From then on, Mrs Baggoli was cool to the point of frostbite through every rehearsal. She was warm and encouraging to the rest of the cast, but when she spoke to Carla or me she was like a ringmaster entering the lions’ cage, chair first.
The others kept their distance, too – at least from me. Carla Santini made sure that they did.
Mrs Baggoli may have said that whatever was going on between Carla and me would stop outside the auditorium, but that wasn’t what Carla heard. Carla heard, “Escalate this battle into a full-scale war, and take no prisoners”.
She stopped talking to me completely again. Whenever I made some comment on the play, Carla would pretend to study her nails. Whenever I tried to strike up a conversation with one of the other actors, she’d cut in – smoothly, effortlessly, smilingly – and ice me out. No one even bothered trying to strike up a conversation with me if Carla was around; it wasn’t worth the effort. All someone had to do was ask me the time and she’d swoop down like a vulture on a dead rabbit.
And then, on Wednesday, Carla sailed into rehearsal with her curls shaking and a floodlight smile. The rest of us were all at the front of the auditorium. We all looked warily at one another.
“Mrs Baggoli,” screeched Carla. “Mrs Baggoli, guess what? You won’t believe my news!”
Mrs Baggoli looked up with an expression on her face that suggested that she was prepared to believe anything. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” said Mrs Baggoli.
Carla laughed. “Oh, no, you’re going to love this.” She spread out her arms as though about to make an important announcement. She took a deep breath. She was ready to burst with excitement.
“My father wants us to have the cast party at our house!” she shrieked. “Isn’t that fantastic? He says he insists!”
I’ll bet he did.
The cast party isn’t exactly the social event of the year. It’s what you would call a symbolic celebration. Usually it’s held backstage. We are all supposed to bring in something to eat or drink, and Mrs Baggoli contributes the cake.
Mrs Baggoli was taken by surprise. “Why Carla,” she said. “That’s very kind of your father, but it’s very short notice—”
“Oh, I know, I know…” Carla wrung her lily-white hands. “He’s been so busy that it kind of snuck up on him.”
Which meant that she’d only just thought of it. It had taken her a while, but she’d finally come up with the way she could play a supporting part and still be the star.
Mrs Baggoli looked unsure. “Well…”
“And he’ll pay for everything, of course,” said Carla. She smiled on us happily, Lady Bountiful distributing fresh fruit to the poor. “I’ve been telling him all about the play, of course, and he says it sounds to him like we all deserve something special.”
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 – as though I’d just been released from jail for a crime they were sure I’d done.
To answer Carla’s question, I’d had enough. She’d beaten me. Not fairly and squarely, maybe, but she’d definitely beaten me. Carla Santini could be Queen of Deadwood forever, for all I cared.
I didn’t say anything to anyone, not even Ella. Cataclysmic personal defeat isn’t the kind of thing you want to share, not even with your best friend. Like a deer that’s been hit by a Land-Rover, I just wanted to slink into the forest and die by myself.
In fact, Ella and I didn’t talk much that day. I was in too deep a state of grief for idle chit-chat, and besides that, I was laying the ground for a sudden attack of influenza. It was the easiest way. I mean, I couldn’t very well go to Mrs Baggoli and say, “I’ve decided to step down as Eliza, since Carla wants the part so much.”
I was quiet and distracted in my classes.
My teachers noticed that the student they relied on for animated participation was listless and withdrawn.
“Lola,” they said. “Are you all right? You’re very quiet today.”
“It’s nothing,” I answered. “I have a headache”, or “My throat’s a little sore”, or, by the end of the afternoon, “I think I have a fever.”
As soon as I got home, I took to my bed.
My mother found me, prostrate on the couch, wrapped in the old granny-square afghan my dad crocheted when he hurt himself falling off a mountain in the Catskills and was laid up for a few weeks. Whenever anyone’s sick in Ella’s house, they take an aspirin and go to bed. But whenever anyone’s sick in my house, they lie on the couch with the afghan and watch TV.
“What’s wrong?” asked my mother. “Aren’t you feeling well?” Her usual suspiciousness had been replaced with maternal concern. She knew the play meant more to me than anything; it wouldn’t occur to her that I was only acting.
I raised my head as she crossed the room. “My throat hurts,” I croaked, barely loud enough to be heard. “And my head…” I fell back against the pillows. “I think I have a fever…” I stifled a moan of pain. “My skin feels like it’s on fire.”
My mother wiped her hands on her clay-covered apron and felt my forehead. Her face clouded with concern. “You do feel warm…”
I should have felt warm; I’d been lying there with the hot water bottle pressed to my head, waiting for her to come out of her studio.
“I hope you’re not coming down with something…”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I whispered hoarsely. “Stress…”
“It could be the flu,” said my mother. “There’s a lot of it going around…” She started feeling my glands. “Serves you right for running around in that storm on Saturday.”
“I can’t be sick,” I moaned feebly. “Tomorrow’s Pygmalion. I have to be all right for that.”
“I’ll make you a herbal tea,” said my mother, “and a compress for your fever. Maybe it’s just one of those twenty-four hour bugs.”
I moaned again. “It has to be,” I said as she bustled out of the room. “I can’t miss the play.”
My mother’s voice was respectfully low and full of concern. “I’m really sorry, Ella,” she was saying, “but I’m afraid she can’t come to the phone. She isn’t feeling well.”
She paused while Ella spoke.
“It looks like some kind of flu,” my mother continued. “You know, throat, head and fever. But despite all appearances, she isn’t going to die. It doesn’t look like she’ll be going to school tomorrow, though.”
I could hear the sound of Ella’s voice coming through the receiver, but not the words themselves.
“I know,” said my mother, “it really is a shame. My folks are coming all the way from Connecticut, and of course there’s Mary’s dad… They’re all going to be really disappointed.”
I didn’t want to hear about all the people I was supposedly letting down. I lifted my hand and waved it in my mother’s direction. I was much too weak and my voice much too sore to tell her to say hello to Ella for me.
My mother gave me a nod. “She says to say hello,” she said to Ella. My mother looked over at me again. “Ella says hi,” she reported.
“That’d be great,” said my mother. “I’ll tell her.”
“Tell me what?” I asked as my mother hung up the phone.
“Ella says she’ll make sure she gets all your homework for you.”
Struggling against the pain, I smiled my gratitude. What a friend.
As you can imagine, I had another bad night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Carla Santini in the red satin dress, smiling into the spotlight like a glacier. I heard the cheers and cries of “Bravo!”. I watched her step in front of everyone else to take another bow.
I was awake at dawn.
I knew I was doing the right thing; I was sure of it. It meant that I had forever lost the fight against Carla Santini and the forces of darkness, but what did it matter? There’s no point in waging a battle you know you’ll lose even if you win.
All I had to do was stay in bed for the next twenty-four hours, and it would all be over. But I had to stop thinking about it. I had to stop the corkscrew of pain that gouged at my heart every time I imagined Carla Santini in Eliza’s dress.
I heard my mother get up and go into the kitchen. I heard the twins erupt into consciousness. I heard the radio go on. (The weather was going to be mild and sunny. I’d been hoping for rain. Rain’s always so comforting when you’re unhappy.) And then I heard the door bell. I looked at my clock. It was too early for the mailman with a package, or even for the UPS man, come to take some boxes of dinnerware away.
Pam tripped over something and fell, so Paula reached the door first.
“She’s sick!” shouted Paula. “She isn’t going to school today. So now we don’t have to go to her boring play.”
“Now nobody has to go to the boring play,” said Ella.
This was not Ella-like behaviour, this coming to the house at seven-thirty in the morning. She hadn’t been able to bring me my homework the afternoon before because she had to do something with her mother at the last minute, but I’d figured she’d wait till the weekend to come. I had the thought to jump up and lock the door, but before I could it opened and Ella Marjorie Gerard, the girl once destined to be picked as Most Shy in our high-school yearbook, marched in.
“I want to talk to you,” said Ella, and she slammed the door in Pam and Paula’s faces.
“Not now,” I said. I rubbed my eyes sleepily. “I just woke up.”
Ella threw her book bag on the foot of my bed. “Oh, sure you did,” said Ella.
“I really don’t feel well—” I began.
“You can cut the crap,” said the most polite and well-mannered teenager in New Jersey. “I know what you’re doing.” She grabbed the blanket and yanked it off me. “And I’m not going to let you get away with it. Get up now and get dressed for school.”
I stared at her, agog. I’d never heard Ella talk to anyone like that. I didn’t think she was capable of it.
“I’m telling you I’m sick,” I said. I pulled the blanket back around me, shivering slightly. “I have a fever,” I told her. “Ask my mother.”
“What do you think I am, stupid?” asked Ella. “You’re not sick. You’re bailing out of the play.” She folded her arms in front of her and set her jaw. She looked like she was in a play herself. “You’re giving up,” said Ella.
Admitting defeat was beginning to get easier and easier.
“All right,” I snapped. “So what if I am?” I glared at her. “I wish I’d done it when you wanted me to. I could have saved myself a lot of time and trouble.”
“Well, I don’t want you to now,” said Ella. She dropped her arms and sat down on the bed. “You can’t do this, Lola. Everybody’s depending on you.”
Sure they were. Depending on me to play the fool.
“Hah hah,” I said. “Nobody will even notice the difference.”
“Of course they will,” said Ella. “What about your parents? And your grandparents? And me? And Sam? Sam’s never been to a school function before in his life. He’s only going for you.”
“Maybe he can get a refund.” I fluffed up my pillow and leaned back. “Maybe all of you can.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Ella. “This isn’t like you at all. What happened to the person who never gives up? What happened to the person who told me her motto was ‘never say die’?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Which was true. “I guess she bailed out, too.”
Ella gazed at me in silence for several seconds.
“So that’s it?” she said at last. “All that stuff you told me about passion and art and putting your work before yourself, that was just more of your lies?”
“Of course not,” I said. “That’s what’s important. It’s just that I—”
“You’re just the same as Carla, aren’t you?” Ella stood up. “It’s all me, me, me and I, I, I. Nobody else counts for anything, do they?”
I stood up, too.
“That’s not true and you know it!” I felt like I was falling apart inside.
“No, I don’t know it!” Ella screamed back. “You haven’t given one thought to anybody else in all this. It’s all been about you.” She flung her arms wide, appealing to the gods themselves. “What about me?” she demanded. “I was miserable until you came to Dellwood. Totally miserable. I thought that everybody’s life was like mine, just doing all the things you’re supposed to do, when you’re supposed to do them, and never questioning anything. I thought that when I grew up all I could expect was a life like my parents’.” She was trembling with rage. “And then I met you. You gave me courage, Lola. You taught me that you can make life what you want.”
I reached out to touch her shoulder. I’d never seen Ella cry before. “Ella, I—”
She jumped back as though I’d threatened her with a sabre. “Don’t touch me!” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “You’re a sham, Lola Cep, that’s what you are. I thought being the best Eliza Doolittle you could be was what mattered to you. But it isn’t. Because if it was you’d go on tonight and you’d be the best Eliza Doolittle, no matter what Carla Santini says or does.” Ella’s face was red and blotchy from crying. “Don’t you get it, Lola? That’s the one thing she can’t do anything about. The one thing nobody can do anything about! And you’re just going to hand it to her.”
By now, I was crying, too.
“What’s going on in there?” called my mother. She started banging on the door. “Mary? Ella?”
I snuffed back a few million tears. “Nothing,” I shouted back through my sobs. “I’ve had a miraculous recovery.”