Authors: Susan Vaught
Big Fat Manifesto (13 page)
His grin just keeps coming. I grin back like I'm ape-shit crazy, because I am.
Heath takes two more steps forward, puts his arms around me, and hugs me tight.
Oh, God.
The hoopskirt shoves backward and tips into the air.
Heath's taller than I am, and my face really does press against his shoulder.
More muscular than I thought, in a firm, lean way. Hard. Tough. His arms feel light, but strong and comforting. He smells
spicy and clean up close, even though he's been working all day and night on the paper.
The tang of glue and the eye-watering punch of processor fluid hangs in the air around us, but doesn't seem to touch Heath.
I feel like I've stepped into a bubble of perfect smells and sensations.
And he doesn't let me go.
I raise my arms, which feel like they weigh a half-ton each, and hug him back, and he still doesn't let me go.
Heath shifts a little.
His lips press against the top of my head, soft and warm and firm. I shiver. Can't help it. A good shiver. A shocked shiver.
What's happening?
Who is this insane boy?
Who am
I?
This can't be happening, but It's happening, and I'm frozen like my feet got glued to the hallway tiles.
When Heath pulls back from our embrace, he leaves his hands on my shoulders. I blink at the green glitter and makeup I left
on his polo shirt.
This time when he looks at my cleavage, he's not discreet, and I don't care. I feel that stare like a touch.
Would I stop him if he tried to put his hands where his eyes are wandering?
"You look great in that costume," he murmurs, his voice low and quiet.
The sound of it wrecks me completely.
I don't speak at all. Can't even imagine trying to talk. I need to go. Change clothes. Get to work. I need Heath to kiss me.
I need him to look at me this way forever and ever. I need a damned clue, and a brain transplant on top of that. And a fan
while I'm at it, because It's sweatshop hot in the hallway.
"Should I walk you back to the theater?" he asks, giving me more shivers with that rumbly voice.
"I'm, uh—walk—what?"
"To change." He brushes my hair behind my ear. "So you can come back and work on the paper."
Forget speaking again.
Heath pulls me closer to him. My whole body tingles everywhere he's touching me. He gazes into my eyes so sweet and soft,
like he might be thinking about kissing me.
Please kiss me.
Please.
But he doesn't.
My mouth throbs from wanting it so badly.
"You're coming back, right, Jamie?"
"Yes," I say automatically, talking like a movie-woman in a dream, all whispers and sighs. If I lean forward, we'll be kissing.
I'll be kissing Heath, and tasting him, and I'll know for sure I'm not imagining this.
Freddie's voice chooses that moment to yell inside my head.
Who cares what Heath does? Wliat about
you,
damn it?
She asked me about this in the hospital, and I lied to her. I didn't know I was lying, but 1 did. To my best friend. I told
her I was in love with Burke.
B...u...r...k...e...
All the chills and whispers and sighs flow out of me, and I go stiff in Heath's grip.
Images of Burke pound on my awareness. Him holding me. Gazing at me just before he kisses me. The way he looks all dopey and
perfect and happy when we're cuddled up together.
Burke's
smile.
Burke's
eyes.
He needs me now more than ever, and I will not let him down. I'm his. He's mine. That's the way it is, the way It's supposed
to be, the way it has to be.
Right?
"I'll walk you," Heath says, turning me loose.
"No, that's okay," I shake my head. "I'll be fine."
Heath's grin fades to a frown. He shrugs. "Guess I'll be here waiting for you, then."
I can tell he knows I won't be coming back.
We need to talk.
We
need to kiss. Jeez. Stop it.
Heath and I need to talk but obviously not now. I'm shaking again, this time from wanting to run to the theater, get into
my real clothes, and run straight back to Heath. But I can't. I just cannot do something that wrong, even when I want to
so
much.
Heath doesn't wait for me to leave. He heads back into the cave and closes the door behind him.
My heart's still beating, beating, beating. My skin feels hot where his hands were pressed against my arms. I'm something
past crazy now. Worse. Lots worse.
When I finally get myself out of that building, I feel like I'm shredding something inside me.
Is this how it feels to do the right thing?
Because it sucks.
Night air hits me in the face, cold and mean.
I don't have any answers. I'm not even sure what the right questions are, or what I'm supposed to do now.
Maybe playing the lead isn't such a great thing after all.
You can't win,
You can't break even,
And you can't get out of the game.
"You Can't Win"
from
The Wiz
FEATURE SPREAD
for publication Friday, October 19
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
Fat Girl has lots of reasons to dance, other than our annual Halloween bash—and I'm not telling you all of them!
First and best, Fat Boy arrived home at 3:22 PM yesterday, a few weeks later than scheduled, but he's home, home, home!
That doesn't let you off the hook, though.
You still have to send positive thoughts, and cheer and pray for Fat Boy. Get busy. More chronicles coming soon, with photos!
Days postsurgery: thirty-one. Weight loss: forty-five pounds.
Second,
The Wiz
is a hit. Sellouts last weekend and this weekend, too.
Third, I never have to take the ACT again. (Yeah, okay, I'm banned, but I'm DONE.)
Fourth, my college applications and scholarship portfolios are in, with special thanks to Freddie, who mailed the first ones
even though I was a PB from H.
Fifth, The
Huntville Harper
ran a spread on Fat Girl early this week, and Newspaper Guy Todd got all my quotes right. Print media. Yeah!
Sixth and second-best, the taped Fat Girl interview is scheduled to run on CSC affiliate stations during their Body Image
Awareness campaign.
Now, consider this. What if Fat Girl decides to dance in front of you, without Fat Boy to pound you into the dirt if you get
too close?
Would you laugh?
Apparently, laughing at fat people dancing is becoming an international sport. If you go online and look up "fat people dancing,"
you get over 150,000 sites with video clips and brilliant remarks such as, "Reminds me of watching a lava lamp."
And it doesn't stop there. We've found sites featuring fat people kissing, fat people with piercings, fat people with tattoos,
fat people doing other stuff I can't mention—it's endless. As are the comments, with words like
disgusting, pig, gross, revolting,
and
ridiculous.
Remember my piece on pornography? Yeah. File these Web sites under that heading, with a cross-reference to
idiots with too
much time on their hands.
Anything goes since fat is now the national health crisis of the new millennium. Eighty percent or more of people under the
age of twenty-one believe obesity is the result of laziness, and all fat people have to do to get skinny is choose to live
better.
Tell you a little secret.
I'm dancing anyway.
The minute we get back on the road after dropping NoNo at her protest rally, Freddie taps the steering wheel of her old Toyota.
"What's wrong with you, Jamie?"
"Nothing." I stare out the passenger window and try to look carefree or bored or anything other than freaked out. The note
from Heath that I'm holding gets crumpled and uncrumpled, crumpled and uncrumpled. I've already read it five or six times,
but I'm not finished with it yet.
Freddie lets out a sigh that says bullshit.
I still don't look at her with her perfect hair and makeup. She's dressed like a runway model, blue silk dress and matching
shoes, even though the people at HeartBeat have drapes for us to wear over our clothes for our formal senior portraits. All
us girls will look like we're wearing gorgeous evening gowns, and all the guys have to tolerate a tux jacket and tie. As for
me, I've got on my usual, a flowing skirt and shirt, but I did at least pick something blue to get close to Garwood colors.
I don't think anything shows under the drape, but better safe than sorry.
Another sigh from Freddie digs at my guilt.
Okay, okay, I know I'm lying or not telling or violating two thousand friend-rules, but what am I supposed to say?
I know you're still half-mad at me for biting off NoNo's head but I almost kissed Heath the Hunk two weeks ago, I've been
dodging him like a dog since that moment, I'm exhausted from
The Wiz
performances, I'm blowing my math grade all to hell because I'm too busy daydreaming to do my homework, and oh yeah, I keep
having to spend hours hanging out with the incredible shrinking boyfriend who can't talk about anything but losing weight.
How's
your
day, chica?
Not.
So I crumple and uncrumple the note, look out the window, and listen to her sigh more intensely
all
the way to HeartBeat Photos. As she's parking, her phone buzzes. She glances at it, frowns, then hands it to me.
"Hey," I say to Burke.
We have to use Freddie's phone, since I'm out of minutes again. She has an unlimited plan, so It's all good. Wish I could
afford that. Life would be lots easier with endless minutes or endless money. . . .
"Where are you guys?" Burke asks, sounding deep and strong and enough like his old self to make butterflies bounce in my belly.
When I close my eyes, I see Burke, my Burke, big and beefy and grinning, ready to wrap me in a bear hug. On the phone at least,
the truth can be what I want it to be.
"NoNo's at a dye-banning rally, and Freddie and I just rolled up outside HeartBeat Photos for our senior portraits."
I keep my voice light even though I'm wearing out that note from Heath. He left it in my box in the journalism suite after
I dodged him all week, worked on the paper when he wasn't around, and dropped Fat Girl in
his
mailbox.
The note says, "This feature is weak. Get back to the hard stuff ASAP if you want the scholarship."
Beneath that in clear, bold printing, he added, "We need to talk. Soon."
He signed it "H."
Typical Heath. He's been "H" since the first note he ever sent me.
"Jamie?" Burke's mellow voice floats through the ether, poking into my consciousness. "You there?"
"Yeah, sorry."
"I was asking if you'd come by after the portraits."
"Sure."
In a low whisper, he asks, "Will you bring me a couple of candy bars? lust two—nothing major. They've got me in food jail
here."
"Are you out of your friggin' mind? Your sisters would slaughter me." I shift the phone to my other hand. "I've got no desire
to have my heart torn out and my brains eaten for dinner."
He lets out a breath, and I imagine him stretched out on the overstuffed leather recliner in his bedroom at home, where we've
cuddled hundreds of times. "Please, baby? Just a little taste. I'm ready for a more solid food."
"You want contraband, you hunt it down yourself." I make kissing sounds into the phone. "If you need sweet, you'll have to
settle for me."
Burke laughs. "5weet. Yeah. Just give me a taste of you when you get here."
I'm smiling when I hang up, but the note in my hand seems to get heavier and heavier, until I ball it up and toss it on Freddie's
floorboard.
When I look at her, she seems to have chilled out a little, but not much. At least the bitch lines in her face have softened.
"This whole Burke thing, It's hard, isn't it?"
"That's an understatement." I hope I don't have bitch lines in my face now.
We're parked in front of the portrait studio, sitting in the Toyota, letting the sun beat in on our faces and arms. I'd rather
just sit in the sun and not talk, but Freddie likes to pry and poke.
"You hardly talk about Burke." Freddie pulls her keys out of the ignition and drops them into her bag. "You don't talk about
the crap that really bothers you—like home and your parents, or worrying about college. Mostly, It's right-now things, like
grades and the play. Did you know that?"
My hand's on the door handle, and I want to jump out and run, but I don't. "I guess, yeah. I'm not a whiner. Is that a bad
thing?"
Freddie shrugs. "Don't know. Sometimes I think you keep so busy, you run so hard, so none of the other shit can catch up to
you. That might be a bad thing, 'cause one day you'll get tired."
Damn her.
Not what I want to hear. Not what I need to hear.
No making Jamie turn red and blubber before senior portraits. I'm tired of wanting to stomp and sob all the time.
"I'm not just running to run." I know I sound irritable, but I can't help it. "Being a senior keeps me busy,"
"Yeah, but you do a lot extra, with drama and the paper and Heath and stuff." She leans toward me, like she's about to whisper
a secret. "Urn, how is it with you and Heath?"
I lean back and think about running again. "Like always. We get the work done."
Freddie says nothing. She just stares at me, waiting, waiting, until I do open the door.
Before I get out, I say, "He's my friend, Freddie. Well, not my friend, really—that's you and NoNo. He's like a business partner
or an associate or something."
"You look funny when you talk about him," she says quietly, holding one hand over mine so I don't get out. "Just so you know.
I wouldn't bring him up around Burke."
"There's nothing to bring up." I slip my hand from under hers.
"If there was, you could tell me. I wouldn't go nuclear or spill or anything. I mean, Burke's my best bud from way back, but
you and me, we're... we're the girls. It's different."
"Thanks." That's genuine, even though my gut clenches when I say it.
Do I believe her?
Do I believe anyone anywhere is really on my side?
We both get out of the Toyota.
Freddie closes her door and leans over the top for a second. "Just do two things for me."
My turn to shrug and wait. I face her, keeping my back to the studio, and try not to turn red and get majorly ugly before
this stupid picture.
"Quit trashing NoNo when you're freaked." Freddie holds up one finger. "And take some time to apologize to her for the last
time. You know how she is—but she's loyal, and she really cares about you, and she won't get over it unless you tell her you
didn't mean it."
Now I'm red. Shit. Oh, well. But It's not mad red. It's head-hanging red. "Yeah, all right. I'll do that first chance, I promise."
Freddie looks pleased, then changes back to way-far serious. Up comes the second finger. "If you fall for Heath or anybody
else, keep things clean with Burke. Do it right. Up front. Break up with him honorably and stuff. Okay?"
My head droops. I can't stop it. She actually made me hang my head.
What can I say?
Except, "Yes. Okay."
My head keeps drooping all the way inside, through all the paperwork and while portrait-lady escorts Freddie back toward the
dressing room. Then portrait-lady pops back to the counter holding a body drape that will never in a million years fit around
me.
Damn.
That's why I called ahead and verified that they had large body drapes so I could match everyone else in my class and not
have to do the pictures in my street clothes. Only portrait-lady's definition of large and mine must be different. I should
have said supersized, or megasized, or big enough to fit a damned mastodon.
She smiles and holds out the drape. "One size fits all."
This is so gonna be fun, I can tell.
Kind of like dental surgery. Without the gas.
. . .
By the time I meet up with Freddie outside the portrait studio, I'm tired like I've run a marathon. Not that I'd ever be able
to run a marathon even with vampires chasing me—but my imagination supplies the details.
"Sometimes it gets old," I tell Freddie as we drive toward Burke's big house on the hill.
Freddie gives me a look like she's got stomach cramps, which is Freddie for,
I'm totally sorry it sucks so much.
Yeah. Me too.
So much for talking more about what bothers me.
My life turns into a nontopic, except for Fat Girl. Once a week, I pour it all out and hope somebody gets a clue.
Does
anyone get a clue?
Freddie and I don't talk much the rest of the way to Burke's. It's hard not to think about the portrait studio and how my
picture will turn out. I hate seeing myself in pictures, kind of like I hate seeing myself in mirrors. I wish I could be all
Fat Girl about it and love my big body, find it beautiful like Burke does... or did.
And Heath.
You look great in that costume...
God!
I try to chase Heath's image and voice out of my mind. The way he looked at me, the way his voice sounded, It's hard not to
replay the scene over and over again. 1 shouldn't, but I do.
How much was real?
What did I make up?
Heath probably hates me now for avoiding him like he's got some disease. I've pretty much stranded him with the paper, except
for writing my column. His crumpled note rolls around on Freddie's floorboard as she parks the Toyota.
Decision time's coming up. We need to talk. Soon.
I can hear Heath's voice saying those words, see the serious look in his blue eyes.
Why can't I get him out of my head?
We're at Burke's front door now, heading inside, and f'm thinking about Heath.
M
&
M gather in the foyer, apparently on their way out. Thank God. They're both wearing sleek stylish blue dresses. They look
like college women, graduates, on their way up the ladder and, of course, they are.
Me, I couldn't fit in a business suit with a crowbar and plunger to assist, and I'd probably break a ladder if I dared set
my foot on a rung. Don't most ladders have weight restrictions? Hammocks do. Trust me. Burke and I found that out the hard
way at the lake last year.
Freddie exchanges hellos with the vampire sisters as I ease past them and make my way to the kitchen. Sunlight streams through
the big windows, making the mosaic design in the tiled floor sparkle. Everything's dusted and polished. Everything in Burke's
world is always so clean and fresh.
Burke's dad is standing by the table gazing at a bunch of clothes laid out across its polished surface—three or four shirts,
some shorts, some sweats, and a couple of pairs of jeans with the price tags still on them.
Burke's standing beside his dad, only at first my brain doesn't register Burke at all.
It's some other guy, thirty-five days after surgery, and almost fifty pounds lighter. A leaner, taller version of Burke in
stylish, cut basketball shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. More muscles, or more muscle definition. I get so cold my teeth try
to chatter, but I clench my jaw and refuse to surrender.
It's Burke. Not Burke, but it is. It's him.
I'm still not used to seeing him standing up. I can so see the missing pounds when he's upright.
And he's shaved his head.
Like, bald.
This makes me blink. A gnawing ache chews at my stomach. He had to chop his dreads because his hair really did start falling
out,
a perfectly normal situation
per his surgeon.
But... bald?
Not that he doesn't have a handsome head. It's adorable. It's just not my Burke.
He scoots his palm over his shiny black dome and gives me a wide, goofy grin. "I'm smooo-ooothe, baby."
"You're a god," I say, and try to mean it.
"Check these out." He tugs at his shirt and shorts. "Double-X. I've dropped like three sizes already. And they're big on me."
Ice is forming on my skin.
Smile. Have to, because he's so thrilled. I have to be happy for him, but tears blur my vision.
Burke's wearing smaller clothes than I do.
I can't wear his shirts anymore. I can't fit into his sweats or his shorts and parade around to make him laugh.
No more hanging out in my guy's clothes.
That's lost, like his dreads, and the cute roundness in his cheeks, and all the things we used to talk about and do together.
Everything's about weight loss now. I hate that phrase, "weight loss," like Burke misplaced half of himself somewhere.
It's falling off. He's melting, like Evillene.
My brain registers a coffee cup on the table beside him, with a spoon sticking out of it. I realize that was probably Burke's
lunch, or maybe his dinner. His food fits in a coffee cup.
Burke's dad, who looks even leaner than Burke, slips past me with a pat on the shoulder and a "Glad to see you, Jamie." I
watch as he settles into his armchair in the living room and picks up the television remote.
Back to Burke, since I can't focus on anything else.
"What do you think?" Burke, still standing in his new clothes that won't fit me, poses like a magazine muscle-hunk. "Can you
tell I'm losing?"
"Absolutely." My answer's as automatic as his question. So is my smile.
Burke walks stiffly toward me—he's still sore, "working out the kinks" as his dad says—and hugs me.
