Free My Perfect Life by Dyan Sheldon Page B

that.”
    “Oh, really?” said Lola. “What about Watergate? What about Irangate? What about—”
    “What about just saying yes, Ella, so we get out of here today,” said Sam.

Jane Bond and the
incident at the
dripping sink
    Sam spent Tuesday afternoon following Carla and the coven around Dellwood while Lola and I finished putting up some temporary Gerard–Creek posters.
    Instead of using his ancient Karmann Ghia, which was something of a local legend and easily spotted a mile away, Sam borrowed Mr Colombo’s van from his dad’s garage, where it was in for a service (presumably without asking either Mr Colombo or Mr Creek first). The van was most of Sam’s disguise – the rest was to wear a jacket borrowed from Lola’s mother (had she but known) and a knitted hat to hide his hair. The van was white with the legend
Colombo’s Fine Meats
on the sides in blue and a painting of a smiling pig underneath it. Sam figured that the driver’s seat of a butcher’s van was the last place anyone would expect to find a fanatical vegan.
    Sam said that although following Carla was a lot less interesting that watching an engine leak, it couldn’t have been easier. With no trouble at all, he got several photographs of Carla shopping; several more of her walking down the street, talking on her cell phone; and one of Carla talking on her cell phone while she watched the attendant at the gas station fill her tank.
    We needed only one more photograph to complete our set: Carla Santini putting on her make-up.
    “I don’t understand why you can’t do this,” I complained as Lola and I left Sam to plaster the first of the new posters all over campus on Wednesday morning. Going along with Lola’s crazy ideas was one thing; actually carrying one out on my own was something else. Something nerve-wracking and unpleasant. “You’re much better at this kind of thing than I am.”
    Lola swung her book bag over her shoulder with a sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you? Carla expects me to be active and combatant, but she doesn’t expect that of you. Even if she sees you lurking in the girls’ toilets she isn’t going to get suspicious.”
    “She will if she sees me hanging over the door trying to take her picture.”
    “Well, don’t let her see you,” said Lola. “Be clever. Be subtle. Be spontaneous.”
    I’m not any of those things. I’m smart enough at schoolwork, but that’s not the same as being clever like James Bond. I’m quiet and passive, but that’s not the same as subtle either – it’s sort of the same as not being there at all. And you can totally forget spontaneous. My mother is a woman who worries about everything from crumbs to a nuclear holocaust; caution is in my blood.
    Lola flapped her shawl, and clanked her bracelets, and steamed on towards the west wing. “Of course you are.” She looked over at me, trotting beside her in my lemon A-line. “Anyone with such a fixation on pastels has got to have hidden depths of subtlety.”
    The entrance to the west wing loomed. Every morning, as soon as she parks the BMW, Carla goes to the girls’ toilets in the west wing to touch up her make-up and fix her hair. It’s a Dellwood High tradition.
    “Shhh!” Lola held up one hand in warning and gently opened the west wing door with the other. “Let me check that the coast is clear.”
    If you asked me, the coast could only have been clearer if we were in Alaska. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. The only person on campus besides Sam and us was the janitor.
    Lola poked her head through the doorway. She looked left. She looked right. Then she reached back and pulled me after her.
    When we got to the girls’ toilets, she did the same thing. Door open, head in, look left, look right, yank Ella in against her will.
    “Take the end cubicle,” ordered Lola. “That way she won’t see you in the mirror.”
    I took the end cubicle.
    “You’ll have to stand on the bowl,” instructed Lola. “So your