Even though my soul was withering like a rose deprived of sunlight and water, I was in a pretty good mood Tuesday night.
As I’d told Ella, although I’d admittedly gotten off to a less than spectacular start with my reading, I was confident that I’d performed significantly better than Carla in the end. I mean, I’d have had to, wouldn’t I? Expecting Carla to identify with a poor supermarket check-out girl was like expecting the Queen of England to identify with a mud wrestler from Alabama.
And although playing Eliza wasn’t the same as knowing that Sidartha was out there – a spiritual satellite in the great nothingness of the universe – it did give me something positive to do with my grief. I would use it to be the best Eliza Doolittle I could be, no matter what her ethnic background. It’s what all great actors do, of course: they put aside the disappointments and tragedies of their own brief lives and throw themselves into their work. The show, as they say, must always go on.
Self-doubt didn’t kick in until sometime between Tuesday night when I fell asleep to the Stu Wolff classic “Everything Hurts” and Wednesday morning when I woke up with a heart as cold and as heavy as Mount Everest.
I dreamt about Carla Santini. She was up on the stage of a packed auditorium. The spotlights were on her, and her arms were filled with dozens of orchids. I was standing in the wings. I was wrapped in my cape because the costume I should have been wearing was on Carla Santini. Just as the flowers that were meant for me were in her arms, and the applause that should have been mine was falling on her ears. I was crying very, very softly. As the audience erupted in shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!”, Carla turned to face me. She smiled at me the way she had during my audition.
My eyes opened to the stain that looks like an amoeba on the ceiling over my bed. From one cell all life grew. One day there’s just this microscopic dot floating around in some swamp, and a few billion years later I’m lying in bed wondering how I could be so stupid.
How could I be so stupid? Why had I been so certain I was going to get the lead? Had I forgotten how Mrs Baggoli had laughed at me? Had I forgotten what she had said? You’re not trying out for Serpico… I don’t think the PTA’s going to think very much of that… We’d appreciate it if you could do it this afternoon… I thought this was going to make it easier, not harder… I can see that I’m going to need your help polishing the modernization…
All she’d said to anyone else was “Thank you”, or “Try it again”, or “Could you speak up a little?”. At no one else had she rolled her eyes and sighed.
I’d gone too far. This is something my parents often wrongly accuse me of doing, but this time I really had. I’d figured Mrs Baggoli would be impressed by my desire to know the character I was portraying in every intimate detail and to make her real, but now that I thought about it she’d been more annoyed than impressed. What convinced me of that wasn’t the expression I could remember on Mrs Baggoli’s face, but the look I could remember on Carla Santini’s. That smile… It was the smile of Iago as he watched Othello storm off to ruin his life.
I jumped out of bed and dressed in record time. I raced into the kitchen, grabbed something for lunch and was out of the house before my mother could yell at me for not having any breakfast. I had to get to school before everyone else. If I really wasn’t going to play Eliza, I wanted to be the first to know. And I wanted to be alone when I found out. I could handle it – after all, rejection is part of the creative process; as painful as it is necessary for true growth and greatness – but I’d need a little time to prepare myself, to decide how I was going to play my defeat.
It wasn’t something I’d thought about before. I had a pretty good idea how Carla Santini would play it if she got the losing role. When she stole Anya Klarke’s boyfriend last spring, Carla had managed to act as though she and not Anya were the injured party. It was Anya who was generally treated as though she were an evil witch and Carla who sat around polishing her halo. There was no way I was going to let that happen to me.
By the time the green fields of Dellwood High finally hove into view, I was sweating and breathless and my mascara was running. There were a few cars in the car park, including Mrs Baggoli’s old Ford. That meant she’d posted the results. I jumped the curb in front of the main building, and rode straight to the entrance of the auditorium.
Carla, Alma, Tina and Marcia were standing in front of the doors, their heads together as though conjuring a spell. If I’d been quicker, or if I ever bothered to oil my bike, I might have gotten away before they saw me. But I wasn’t, and I didn’t. My brakes screeched as I tried to slow down enough to retreat.
Like cows, they turned together. There was no sweat on Carla or her friends. They all looked as though they were waiting for the photographer. Considering the amount of make-up they all wore, they must have been up at dawn.
“Well, will you look what the wind’s blown in,” cooed Carla.
I knew that coo. If it had been a weapon, it would have been a submachine-gun. Carla was happy. I hadn’t gotten the part.
But a great actor acts, whether she got the part or not.
I smiled. “I couldn’t stand the suspense,” I said, as if I was interested but personally unconcerned. “I had to see how the casting went.”
“Oh, did you?” Carla smiled. A switchblade joined the Santini arsenal.
“Yeah.” I forced myself to smile back. A great actor puts the play before her own petty needs and desires. She doesn’t sulk or get grumpy when she loses out to a lesser talent. She is generous even in the most ignominious defeat. “Well,” I said brightly, “are congratulations in order?”
Alma, Tina, and Marcia all looked to Carla. Carla just stared at me.
When no one responded I went on. “I can’t wait to see what part I got. No matter what, it’s going to be a great production.”
“If it is a great production, it’ll be thanks to Carla,” said Alma. I thought she meant because Carla was going to play Eliza, but she didn’t. “I mean, whose idea was it to update the play in the first place?”
Surprise, I’ve noticed, can often provoke honesty.
“Well, actually, it was—”
Carla cut me off before I could say “Mrs Baggoli’s”.
“Oh, please…” she sneered. The teaching staff of Dellwood High would have been pretty shocked to hear the venom in her lovely, well-modulated voice. “Stop pretending, will you? You’d rather kill yourself than play anyone but Eliza, and you know it.”
I was about to say that, actually, I’d rather kill her, but before I could even open my mouth Carla stepped right up to me, as though she were going to invite me behind the school to have a fight.
“Well, you’re going to wish you had killed yourself when I get through with you,” she whispered.
Alma, Tina and Marcia smiled, nodding.
I felt like Macbeth, but with one extra witch.
I flung my cape over my shoulder, defiantly. Carla jumped back with a cry of surprise.
“Are you threatening me?” I asked in a calm and reasonable voice.
Carla gave me one of her “what’s this bug doing on my sleeve?” looks.
“You’ve gone too far,” said Carla Santini in this dead-calm voice. “You always have to have things your way, but this time you’ve really gone too far.” She smiled. It wasn’t what you could call a pleasant sight. “I didn’t think you were this stupid,” she continued. “But now it’s time you learned your place.”
And with that she swept away, the other three hurrying behind her.
I knew, of course, why Carla was so furious, but I pushed my bike up to the list on the door anyway. I had to see it for myself. I started at the top of the list and worked my way down. Henry Higgins: Jon Spucher. Colonel Pickering: Andy Lightman. Mrs Higgins: Carla Santini. Eliza Doolittle: Lola Cep.
Carla Santini is not the sort of person to slink quietly away into a corner after a defeat. There are a lot of negative things you can say about Carla, but giving up easily isn’t one of them.
That’s why Ella and I wound up sitting near Carla at lunch. When we got to the cafeteria, Carla was already in our place, talking and laughing as though she were a total stranger to jealousy and anger.
“There’s a couple of spaces in the far corner,” said Ella, starting to veer to the right.
I grabbed her wrist. “We’ll sit where we always sit.”
She gave me one of her looks. “What?” hissed Ella. “You want to sit in Carla’s lap?”
It was true. In order to sit where we always sat I’d be in Carla’s lap and Ella would be in Tina’s.
“OK, OK,” I said, “not exactly where we always sit. There’re two empty chairs behind their table. We’ll sit there.”
“Why can’t you ever just lie low?” muttered Ella, but she muttered as she followed me across the room.
Surprise surprise, Carla Santini was talking about the play.
Enthusiastically.
“Actually,” she was saying as we took our seats, “the character of Mrs Higgins is more interesting than Eliza’s in many ways. I’ve always thought of her as a symbol of feminism.”
Ella glanced at me as she began to remove a series of pastel plastic containers from her lunch bag. Mrs Gerard’s cooking class had moved on to salads.
“Even though she’s not the female lead, it’s a part with depth and true contemporary resonance.”
I was happy I hadn’t started eating yet; I might have been sick.
Carla sighed. It was a sigh full of sadness and regret.
“To be totally honest,” said Carla, “I think Mrs Baggoli made the right decision.”
There were a few gasped protests and a couple of sympathetic snorts.
“Really,” insisted Carla. “I mean, what is Eliza when you get down to it? She’s a loser, isn’t she? She’s illiterate, she’s ignorant, she’s in a dead-end job with no future or opportunities…” She sighed again. Poor Eliza. “She’ll probably end up on drugs or as a prostitute – what else is there for her?”
I could feel her shudder delicately but distastefully behind me. I felt a few Santini curls hit my head.
“Now that I think about it, I really don’t think I could identify with someone like that,” said Carla. She laughed sharply. “It takes a thief to catch a thief, doesn’t it?”
“Huh?” said Alma.
A few more curls slapped against me. Carla was rolling her eyes.
“You know,” moaned Carla, “it takes a thief to know how a thief thinks…” You could almost hear her start to purr. “Just as it takes a low-life to know how a low-life feels.”
Alma, Tina and Marcia all collapsed in hysterics.
I could have turned around and said something. You know, something subtle but apt. Like, “Well then, it is amazing that you didn’t get the part, isn’t it?” But I didn’t. To answer would be to play right into Carla’s game. To ignore her and act as though I hadn’t heard what she said would drive her nuts.
I raised my juice container over the table. “Let’s toast,” I said loudly to Ella. “After all, this is really a celebratory lunch, isn’t it?”
Ella’s expression was about as celebratory as a death mask, but she nodded and held up her stainless-steel thermos.
“To Pygmalion!” I cried gaily.
“To Pygmalion,” muttered Ella. And immediately afterwards and much louder she said, “So, what do you think of all the rumours?”
Despite the shocking initial disinterest of everyone at Deadwood High School in the death of a legend, there were now more rumours about Sidartha going around than Carla Santini had teeth.
The reason the band split up was because Bryan Jeffries, the drummer, was a drug addict.
No, it was because Jon Waldaski, the bass player, was dying of AIDS.
Because Steve Maya, the lead guitarist, was an alcoholic.
Because Stu Wolff was an alcoholic and/or a drug addict.
Because Stu Wolff wanted to change his image.
Because Stu and Steve did nothing but fight because Stu stole Steve’s girlfriend.
Because Stu and Steve did nothing but fight because Stu wouldn’t let Steve play his songs in the band.
Because Bryan attacked Jon with a snare drum.
Because Stu broke Bryan’s jaw.
Because Jon was suing the others for not giving him credit for songs that were his.
Blahblahblah…
“I can’t believe Bryan’s into drugs,” I said. “Stu wouldn’t tolerate it. He has too much integrity.” It went without saying that despite the historical connection between genius and mind-altering substances, we had dismissed the accusations of drug addiction against Stu automatically. Not only did he have integrity, he was passionate about his music. There was no way he would risk it for some superficial thrill.
Ella started arranging the plastic containers in an orderly line. She’s not related to Marilyn Gerard for nothing.
“Maybe he didn’t know at first,” said Ella. “Maybe he only just found out.”
I opened my beat-up Zorro lunch box. I bought it in a junk store on the Lower East Side. I’ve always loved Zorro. I guess it’s the cape.
“He’s too smart.” I took out the chunk of cheese and the apple I’d packed before I raced from the house. “He’d have noticed right away.”
“Well, maybe they have creative differences,” said Ella, opening each container in turn.
I wiped the clay from my apple. Everything in our house is covered with clay. It’s what you call an occupational hazard. “I think it’s much more likely to be personality clashes. From what I’ve read, Steve can be really selfish and bossy.”
It was at that point that Carla Santini more or less joined our conversation.
“Did I tell you?” she shouted. “My father just called me on my mobile to tell me what he found out about Sidartha.”
Carla’s father is a phenomenally successful media lawyer who knows everybody who’s been famous for even fifteen seconds. He dines with movie stars. He gets drunk with famous musicians. He plays golf with producers, directors and television personalities. When she was six, Marlon Brando took Carla Santini on his knee and kissed the top of her head. She has a photo to prove it.
“You’re kidding!” shrieked Alma. “You mean your dad talked to Stu?” She sounded as if she were reading her lines from a cue card.
The air itself quivered with the shaking of Carla’s head.
“Stu told my father that he’s really angry about all the rumours that have been circulating about them,” blared Carla. “He hates the way the press always misrepresents things.”
The disciples all murmured sympathetically – as though they cared what the press did.
“So guess what they’re going to do?” squealed Carla, loudly enough to get a response from the house across the street. She paused dramatically.
My curiosity was greater than my disdain for anything Carla Santini might have to say. I leaned back in my seat just a tiny bit. Was she going to say that Sidartha wasn’t disbanding after all?
When not even Alma hazarded a guess, Carla took a deep, meaningful breath. “They’re going to have a big farewell concert at Madison Square Garden to say goodbye to all their friends and fans.” If anyone else in the universe had made that announcement, she would have sounded excited; Carla sounded as though it had been her idea.
Alma, Tina and Marcia all started to sigh and screech, but Carla wasn’t finished yet.
“And guess what else?” she demanded.
I swear to God that the three of them gasped. “What?”
“My father already has seats in the press box.”
Alma, Tina and Marcia all went off like smoke alarms, but I didn’t blink. So this was Carla’s revenge. She didn’t even like Sidartha that much. She just wanted to get even with me.
“But that’s not the best part,” said Carla once the noise had died down. “There’s going to be an absolutely mega party afterwards for all their closest friends.” If I’d had a pair of scissors on me, I think I would have turned around and cut off her hair. “And guess who already has an invitation?”
I don’t know why I did it. I really and truly don’t. It wasn’t like I planned it or anything. But the smug triumph in Carla Santini’s voice really annoyed me.
I turned my head so that I was officially part of the conversation.
“It just so happens that Ella and I do,” I said sweetly.
Carla Santini’s eyes locked with mine.
“Oh, really?” Smug triumph now had a companion: sarcasm. Carla didn’t believe me. Which meant that no one else did either.
I, however, was cool and unruffled; I was self-possessed. Ignoring the horrified expression on Ella’s face, I met Carla’s eyes.
“Yeah,” I said. “Really.”
There were a few darting glances and smirks around the table. Carla caught them all. A smile slipped over her face like a snake through water.
“And just how did you manage that?” she asked.
“The same way you did,” I immediately answered. “Through parental connections.”
“Connections?” Carla made a sound that would have been a snort if a pig and not a perfect person were making it. “What connections do you have, except to the phone?”
To be a truly great thespian you have to be able to do more than act from a script. You have to be able to improvise. I improvised.
“My mother got them. Marsh Foreman bought a piece from her in the summer. I met him when he came to pick it up. He remembered that I liked Sidartha, so he gave my mother two invitations.”
This wasn’t technically true, of course, but it was definitely possible. Marsh Foreman was Sidartha’s manager. It stood to reason that he had money to spend on handcrafted goods. Lots of rich people bought my mother’s stuff. Why shouldn’t Marsh Foreman be one of them?
Carla arched one eyebrow. “Your mother must be some potter.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “She is.” I laughed as if suddenly understanding something – something too silly for words. “Oh, you think she makes bowls and plates and stuff like that…” Bowls and plates and stuff like that are what my mother does make, but there are lots of other potters who aren’t obsessed with use and function. “Oh, no, my mother makes things like six-foot fish in suits. In fact, the piece that Marsh Foreman bought was a badger, a racoon and a fox playing Monopoly.” I smiled. “He put it in his garden.”