Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen by Dyan Sheldon Read Free Book Online Page B

hopelessness on the face of the best friend I have ever had; perhaps it was the knowledge that – even if they didn’t know it – the rest of the student body was depending on me to strike the first blow for freedom from the tyranny of Carla Santini; perhaps it was the sense of outrage I felt over Carla Santini’s backstage manoeuverings; perhaps it was a combination of these things, but even though my grief still flowed through me like ice water, I forced myself to rally in the afternoon. I was now more determined than ever. The only way Carla Santini was going to get that part was if she killed me.
    I was a little late for the auditions because I had to go to the girls’ room after English to touch up my make-up. Mrs Baggoli broke off when I burst through the door of the auditorium.
    “You’re just in time, Lola,” boomed Mrs Baggoli. “I was telling the others about the idea I’ve had for our production of Pygmalion .”
    “The others” were my fellow drama club members, all of whom were clutching their scripts and watching me walk down the middle aisle. All, that was, except Carla Santini. As amazing as it was for her to play co-star, Carla was gazing raptly at Mrs Baggoli as though Mrs Baggoli were God and she were Moses.
    Relief swept through me with such force that I almost felt weak. It was Mrs Baggoli’s idea we were going with, not Carla Santini’s. I knew Mrs Baggoli couldn’t be fooled!
    Before I had a chance to ask Mrs Baggoli what her idea was, she told us.
    Mrs Baggoli had decided to set Pygmalion in modern-day New York. Henry Higgins would be a professor at New York University and Eliza Doolittle would be a check-out girl in a supermarket. The revised scripts would be ready by the end of the week. For now, we’d just wing it.
    I felt like I’d fallen down the rabbit hole with Alice. I glanced around at my fellow thespians. They were all looking serious and nodding their heads.
    Carla Santini went off like the fountain at Lincoln Center.
    “What a brilliant idea!” she shouted. “This will give the play a new resonance, an immediacy for today!”
    “And it also means we won’t have to put on those stupid accents,” muttered one of the boys.
    I gaped in horror at my favourite teacher. “You mean it’s your idea?”
    “Yes, Lola,” said Mrs Baggoli. She gave me an amused look. “I know I’m just a high-school teacher, but I am capable of thought.”
    There was a ripple of laughter.
    I laughed along with my usual good humour. “Oh, I know that,” I said quickly. I turned up the wattage on my smile. “It’s just that Carla said at lunch that it was her idea that’s all. That’s why I was surprised.”
    Mrs Baggoli looked from me to Carla. “Oh, really?”
    Carla gazed back at her with the innocence of an angel. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, Mrs Baggoli.” She shrugged, an angel trying to understand the workings of the treacherous human mind. “She must have been eavesdropping when I was telling my friends about your idea at lunch and misunderstood…” Her words trailed off meaningfully. And gotten it wrong as usual.
    I was about to explain that I hadn’t gotten it wrong, that Carla presented Mrs Baggoli’s idea as her own, but Mrs Baggoli didn’t give me a chance.
    “Let’s start with Colonel Pickering, shall we?” she asked, and she picked up her script and sat down.
    Because the drama club is small, everyone tries out for a major role. After she decides who’s gotten the leads, Mrs Baggoli assigns the minor parts. Anyone who’s left over gets to be stage manager, or understudy for the entire play, or something like that.
    After Colonel Pickering, we went to Henry Higgins. And then we got to Eliza herself.
    Susan Leder and Janeann Simmons went first, with all the passion and enthusiasm of soldiers crawling out of a foxhole to certain death by enemy fire.
    At last I took my place on the stage. I didn’t really need the script because I already knew