Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen - Dyan Sheldon [77]
Still blinking in bewilderment, Mrs Baggoli appealed to the rest of us. “What does everyone else think?” she asked.
“And don’t forget, there’s the indoor pool,” said Carla. “And, of course, we have so much room that everybody’s welcome to bring guests.” She quivered with girlish excitement. “Oh, please say yes, Mrs Baggoli. It’ll be so much fun!”
Mrs Baggoli’s eyebrows rose. “Any objections?” she asked.
I had an objection. I had several objections. My first objection was that I didn’t want to have the cast party at the Castle Santini. A cast party should be held in the theatre, with the smell of greasepaint all around and the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears. Secondly, I knew Carla well enough to know that with the party at her house, she’d be the one who would act like the star. My third was that I doubted I’d be allowed in. Fourthly, if – through some oversight or minor miracle – I were allowed in, I knew that, somehow, some way, Carla would make sure that I had less fun than a turkey at Thanksgiving. But I didn’t say anything. How could I? Carla’s cleverness had reached new heights. In spite of all my objections, there was no way I could not go without seeming petty and ungrateful. Mrs Baggoli wouldn’t give me so much as a walk-on in the future if I let down the drama club and didn’t turn up.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said Mrs Baggoli. “Thank your father very much and tell him we’ll see him Friday night.”
Carla swept her smile by me. “He’ll be so happy!” she gushed. “He’s really looking forward to it.”
I sank into a depression that was deeper than the ocean and just as wide. I’d never before felt so totally defeated, so completely without hope, in my entire life. Not even the dark days when we first moved to Dellwood were this dark. Even if I was fantastic in Pygmalion – which, of course, I would be – no one would remember me as Lola Cep, the girl who was Eliza Doolittle. They’d remember me as Lola Cep, the girl who was pathetic.
That night, I lay on my bed, listening to the sounds of daily life emanating from the rest of the house, while the anxiety monsters crawled out of the darkness, thrashing and roaring around me.
I was clawed at by self doubt. Maybe I wasn’t as good an actor as I’d thought. Maybe it didn’t matter whether I was or I wasn’t. Maybe, no matter how pure your passion or true your heart, you can never win against the Carla Santinis of this world.
I slept fitfully, tormented by dreams. It was the night of the play. I was up on stage, but I was also in the audience. Everyone around me was talking about me. But not about my performance; not about the wit and insight I brought to Eliza. “Isn’t that the girl who lies?” they were saying. “Isn’t that the girl who told everyone that her father was dead so she wouldn’t seem so boring?” Every time Carla walked on stage they cheered. “She should have gotten the part of Eliza,” the audience whispered. “They must have given it to that other girl out of pity. Because she’s so pathetic.”
I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, my face damp with sweat. I could hear the house groaning and the pipes creaking and the scratching of the pine tree against the front window. But I could hear something else.
Have you, Lola…? Have you finally had enough…?
By the time I was getting ready for school the next day, I’d made my decision. I wasn’t going to be in the play. For the first time in my life, I was giving up. It wasn’t just the Santini Big Freeze. It wasn’t just the way the rest of the cast avoided me in order to have a quiet life. It wasn’t the fed-up way Mrs Baggoli watched my every move. It wasn’t even the fact that Carla had managed to move the party to her house where she could swan around like she was the star. It was the way everyone looked at me – even the kids I knew really liked me