored and so basic you could wear it to church in the morning and a cocktail party in the evening: a full black taffeta skirt and a black lace bodysuit. Simple but effective. The transformation was astounding. Henry Higgins couldn’t have been half as pleased with Eliza as I was with Ella. In her regular clothes and with her hair up, Ella looked like she was practising for middle age; in the black ensemble with her hair down she looked like the mysterious heroine from a gothic novel.
“You look spectacular,” I assured her. “Eat your heart out, Carla Santini. Your day