Big Fat Manifesto (12 page)
Authors: Susan Vaught
Man, did I ever put my soul into
that
line. I step on the carefully taped
X
like I'm supposed to, grab Lion's arm, and put him in a hammer lock. "I'll cut you up, kitty-man. I'll have your hide!"
Seconds later, I'm melting, melting, and disappearing. And the music and burning sound effects get deafening. The guys under
the stage pop the platform cover back in place, and I'm in the dark, and I'm done. I'm finished.
Fat Girl has left the stage.
I pick my way around ropes and pulleys and props and stage guys whispering
good job,
make it back to the backstage steps, and head for the dressing area. It'll take about a year for the play to finish and for
us to bow. It'll take another year for me to get this corset top unlaced and scrub all this glitter off my face. And another
year on top of that to be willing to walk out from behind the curtain, head into the auditorium, face Heath, and fool with
reporters.
Breathing hard. Definitely sweating. Definitely stinking. I brush past a stack of wood offstage, turn a corner into the hallway
to the dressing area, and nearly plow full-Evillene-force into Heath.
He's just standing there with his hands in his jeans pockets, grinning like an idiot. His eyes drift from my wig to my glitter
makeup, then down to my cleavage and back up again.
Males.
All males.
Boobs turn them into idiots.
"You were outstanding," he says quietly.
"Thanks. I can't believe you took the time to show up for this." I notice he smells good tonight, like aftershave. Like maybe
his jeans and blue polo are Heath's current version of a nice outfit, and he actually dressed up to come to see me in The
Wiz. Except for the dried glue stuck up to his elbows and all over the left knee of his jeans, he does look good.
Great, in fact.
Heath manages to keep his eyes where they're supposed to be. "Wouldn't have missed it. You were born for that part. You know
that, right?"
"Wicked Witch of the West. My fondest dream."
"It's got so much flair and drama. Best part in the whole play." He slides a hand out of his pocket and jerks a thumb back
toward the stage. "That's why I didn't stick around. Once you melt, it gets pretty lame."
My cheeks warm up under all the green glitter. "That's sweet."
He gets a nervous look, then asks, "You want to grab something to eat, or do you have to stick around?"
"I'd really like that, but I can't leave until everything's over." My frown is genuine. The first expression all night that
feels like mine, my own, and not Fat Girl's or Evillene's. "Curtain calls, and after-play meeting since It's opening night—and
I'll have to get out of costume."
And write Fat Girl for early layout before you get stressed out and
kill me.
He looks disappointed, but I can tell he understands. "Okay, well, if you've got any energy left, I'll be over in the cave.
And I'll bring you back some chow just in case."
I shouldn't go.
But I know I will, even though I'm tired and wrecked and probably the last place in the world I should be is in the cave with
Heath Montel.
"Thanks," I say quietly, like NoNo telling some big secret "I'll probably be there, if I can dodge the reporters."
Heath's smile makes me feel like anything but Evillene.
As he walks away, he waves over his shoulder. Even though he can't see me, I wave back.
Why does it have to be so long to curtain call?
FEATURE SPREAD
for publication Friday, October 12
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
Why can't a Fat Girl play the lead?
I mean, seriously, would it hurt your eyes for a large woman to be onstage for hours—-other than in an opera or a play about
being fat?
Why can't Dorothy from Kansas have love handles? Why can't Christine from
Phantom of the Opera
take up a larger section of the stage? Would she sing less beautifully because she's fat? Would the Phantom and the hero love
her less?
Ah. See, that's probably the rub.
Nobody wants the Fat Girl. Or more to the point, nobody
should
want the Fat Girl.
Isn't that a rule?
Like the Fat Girl must be thin or well on her way to weight loss by the end of any book, play, or movie.
And yet, articles abound on why Fat Girls feel bad about themselves, have a higher risk of suicide, and literally kill themselves
to be thin.
Hello?
Want to stem this tide?
Next time you morph a famous book into a movie or a play, hire a Fat Girl to play the best role. Let Juliet wear a size 3X.
Let Ophelia have a few curves.
Come on. Be brave. Break the mold.
Let a Fat Girl play the lead.
Dunstein dismisses the play meeting after only thirty-two minutes of ranting, set changes, scene changes, and new instructions.
This has to be a record. He was particularly pleased with Evillene's dramatic melt, which I translate to mean he was ecstatic
over the sellout and press attention.
I fold up the column I wrote while he ran his mouth, but when I try to get out the door, he grabs my arm and whispers, "Be
positive when they interview you. Be upbeat."
When I stare down at Dunstein, he lets me go and his brown eyes widen pitifully like a lapdog about to be spanked. "They're
interviewing me?" I glance behind him at the empty room. "Just me? Not the whole cast?"
Dunstein gestures toward the stage door and does his nervous-dog tremble. "Just don't be an ass. For the sake of
The Wiz."
Okay.
I thought those reporters came to see the show and write their own pieces and opinions. If my brain hadn't been total confetti,
I would have realized they'd want to talk to me, and probably alone.
My legs and arms feel heavy, and my brain feels like a balloon losing air.
Visions of Lois Lane's nasty investigative report dance in my head.
My personality tears down the center. The left half of my essence wants to boil onto the stage in my Evillene glitter and
hoopskirt and hold court, run my mouth, really have my say. Do something to get national attention for Fat Girl, and for Fat
Girls. Give important, meaty quotes, and shine, shine, shine for the scholarship observation period.
This could be it. I could do it
—
make a difference and wow the
scholarship judges, too.
But the right half of my essence wants to slide out a side door and call Burke. Or forget that and go directly to Heath to
show him my column and get his opinion. The thought of seeing Heath, of finally getting to relax and talk awhile, even listen
to stupid music, seems like rapture. At least Heath and The
Wire
and my column are still right. Maybe after a little chill-out time, I could face another call from or visit with Burke, or
think of the right words to apologize to Freddie and NoNo for being a psychotic bitch in the hall before the performance.
Maybe I could even go get Mom some flowers, or something to cheer her up, since she's still all flat and sad over not being
able to afford a life-threatening surgery to make me skinny.
Dunstein's dog-eyes and my need for that scholarship finally win out.
After a few minutes of makeup repair (no sweaty streaks), a teeth check (no half-chewed glitter), and a pits check (no skanky
fog), I head backstage, through the set and stacked props, to the curtain. When I peek out, the auditorium is mostly empty.
There's only one news crew left, with a reporter and a camera man and another guy who probably works for a newspaper, since
he doesn't have a camera crew handy. Nobody looks like Lois Lane.
Deep breath.
I push my way through the divide in the curtain and step onto the stage.
Both reporters in the far right corner of the auditorium perk up, but I raise one hand in a stop gesture. "Let me tell you
the rules."
The television woman, who looks a lot like Barbara Walters, nods and lowers her microphone. Newspaper guy, a redhead with
a mustache, raises his eyebrows, shrugs one shoulder, and waits.
When I take another deep breath, it smells like sawdust and makeup. "First, no quoting me without my permission, including
these rules." I fold my arms and survey them like Evillene getting ready to go ballistic on some Winkies.
Nobody objects to the first rule, so I push ahead. "Second, no snark-ass nasty questions. Third, my
name
is Jamie Carcaterra. My
column
is 'Fat Girl.' Please don't get that confused."
This gets me a look of sympathy from Barbara. Newspaper guy writes it down.
"Fourth, you both have five minutes, because I have to go turn in my column."
Newspaper guy immediately says he's Todd Sanders from the Huntville
Harper,
which surprises me. Huntville is "big city" compared to Garwood.
Barbara gestures to both of us like,
go ahead, you start, I'll
wait,
and she sits down beside her camera guy.
He scratches the edges of his red crew cut and asks, "Have you been overweight your whole life, Miss Carcaterra?"
Okay, that's easy.
I ease to the center spot on the stage, a few yards away from him. "Yes, I have."
Newspaper Guy Todd writes that down, too, and moves on with, "Have you considered having bariatric surgery like your boyfriend,
Burke Westin?"
I hesitate, but not long. "Yes, I have."
When Newspaper Guy Todd gazes at me like
give me a
teeny break, please,
I remember Dunstein's
be positive, be upbeat
mandate. So I smile and add, "It's not an option financially, and after watching what Burke's gone through, I don't know if
I could stand the pain."
It takes Newspaper Guy Todd a second or two to write all that down. He looks triumphant when he finishes, like maybe he's
proud of the idea for his next question.
"Do you think children ought to be allowed to have bariatric surgery?"
Behind Newspaper Guy Todd in the corner, Barbara shakes her head as if to say,
I would so never make
that
mis
take.
Be positive, be upbeat. Be positive, be upbeat.
"We aren't children," I say without yelling as loud as I'd like to. My voice carries off the stage, through the empty auditorium
like I used a megaphone. "We're a few months from adulthood, and our bodies are
our
bodies. I don't know if
anyone
should have bariatric surgery, but if It's legal, teens should be able to make their own choices about it."
This time, while Newspaper Guy Todd writes down my answer, Barbara walks forward, microphone up, cameraman gliding behind
her, and takes over. The light over the camera blazes, and I feel the heat from the bulb even though they're several rows
away from the stage.
When Barbara speaks, her voice sounds warm and flowing, almost comforting, and something about her reminds me of my mother.
"Miss Carcaterra, I'm Barbara Gwennet from CSC affiliate WKPX—Channel 3 News. I find your column brave and refreshing. Congratulations
on such a bold step."
"Thank you."
God, her name really is Barbara. How funny is
that?
1 find myself relaxing despite the Lois Lane trauma.
Barbara brushes a wisp of ash blond hair out of her eyes, then asks her question as she looks directly into my eyes. "Where
do you get your inspiration for 'Fat Girl'?"
"My life. Every hour, every day." Another easy question. Thank God. "When you're as large as I am, you have two choices. You
can be a supersized, invisible mouse, or you can be Fat Girl. I think It's time for the Fat Girls to speak—and never shut
up again."
Newspaper Guy Todd sits down so he can write faster.
Barbara nods, seeming more like Mom than ever, if you don't count the black silk suit. Freddie would kill for that suit. "Do
you feel like the positive female empowerment messages in your column outweigh the negative health messages?"
"I don't think I'm giving any negative health messages. If you read all of the literature, and take out the research funded
by pharmaceutical companies or the diet industry, the health risks of obesity, even the definition of obesity, are not that
clear-cut." My legs start to ache, and I think about sitting down on the edge of the stage. No way to pull that off in a hoopskirt,
though. "There are risks, yes. But how those risks tie directly into fatness just isn't clear. Besides, 'Fat Girl' isn't a
health beat or a weight-loss column. It's more about mind and thought and attitude."
I glance at the clock at the back of the auditorium. "Two more questions and I have to go."
Again, a gentle smile from Barbara before she asks, "How is Burke Westin
really
doing? In your opinion."
The words sock me in the gut like an elbow-punch. My face gets hot in a heartbeat, and more heat rushes across my skin. A
hollow pit opens down inside me, like when I saw Burke's empty seat in the audience. "He's—he's changing."
My throat starts to close. I'm blinking too fast because I know I need to say something else. Barbara doesn't interrupt me
or try to stop me, but I'm trying like hell to stop myself before the camera gets pictures of me standing all alone on the
stage, blubbering and stuttering. I should have made a rule about hard questions. No make-Jamie-cry questions, but I don't
even know which questions will hit me like that anymore.
I manage to talk about Burke's complications and his pain, about how calm he is, how focused and determined, and how much
I admire him.
"He's already smaller," I whisper to the reporters, rubbing my throat as I talk. "It's like he's a different guy."
Barbara gears up to ask me something else, but the kind look in her eyes makes me want to scream or call my mother, probably
both, and not in that order.
While my attention's focused completely on her, Newspaper Guy Todd slams me right in the face with, "Miss Carcaterra, are
you worried more about Burke Westin's health or about him becoming thin and no longer wanting to be with you?"
In real life, if my throat wasn't too tight to swallow and my arms didn't feel completely weak, I would have slapped somebody
for asking me that.
But I don't have the punch.
I don't even have words to punch.
Instead, I back away from Newspaper Guy Todd, and Barbara Gwennet, and the cameraman, too.
Before they can react, I shove through the curtains, bumble across the dark backstage, grab the column I wrote off the top
of a speaker, and get my big, wide ass down the hall and out of that building.
I need to get to Heath and the cave and the paper and the stupid music he plays. I'll feel better when I hear the music, or
when he says something inane and totally Heath. My heart will stop hammering, and I'll breathe and I won't sweat or stink.
Half-walking, half-running, I cling to the column and head across sidewalks and around corners. It's dark, dark outside, no
moon, clouds blotting out the stars. The fall air's cold enough to make my eyes water. My teeth chatter as I imagine telling
Heath about the Fat Girl interview.
He'll be flat-out freaked that we're getting television coverage. He'll be stoked.
I hope he hugs me.
What would that be like, Heath's arms around me? My face against his shoulder. I'd find out what he smells like up close.
Really close. I'd find out how strong and solid he feels. What his voice sounds like in my ear. Chills course up and down
my back, spreading out to my shoulders and arms. Total head rush.
I'm in the right building now, in the hall, heading toward the closed journalism suite door. Light spills from underneath
it, into the dark hallway like a candle in some mysterious, faraway window, drawing me home.
"Oh my God." I stop walking so fast I almost trip myself. My fingers tighten on the folded pages of my column, and the paper
crinkles.
"Oh... my God."
What the hell am I doing?
What the hell am I thinking?
I've gone bat-shit crazy. Worse. Ape-shit crazy.
I press my fingers against my fat, glitter-crusted cheeks and run them down my thick neck, to my big chest, and farther, to
the mammoth belly holding up Evillene's hoopskirts. I'm Jamie. I'm still me. Still the biggest girl in school. I'm one hundred
percent Fat Girl.
And I'm thinking Heath wants to see me? Wants to
touch
me? To hug me and gaze longingly into my eyes?
This is no movie. This is life as a Fat Girl, and in real life, guys like Heath don't fall in love with Fat Girls like me.
I get to play the fat part, which is best friend, confidante, sidekick, whatever you want to call it. I can be "the lesbian"
like Freddie, or the "activist freak" like NoNo. I can be the wicked witch, the wicked stepsister, the fortune teller, the
crone, or even the whorehouse madam—but I can never be the beautiful princess, the delicate flower,
that
girl, the girl everyone wants.
In this drama, Jamie Carcaterra never gets to play the lead.
Except with Burke. I'm in love with Burke.
So why was I just thinking about sniffing Heath's neck?
Ape-shit crazy.
I rub my eyes and try to see Burke but instead I see stars and colors and I can't make anything coalesce into Burke's face.
I catch the image for a second, but his cheeks sink in farther and farther, and I can't imagine what he looks like right this
second. He really is different. He really is changing.
He really is leaving me.
And Freddie and NoNo will probably leave with him because I'm such a bitch, and then there's Heath.
My... what?
Friend?
Editor?
Bud?
Crush...
I'd slap myself if I thought it would do any good.
The door opens, and there's Heath in his dress-up jeans and blue polo. He's got his hair pushed back. I can't see his eyes
in the shadows, but his grin is obvious.
My heartbeat speeds up, and I'm breathing too fast.
Is he glad to see me?
Friend.
Sidekick. That's what you are. Get a total grip, and fast.
From the angle of Heath's head, I think his gaze is pinned on my cleavage again. He gestures to my corset top and hoopskirt.
"You'll never fit in the cave wearing that skirt."
No words. I'm speechless. I'm an idiot.
"I'll, uh, change," I say, sounding breathless and completely asinine. "My clothes are back in the dressing area, but I wanted
to give you this first." I hold out the crumpled column.
Heath takes it from me as I blurt, "Channel 3 and a guy from the Huntville
Harper
just interviewed me about Fat Girl."
"No way!" Heath's closer now, and his blue eyes bore straight into my brain. "That's amazing."
