Authors: Susan Vaught
Big Fat Manifesto
BIG
FAT
MANIFESTO
Books by Susan Vaught
Stormwitch
Trigger
Big Fat Manifesto
BIG
FAT
MANIFESTO
SUSAN VAUGHT
Copyright © 2008 In Susan Vaught
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from
the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Published by Bloomsbury U.S.A. Children's Books
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Vaught, Susan.
Big fat manifesto / by Susan R. Vaught. — 1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Overweight, self-assured high school senior Jamie Carcaterra writes in the school newspaper about her own attitude
to being fat, her boyfriend's bariatric surgery, and her struggles to be taken seriously in a very' thin world.
eISBN: 978-1-59990-506-8
[1. Overweight persons—Fiction. 2. Self-confidence—Fiction.
3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 4. Prejudices—Fiction.
5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.V4675Big 2008[Fic]—dc222007025550
First U.S. Edition 2008
Typeset by Westchester Book Composition
Printed in the U.S.A. by Quebecor World Fairfield
5 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
All papers used by Bloomsbury U.S.A. are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed forests. The manufacturing
processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
For
Erin,
who helped set me free
When I wake up in the afternoon,
Which it pleases me to do,
Don't nobody bring me no bad news.
"Don't Nobody Bring Me No Bad News"
from
The Wiz
BIG
FAT
MANIFESTO
Contents
The Wire: Fat Girl Pornographing
The Wire: Fat Girl Fuming, Part I
The Wire: Fat Girl Fuming, Part II
The Wire: Fat Girl Answering, Part I
The Wire: Fat Girl Answering II
The Wire: Fat Girl Speaking Latin
BACK TO SCHOOL SPECIAL EDITION
for publication Wednesday, August 8
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
I am so sick of reading books and articles about fat girls written by skinny women. Or worse yet, skinny guys. Tell me, what
in the name of all that's creamy and chocolate do skinny guys know about being a fat girl?
The fat girl never gets to be the main character. She never gets to talk, really talk, about her life and her feelings and
her dreams. Nobody wants to publish books about fat girls, by fat girls, or for fat girls, except maybe diet books. No way.
We're not even supposed to mention the word
fat
in print, because we might get accused of supporting "overweightness" and contributing to the ongoing public health crisis
in this country [insert hysterical gasp here], or because we might cause an eating disorder.
To heck with all of that.
I'm a fat girl!
And I'm not just any fat girl. I'm
the
Fat Girl, baby. I'm a senior, and I by God do own the world this year, so put that on ice and gulp it down. I'm
The Wire'?,
new feature—the Fat Girl Manifesto. I'm large. I'm loud. Go big or go home!
Let me shoot down a few myths right now, before you even set up a stereotype:
Myth Number One. Speak gently to poor
Fat Girl. She can't help her terrible disability.
Okay, bullshit. I'm not chubby. I'm not chunky. I'm not hormonally challenged or endocrine-disordered. I do not prefer platitudes
like "large" or "plus sized," or clinical words like
obese.
I'm fat, fat, fat. If the word makes you uncomfortable, that's your problem. Go to www.naafa.org and get a
real
education. Yeah, that's right. The National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance.
F-A-T.
That's the word. Get used to it. Get over it. I have to. Every single day of my life.
Myth Number Two. Poor Fat Girl needs
to be educated about her problem.
Even more caca, this time on toast. I'm not clueless about nutrition and exercise or waiting for that wonderful aha moment
to motivate me to "lose weight." I know how to eat. I know how to exercise.
Guess what? I'm still fat, and blond, with so-so skin and big feet, just like my mom, my dad, and most of my relatives. We're
the Fat Family. Or the Blond Bombers. Maybe the Psoriasis Clan? Oh, wait. The Bigfeet. Actually, we're the Carcaterras, and
we don't apologize for taking up two seats on airplanes. Well, my mom does, but she apologizes for everything, so don't take
that too seriously.
Myth Number Three. Poor Fat Girl laughs
to hide her tears.
More and more poop just piling up in the corner. I'm not a jolly round person. I'm a peevish, sarcastic, smart, dramatic round
person. I'm larger than life. I've had roles in Garwood's stage productions all four years of high school. I'm playing Evil-lene
in
The Wiz
this year, and the role sooo suits me. I helped start our cable channel that my friend Frederica—Freddie—Acosta anchors now.
I'm
The Wire'?,
feature editor. When Fat Girl laughs, it's because something's funny. Usually something / said.
Myth Number Four. Poor lonely Fat Girl
can't get a date.
Big blare from the bullshit sensor. My boyfriend's name is Burke Westin, he's a starting tackle on our championship football
team, and we clear the floor at every dance.
Being fat isn't always like those sappy after-school specials and snot-rag sob books. Not every fat person is twisted up about
how their outsides don't match their insides.
Myth Number Five. All poor Fat Girl
wants to do is lose weight.
So not true. Fat Girl has a to-do list almost as big as her beautiful body. It goes something like this: Don't wonk the math
section this next (and last) time you take the ACT, keep Burke happy, meet one thousand senior-related deadlines, play practice,
and, oh yeah, the biggest one of all—finish college and scholarship applications.
Now we can get to the point. Why am I printing my manifesto in the school newspaper?
Pop quiz! No, don't panic. It's multiple choice:
A. I'm running for homecoming queen.
B. I want you to testify for me when I go postal on some stick-figure supermodel or that freak pedaling his exercise machines
on late-night in-fomercials.
C. I want the world to get a clue about life as a Fat Girl, from a Fat Girl's perspective.
D. I want to win the National Feature Award, for "outstanding journalism promoting the public well-being," a scholarship to
the journalism program of my choice. My family doesn't have much dough, so that's the
only
way I'm taking the big ride to higher education. Otherwise it's work a job and take a few classes at a time. I want the scholarship!
E. All of the above.
F. None of the above.
G. Don't you wish you knew.
H. Hint: It's not A.
I. Hint, hint: It might be B. Depends on the night—and the supermodel.
J. Hint, hint, hint: C's a really good bet. But then again, so is D. In fact, D's major.
I'll give you reports on what Fat Girl has been up to, and I'll answer the questions you send to [email protected].
Write to Fat Girl and send her to college!
Come on. You know you want to do it.
I have two must-achieve-or-die goals this year.
The first do-or-die is probably the easiest: Write the best Fat Girl feature series ever, expose the politics and social injustices
of being a fat female in today's world, and win the National Feature Award to ensure my collegiate funding.
The second do-or-die, related to the first, is earning admission to Northwestern University. I would, of course, accept the
University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill or one of the other amazing journalism/mass com programs in the country, but I'd
rather be at Northwestern. As for the entrance application, Fat Girl plans to win them over, freak them out, or both. No matter
what, I'll bring my fatness to the table as an issue, instead of as an auto-reject stamped across my application.
A third task, not a do-or-die, and probably the hardest, is surviving the absurd number of deadlines pitched at my head, all
because I'm a senior.
For openers, there are deadlines for class papers and assignments, deadlines for ordering our special senior edition yearbook,
deadlines registering for the last-gasp ACT, deadlines for registering for the way-past-last-gasp ACT, deadlines for signing
up for homecoming committees, deadlines set by those homecoming committees, deadlines for buying homecoming game and dance
tickets, deadlines for filing intent to graduate, deadlines for ordering graduation invitations, deadlines for cap and gown
measurements, deadlines for ordering class rings, deadlines for Senior Shoot, deadlines for senior pics, deadlines for early
college applications, and deadlines for regular college applications.
And all of those deadlines happen
beforefriggin'Christmas.
It's insane. But I'm a senior. Insanity must become my mantra.
Never mind the whole grades-still-count-until-Christmas thing.
Or the fact that my advanced biology and calculus grades are so not in the bag.
English IV and theater I could do in my sleep, and the rest is journalism. Piece of Fat Girl cake there, except for the midnight
cram-the-paper-together sessions, then speeding it one hour south across the state line to get it printed at a cut-rate little
print shop.
I'll be getting to do the paper run again this year, since I didn't make editor-in-chief. Nope. Of course not. The good-looking
guy got that role. Heath Montel. His family's known for being old-money rich. His mother's on the school board, and he's always
been immune to the standards the rest of us have to meet. Oh, and he's not fat. Neither is our journalism sponsor. No real
surprises there. I think Ms. Dax really just likes to watch Heath bend over the drafting tables.
As people go, though, Heath's not so bad, even for a rich, handsome type. He's just... a little weird. Kind of a loner. And
I've done the paper with him so long it's like working with my own shadow. At least I snagged feature editor, which looks
reasonably good on my NC-Chapel Hill application and gives me a full-bore shot at the NFA.
Know what Heath said about my first Fat Girl feature?
Good work, Jamie. Bui maybe you shouldn't have started so
strong. That'll be hard to top.
No, seriously. He said that.
All he needed was a cigar, tweed pants, and suspenders, and Heath would have looked just like some 1950s version of Perry
White from the
Superman
comics.
Okay, he's more than a little weird. He's hugely weird.
Editor-in-chief might be swelling Heath's pretty head, too, but I absolutely do not have time to worry about him, or about
the fan mail and hate mail and question mail beginning to pour in after Fat Girl's first big rant. I barely have time to check
on my best friends Freddie and NoNo, breathe, pee between classes, and stick to the senior obligations schedule I lovingly
drafted for Burke and me.
. . .
"Burke!" I shove my way down Building Two's crowded hall at my lunch period, keeping my eyes fixed on the broad shoulders
and thick dreads marking Burke at his locker.
Did he just flinch?
Oh, not good.
I slow down. Two scrawny freshmen bounce off my right arm, glance at me stricken with total fear, and flee into the crowd
before I can grab either of them by their braided brown hair.
"Burke?" A little closer now, and he's definitely flinching.
Damn
it. What's wrong? Did he fail another earth science quiz? Because if he did, his average will suck and he won't be eligible
to play next Friday and...
It seems like half the two thousand students at Gar-wood High are trying to cram into Building Two's hall, all at the same
time. Wall-to-wall backpacks, blue jeans, chattering, hollering, hair gel, and sweat. Somebody has on bubblegum lip gloss,
too. Gag. Bubblegum lip gloss would be illegal if I ran the world.
When I reach Burke, he turns to face me, but he only looks at me for two seconds before he hangs his head.
Big trouble.
His dark eyes, they usually sparkle. Today, they look like flat black plates.
I put my hand on his arm and squeeze. "What's wrong?"
He says nothing.
"Burke?" I scoot closer and try to look up at him.
This makes him grin, but the grin slides away. I have to push up on my toes to give him a kiss on his smooth, sexy cheek.
Can't do more in the hallway, even though I'm Fat Girl, and I'm a senior. Our school's liberalism doesn't extend to sucking
face in public. Garwood has a zero tolerance policy on all things sex, sexual, or even remotely physical between males and
females. The way the ban's written, though, two lesbians or two gay guys could go at it naked and, technically, they wouldn't
be breaking any rules at all. Nobody's tried that yet, but I've been offering to pay Freddie to give it a go.
"Come
on."
I bump Burke with my belly, glance around for teachers, then snuggle up to him. His arm drapes around my shoulder, and I love
how heavy and possessive it feels. "It can't be
that
bad." Then, yelling over the squealing, screeching, teeming masses, "Right? Tell me it's not that bad."
"I'm grounded," Burke yells back.
Every single muscle in my body goes tight.
I didn't hear that. Can't be. Not possible.
Before I can say anything, Burke hangs his big head all over again, then bangs it against his already dented red locker.
I stare at him, feeling something like inferno mixed with ice storm. "No. Way."
"Sorry, Jamie." Burke bangs his head on his locker again as I shove some half-sized chick back toward her giggly girlie friends.
"I got home too late Sunday night. The parental units imploded. I'm busted for at least a week. Maybe two, since I called
one of my sisters a witch for telling on me, and Mom heard it."
Standing on my tiptoes again, this time to avoid the surging crowd, I wave my neatly printed,
perfectly
crafted senior obligations schedule in front of his face. "We have to shop for clothes for the Senior Shoot. And get our research
cards done for midterm papers. And work on college applications. If we wait two weeks to get started, everything will snowball.
We'll be screwed!"
Burke gives his locker a rest and me another grin, the kind that usually makes me smile back and forget why I want to kill
him. "Don't go all Evillene on me. Sorry to bring the bad news, baby, but you'll have to do it without me. Take NoNo. At least
you'll have fun—and maybe you can use it for your newspaper thing."
"Get real. I'm not clothes-shopping with Nora Nosten-fast. Never mind the whole vegan-animal-product-obsession thing. She's
a size two, for Chrissake. And she's way busy getting ready for her next protest rally." I fry Burke with the you're-a-big-ox
stare. "Besides, they don't make stores that sell both our sizes."
"Yeah. Exactly. It has shock value." He fastens the lock on his dented locker. The bell rings and he says, "Take Freddie,
too, and some cameras and recorders. It'll be epic." He grins again, and I feel a little thawing in my icy glare. "You're
so gonna win the NFA, Jamie. This'll put you over the top."
All right.
Fine.
I let out a breath, and let go of the Evillene persona. Evillene's the jazzed-up wicked witch in
The Wiz,
the character I'm playing in this fall's production. We tried out last year and rehearsals started a month before school.
She and I have
way
too much in common sometimes.
And Burke the big ox does have a point.
Just going into a store with NoNo might be serious Fat Girl fodder, if she has time, and if I can get her to agree to the
hidden camera and recorders so we can immortalize the reactions of the salesclerks. That's no sure thing, however. NoNo gets
way seriously freaky about cloak-and-dagger stuff. NoNo gets way seriously freaky about many, many things, especially animal
products. But she's a lock for early decision acceptance at two Ivy League schools come December, so what the hell does she
really
have to worry about?
Burke grabs my hand, then plows us through the rest of the people trying to beat second bell to class. He doesn't hesitate
to bash people out of our way, and what with all the screaming from idiots flying in every direction, most underclass fools
take a hint and make room.
He drags me all the way down Building Two's corridor—against the crowd flow, no less—until we get to the entrance of the journalism
suite. Just inside the door, he pulls me aside and lays a big one on me, right on the lips, right against school policy.
I don't wear bubblegum lip gloss. Mine's vanilla. Big-girl flavor, for the big girl and her very big boy.
"You taste good," he whispers in my ear, over the catcalls and whistles ringing from the hallway.
Burke smells like sandalwood and oil and leather and everything guys are made of, and for two seconds, he makes the world
completely go away. Sometimes I wish I was smaller, just so Burke could hold me closer. I feel shielded when he touches me.
Safe and comfortable and absolutely relaxed.
When he lets me go, I give his ear a brush with my fingertips, because I know he likes that. He salutes me, wishes me luck
with Freddie and NoNo, then takes off to his class before second bell can ring.
I watch him charge down the hall until he's out of sight, smiling like a giant goofball.
Okay, so I can't stay mad at Burke even though I know he is stranding me on the shopping trip from hell, because that's what
any shopping trip with NoNo will be. I could go with my family, of course, but throwing myself from the Building Two roof
has more appeal.
So NoNo it is. And if I beg Freddie, she'll come, too, even if her ulterior motive is to grab a major school cable-news piece,
and watch NoNo wig out and drool all over a major high-end store.
. . .
The cafeteria seems more crowded and hotter than usual, but that's probably because I'm worried NoNo won't cooperate. We're
sitting at a back table near the door, in the section the seniors stake out and defend vigorously, and nobody's too close
to us. I think they can tell we're tense, and when Freddie, NoNo, and I get agitated, people scatter.
"Does Hotchix sell animal products?" NoNo jabs at her homemade trail mix of nuts, cranberries, and something purple and kind
of square and squishy-looking. I have no idea what the purple square squishy stuff is and don't want to ask. I probably can't
pronounce it anyway.
NoNo's muscles tense, making her skinny arms look that much skinnier, poking out of her Greenpeace T-shirt. "If they sell
animal products, I don't want to cross their threshold. This cafeteria is compromise enough for one lifetime."
Freddie, in a green designer dress that costs more than everything in
my
closet, lets out a groan loud enough to be heard over the lunch clamor. "Hotchix is probably full of leather and fur—but that's
why you
want
to go in. We'll get 'em three ways from Sunday, on everything you can think of, in print and on the cable news." She manages
a bite of cafeteria mac-and-cheese without getting a smidge on her dress. A skill, truly. One I don't have.
I'm not eating. I haven't eaten in front of people since fifth grade, when I got tired of the staring, even from the teachers.
When I was younger, I used to throw fits and scream, or cry and try to explain that even though I was fat, I still had to
eat a meal here and there. Then, slowly, I got to where I just didn't feel hungry if other people were around to watch.
"Please, NoNo?" I give her my best-friend gaze. "We need your body type to make the point, and we'll totally back you up on
the animal-products angle."
NoNo chases around some of the purple squishy things with her fork. She glances up at me with those wide green puppy eyes,
and her cheeks flush pink underneath her big brown freckles. Her red hair is shorter than most of the dykes Freddie knows,
because she's donated it again, this time for cancer-kid wigs, I think.
"All right. I'll do it." She shivers. "But no animal products touch my skin."
I grin.
Freddie grins bigger. I can already see the wheels spinning in Freddie's newswoman brain, about how to play this, and play
it big. She'll have some major ideas.
I foresee hidden cameras.
Social discomfort.
Sociopolitical commentary.
Animal products and by-products.
Yeah.
I wonder if NoNo is still taking pills for her nerves.
. . .
By the time we finish this little expose shopping trip, NoNo will need some kind of medication. That much I know for certain.
By the time Freddie drops me off at home after play practice and newspaper stuff, it's nearly midnight, and my folks are already
asleep. Mom's left me a sweet little note about not working too hard, and she's left me a plate, too.
I rip off the foil. Beans with greens and cornbread, and mac-and-cheese way better than anything the school could make. "Poor
man's feast," my dad calls this meal. It's his favorite. And I'm totally starving from not eating all day long. Just the sight
of the food makes my stomach ache and rumble, and I eat it way too fast... everything on the plate and left over in plastic
containers in the fridge, too—not that there's much, because my dad polishes off a lot, trust me.
