Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen by Dyan Sheldon Page B

with a certain amount of exasperation.
    “Murder’s out of the question,” said Ella primly. “I don’t like blood.”
    I laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to jail for Carla Santini. All we have to do is what I’ve been saying all along; beat her at her own game.”
    Ella’s voice flattened. “You mean go to the party.”
    “Well, of course I mean go to the party,” I shrieked. “You seemed to agree with me at lunch.”
    “I was acting,” said Ella. “Remember acting?”
    “We have to go,” I insisted. “This clinches it.”
    “We can’t go,” replied Ella. “You’re just going to have to live with that fact.”
    But I didn’t want to live with that fact.
    “Don’t you see?” I pleaded. “I can’t let Carla Santini get the better of me, El. Not now. Not when she’s finally on the run.”
    “Carla doesn’t run anywhere,” said Ella. “She drives.”
    “Ella, be reasonable. If she’s decided to be all nice again it’s because she’s planning to wipe the courtyard with us later. You’re the one who’s always saying how dangerous she is. Well, if she’s that dangerous, we have to stop her.”
    “So what are you going to do?” Ella demanded. “You heard Carla, the tickets go on sale next week.”
    I stared at the bowl of fruit on the kitchen table, like a pagan priest staring at a steaming heap of sheep intestine, looking for the answer. And it worked. Just as the priest would see the future in the bleeding innards, I saw the future in the dusty apples and bananas. I smiled to myself. Desperate measures for desperate times…
    “I’m going to go on a hunger strike.”
    “You really are crazy,” said Ella. “You really and truly are.”
    “No I’m not. Passive resistance works, El. Look at Gandhi. Look at Martin Luther King.”
    “They were both assassinated,” said Ella.
    I sighed. Sometimes she can be as stubborn as my mother.
    “That was afterwards. After their methods had worked.”
    “OK,” said Ella. “What about Bobby Sands?”
    I knew this was a trick question, but I said, “Who?” anyway.
    “Bobby Sands,” Ella repeated. “He was in prison for IRA activities and he went on a hunger strike against the British Government.”
    I took a wild guess. “It didn’t work?”
    “Not exactly,” said Ella. “He starved to death.”
    Even though she couldn’t see me, I threw up my arms.
    “Well that’s not going to happen to me, is it?” I demanded.
    “You mean because your mother will put you in hospital and have you force-fed?”
    I laughed heartily. “Of course not. Because I’m not going to stop eating. I’m just going to make her think that I have.”
    My mother doesn’t alphabetize the canned and packaged foods the way Ella’s mother does, and our refrigerator doesn’t look like a display model when you open it up, with an orderly and attractive assortment of fruits, vegetables and juices inside. Our fridge is filled with spoonfuls of this and dollops of that in bowls my mother couldn’t sell, a few bendable carrots and a couple of bottles of juice with bits of food floating in them because the twins never bother using glasses. But I knew my mother would still know if anything was missing. I blame her occupation. She has an eye for detail.
    So the next afternoon after rehearsal, I stopped at the supermarket and filled my book bag with supplies: cheese, apples, crackers, a couple of containers of salads and juices, a jar of pickles and a box of doughnuts. I figured that should get me through supper and breakfast.
    I hid everything in different places in my room, just to be on the safe side. In her one-woman war on dirt and disorder, Ella’s mother goes through Ella’s room with the thoroughness of a policeman searching for evidence, but my mother doesn’t mind a little dirt and disorder, especially if it isn’t hers and the door is kept shut. On the other hand, although my father would believe I was doing what I’d said I was doing –