Authors: Susan Vaught
Big Fat Manifesto (14 page)
"Don't worry," he says. "You'll lose, too, if you want to. Get small like me." He grins. "Bring those curves down to a manageable
level, Jamie. It's doable."
My smile stays stuck on my face even though I feel flat and cold all over and almost sick.
Manageable level?
Burke never found my curves unmanageable before.
All of a sudden, I feel twice as huge. And out of place.
I'm hating it here right now, hating it really bad.
Manageable level?
Me losing weight was never part of this deal, was it? When did that happen? I missed that part of the contract completely.
But Burke's hugging me.
I hug him back gently, afraid I'll hurt his healing incisions, and God help me, I think about Heath and how he smells like
spice, and the way he kissed the top of my head outside the journalism suite.
Guilt twists like snakes in my gut.
I let go of Burke too fast, and realize he's talking. Well, whispering.
"... in food jail." Burke shakes his head. "They don't understand. I know I'm ready."
More snakes, twisting, writhing, making me half-sick, but I'm supposed to keep smiling. I'm here for Burke, like I promised.
Got to keep it together.
"My sisters," Burke says. "You know how they are."
I glance over my shoulder, through the living room and back toward the foyer. "Yeah. They can be major pains in the ass."
"I keep telling them I just want a little bit." Burke makes an inch sign with his thumb and forefinger. "Chocolate. But they're
blowing me off. You gotta hook me up with a Hershey bar."
"Food jail." I'm putting the pieces together now. "You're still wanting me to bring you candy. No way!"
Burke opens his arms, pleading. "Come on, baby. I'm counting on you."
I jerk a thumb toward the foyer. "They'll bite my neck and bleed me dry if I bring you contraband. Not happening."
"Please?" He gives me the puppy eyes.
Damn him.
Those eyes are still way wide and big, and totally pathetic when he wants them to be. "I'll think about it," I say to shut
him up and make him quit with the puppy gaze.
"lamie," Mr. Westin calls from the living room. "I think you should come here."
The snakes in my belly multiply.
5hif.
Did he hear that about the chocolate bars? I'm so dead.
Burke looks as startled as I feel.
Busted.
"Sorry," he whispers, but I hush him with a wave of my hand.
Together, we walk slowly into the living room to face our doom. I can tell Burke's expecting the worst. And it gets better,
because here come Freddie and M
&
M, who obviously haven't left yet.
Greeeaaaaaaat.
"...
big controversy brewing at tiny Garwood High," the television news blares, "where senior Jamie Carcaterra defends her right
to superobesity in her tart, irreverent 'Fat Girl Manifesto.'"
"Whoa," Freddie says, sitting down on Burke's giant leather sofa. "Fat Girl goes big-time. This is national news, right?"
Mr. Westin nods. "It's a segment called
Food for Thought.
The network features local reporters from all over the country with interesting pieces."
Burke whistles and makes
whoop-whoop
sounds, then whacks me on the back.
M
&
M gape at the set, eyes wide.
Barbara Gwennet, the reporter who interviewed me after opening night, fills the screen—with a backdrop of big bellies and
butts marching by.
For a few seconds, she looks sweet and sympathetic and earnest. Then her eyes narrow and she lifts a copy of
The Wire
and reads, "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... Get used to it. Get over it."
The bellies and butts keep passing by behind her. Sometimes the camera zooms in on the largest specimens.
Barbara pauses, gazes into the camera, eyebrows raised, and reads more. "Fat Girl, in all her fatness, may have fewer body-image
issues than people who wear 'normal' sizes."
Another deep stare into the camera, then more outof-context quotes from my manifesto. "... compulsive overeating is not officially
recognized in any diagnostic manual... the same diet industry that makes billions for doing nothing to help and usually making
things worse... funded some, maybe a lot, of the studies 'raising the alarm.'"
Oh, I can so see where this is going, and I hate it already. My hands clench. All the cold is gone, and I'm hot instead. Burning
up.
Burke's still making celebration noises. Freddie and Mr. Westin sit, obviously stunned. M
&
M look like a strong breeze would blow them both to the floor.
"The voice of our youth." Barbara shakes her head as the belly-butt parade continues. "Free speech, or the malicious opinions
of one misguided girl who chooses to disregard a serious national public health crisis?"
As I stare, dumbfounded like everybody else, Barbara snips quotes from Fat Girl and splices in brief out-of-order sound bites
from my interview until I sound like a screaming, rampaging fat activist who despises medical science, skinny women, and bariatric
surgery. According to her I "mercilessly dig" at my "young male friend" who made the "incredibly brave decision" to have a
weight-loss procedure.
"You digging at me?" Burke cracks up. "She's smoking something. I'd like to know what it is. Can I have some?"
"Be quiet," M
&
M order at the same time.
"Mmmm," Freddie agrees, leaning forward.
Mr. Westin rubs his hand over his chin.
Barbara misrepresents a little more, stating I "closed down" the local Hotchix in a "brazen sneak attack" with a few of my
"radical friends."
Freddie swears softly, then covers her mouth.
On the television, Barbara again lifts the copy of
The
Wire.
"Competing opinions and health columns are conspicuously absent. Will thin, healthy students be forced to picket this 'fat
rag' to be heard?"
Long, dramatic pause as the fat bellies and butts fade slowly to a black screen.
"This is Barbara Gwennet, and Garwood High's 'Fat Girl Manifesto' is truly food for thought. Until next week, good night."
Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Nobody speaks. Commercials flare and flash by, but I'm not processing any of them.
The news show goes off. A crime show comes on.
My cell rings. I grab it, glance down at the number, and see that It's my house.
I answer, feeling numb, like I'm hearing sounds
ping
against my ears from far, far away.
"Jamie, people are calling," Mom says without even hello or
how are you.
"Neighbors, reporters, the principal, and your editor, Heath. I think you need to come home.
Jamie? Jamie, are you there?"
No.
"Yes," I say, quiet, dull, freaked by the sound of my own voice, doing my best not to see anyone or anything in the room around
me. "We're leaving now."
FEATURE SPREAD
for publication Friday, October 26
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
Point that gun.
Squeeze that trigger.
It's so easy to shoot the Fat Girl.
After all, we make the biggest targets.
And that's just what Barbara Gwennet, Channel 3 reporter, has seen fit to do. She twisted facts to make me look stupid and
dangerous. She twisted my words to make me look as unhealthy as possible. She shot Fat Girl. Was it fun, Barbara? Did it warm
your icy little heart?
Not that I should be surprised. It's open season on fat people, no limits, and no restrictions. Hold on to your supersized
butts, Fat Girls, because we're the last acceptable targets for bashing, snarking, and discrimination. Maybe it's the giant
boobs, or the bouncing-across-the-television-screen bellies Barbara used for a story backdrop. Maybe it's the way we smile
when people like Barbara tell us we have beautiful eyes or beautiful hair (like we don't know what that means about the rest
of our body). Maybe it's how easy we are to dupe with a little kindness and understanding.
Fat Girls are so desperate for approval, success, and acceptance, we'll believe anything, at least for a minute. Even that
a reporter like Barbara Gwennet understands our Fat Girl pain.
Is the "naive Fat Girl" another myth I'm busting?
A year ago, I would have said
yes.
Maybe even a few months ago. But now Fat Girls are in the sights of local media, national media, newspapers, radios, blogs,
video Web sites—everywhere, all the time, it's an
obesity crisis,
an
overweight attack,
an
OMG-we 're-fatter-than-ever rampage
through worldwide pages, screens, and sound bites. We're the reason for rising health-care costs. We're the cause of riptides
and global warming. We're ruining the airline industry and wasting fuel. And now, God forbid, we're even
talking about it.
This is a personal message to Barbara Gwennet, some food for your thoughts—if indeed you have any thoughts:
1. Thin people get plenty of press. The public gets bombarded daily with pictures of concave thighs, countable vertebrae,
hollow cheeks, skull-like smiles. According to some facts and figures printed in
USA Today,
the typical starlet or cover model is around 30 percent thinner than an average, healthy woman and is likely struggling with
issues such as hypoglycemia, hair loss, and even risk of bone loss from lack of eating. Did you know a few decades back models
and stars were only 7 to 8 percent thinner than "normal" people? Wonder how that relates to our national size obsession and
"obesity epidemic"? Food for thought.
2. According to journals that study obesity, even fat people hate fat people. Everyone does. It's called "antifat bias"—what
you demonstrated yourself so perfectly, when you gave your report about me. A study by the North American Association for
the Study of Obesity found that people would rather give up a year of life than be fat. Half of thousands of people asked
in a survey agreed they would rather live a shorter amount of time thin than be fat. In fact, 15 percent said they'd give
up ten years or more of life to avoid obesity. Fat is now so horrid, so unacceptable that people would consciously choose
to die younger rather than contend with obesity. Hence the rise in and acceptance of dangerous obesity surgery for children.
Hence the brave, scary choice of Fat Boy, and all he's gone through. Food for thought.
3. It doesn't end there, Barbara. Thanks to attitudes and hypemongering reports like yours, 33 percent of people would rather
get divorced than be fat, 20 percent would rather be childless than fat, 15 percent would rather be depressed than fat, and
14 percent would even pick alcoholism over a big belly. Food for thought.
4.
Nooo,
it's still not over. In that same study of thousands, 10 percent of people polled would rather have an anorexic child than
an obese child, 8 percent would choose a child with learning problems over an obese child, and 5 percent were even willing
to sacrifice a limb or their vision rather than be fat. Thank God nobody asked them if they'd hack off their kid's leg or
arm, or put out their infant's eyes. I'd be afraid to see those answers.
What would you give up to avoid obesity, Barbara? The life of your firstborn? A toe? A leg? Come on. What's it really worth
to you? Now
that
would be some food for thought. Spell it out and I'll print it in this "fat rag" for all the poor, downtrodden skinny kids
to read. I'll make it entry one in our new competing health feature: "Ten Steps to Hypoglycemia and Hair Loss."
"Hypoglycemia and hair loss?" Principal Edmonds winces as he drops last week's
The Wire
on his desk.
He leans back in his leather office chair and folds his hands over his paunch. "A little harsh, Jamie? I don't want your manifesto
to degenerate into anorexia bashing, especially not with this ugly television news thing exploding all over the place. The
eyes of the nation are on Garwood High and your column—literally."
I grind my teeth and try to keep my mouth shut.
Principal Edmonds has been cool about the column so far, but It's mostly because he could care less about the newspaper. He'd
be just as happy if we shut down
The Wire
and let it die a quiet, anachronistic death.
But right now,
The Wire's
making news, not just reporting it, so he's stuck.
His cinderblock office is standing room only, with him behind the desk, Ms. Dax beside the desk in her best white Sunday dress,
Burke and me in chairs in front of the desk, our parents behind us, and to my left, on the small loveseat against the wall,
underneath a shelf of football trophies, Heath and Heath's dad.
Aftershave competes with perfume and leather and cleanser smells, and I wish somebody would open a window.
It's hot.
"The latest Fat Girl feature crossed the line." Ms. Dax fiddles with her bleached-blond hair. "We're sorry, Mr. Edmonds."
Enough with the hair.
And we're not sorry. I'm not, at least.
But I know better than to say that out loud. I'm Fat Girl. I'm not Suicidal, Get-Suspended Girl.
And Dax—to hell with her. She's only here because she got summoned. Otherwise, she could give a damn what Heath and I do.
All her time gets spent with the freshmen and sophomores over in the classroom section of the journalism suite, not in the
cave where the work gets done. Heath and I are responsible for the actual paper, not Ms. Dax. She primps again and acts like
her panties are in a total wad. Everyone's worried about appearances at Garwood since reporters and news vans keep swarming
the campus, and even the PTA security patrol can't keep them all out.
Heath doesn't say anything, but he's looking at me. I can feel his eyes on my cheek, my face, my shoulder. My skin tingles.
The harder I try not to notice Heath, the more I do notice him, and It's driving me over the edge. Having him in the same
room with Burke makes me feel squeezed flat, like there's not enough air left in the universe.
I should have talked to Heath by now, told him told . . . him what?
God, I have no idea what I want to tell him.
Yes, you do. You just don't have the guts.
"You ordered me to get back to the hard stuff." I glare at Heath mostly to make him look away so I can breathe, but when he
meets my gaze, I want to die twice, come back to life, and die one more time.
He slowly looks from me to Principal Edmonds. "I don't think 'Aiming' is more over the line than Jamie's other manifesto pieces,"
he says in that calm, rational-sounding voice that makes me want to scream when we're late on layout. "It's cutting edge.
We want people to get mad, think, rant. To talk and communicate about the issues. That's the whole point of 'Fat Girl Manifesto.'"
"Yeah," Burke agrees. He's decked out in new school-colors basketball shorts and a jersey, and he looks smaller, impossibly
smaller, than the last time I saw him. "People need to start a dialogue about all this. I think—"
His mother shushes him with a pinch to the shoulder.
"I don't like my son's medical issues being national news." Mr. Westin puts his hand on Burke's shoulder, too. "It was one
thing when this was a local matter, just for our school and community. The involvement of the major networks and outlets changes
everything. Fat acceptance activists are actually picketing my business."
"The school, too." Principal Edmonds gestures toward the front drive, where I know a group of fat acceptance folks are waving
GO FAT GIRL signs at an opposing group of Trim the Fat America nutcases carrying BREAK THE POISON PEN posters.
It's insane.
The only way I could turn out more protesters would be to have Freddie write a feature on gay marriage. Hmmm. Maybe I should.
We'd have Fat and Antifat and Up with Dykes and Down with Fags screaming at each other all over the place.
We'd probably get out of class for weeks, and I could go homebound and quit worrying about my damned math grade.
Mom tweaks my neck as if to say,
Leave the daydream,
honey. Reality calb.
I sigh.
Mr. Edmonds doesn't seem too upset, but then I didn't think he would be. As for me, well, all publicity is good publicity,
according to my parents. The National Feature Award people can't ignore this, even if my ACT composite sucks. They've been
mentioned about two thousand times as the "driving motivation" behind Fat Girl's diatribes, and that'll happen again tonight
when the story headlines on a CableNewsNow segment.
I can't believe Fat Girl's about to be featured on News-Now. Unreal.
"We want it over." Mrs. Westin's intense expression and sharply defined face remind me of M
&
M all rolled into one person and multiplied. "No more Fat Boy—and hopefully things will settle down." She pats Burke's shoulder.
"The surgery was good for him, and this column makes it sound like some disastrous nightmare."
"That's not true, Mrs. Westin." I lean toward her and hold out one hand, palm up, pleading. "I'm trying to show everyone how
hard it is, how strong Burke has had to be to choose bariatric surgery. It's not an easy way out."
"Well, we have an easy way out of this media mess, at least." Mr. Westin doesn't sound mean, just final and determined. "There
will be no more articles about my son."
"Dad, I don't mind. I like being a star." Burke grins at me as if to say I
like being your star.
I know I'm supposed to smile back, so 1 do, but my lips might as well be made out of wood.
Heath doesn't miss Burke's look or my stupid smile. His expression remains exactly the same, but something dark and unhappy
flashes through his blue eyes.
I so feel like a tennis spectator, bouncing back and forth between the two of them. I feel like a shit, too, even though I
haven't done anything wrong.
Yet.
"Jamie needs to bring the story to some sort of reasonable resolution," Mom, who is for once not in her home clothes but work
clothes instead, speaks up for the first time. "All the mail and phone calls—students want to know how Burke's doing. I can't
imagine leaving it all unfinished. At least settle the series on a positive note."
Dad, in his delivery uniform, mutters his agreement, and Burke and Heath chime in that they agree. The office door rattles,
and I imagine Freddie and NoNo, ears to the keyhole, about to spill inside and shout, "Yes, yes!" to make the whole debacle
complete.
Principal Edmonds presses his index fingers into his lips for a moment, then turns his attention to the Westins.
"I believe the students and the Carcaterras have a point, that it would be beneficial to have some closure. Will you agree
to a wrap-up feature about Burke's progress, if you get right of approval?"
"I don't see the point," Mr. Westin says. "It will just be more fodder for these reporters and gossip rags."
"They haven't gotten to see the new me yet." Burke pulls away from his parents and stands. He gestures to his shrinking gut,
his whole shrinking body. "I want my success to get some play I'm coming back to school after Thanksgiving. Give Jamie one
more article, so everybody knows I'm well and healthier now."
When his parents don't respond, Burke says, "She needs this. Her scholarship portfolio's mailed, but the judges will still
be watching." He gives me a sweet look, then turns back to his parents all serious again, with, "I need it, too. The truth
in print. Please?"
He's trying to be my hero. He's always been my hero.
Against my will, my eyes move from Burke to Heath. Heath and his dad both seem so quiet and reserved, like they're a notch
above everything happening in Principal Edmonds's office.
Snobs?
But Heath isn't a snob. Is he?
More like shy, in his own way.
The Westins agree to the final Fat Boy Chronicle with lots of conditions—things I can and can't mention—and I've got to get
it done pronto, like right after this meeting, for their approval. My parents agree, and Ms. Dax gives her consent, too.
Heath looks pleased. His dad looks blank and disinterested.
Maybe Heath Sr.
is
a snob.
Principal Edmonds dismisses everyone under the age of eighteen, keeping the parents to "iron out a few more details" of how
Garwood will respond to my little storm of media attention. We've gotten calls from big news shows and at least two talk shows,
but so far we're saying
no, no, no way.
I don't want to do any television interviews or talk shows or recorded anything.
I don't trust any reporters now, for any reason. If I talk to anybody, it'll be print media, and I'll have approval rights,
just like the Westins.
Burke leads the way out of the office, and we nearly trample on Freddie and NoNo. They aren't listening at the door, but they
probably were before Principal Edmonds told us to leave.
The two of them crowd against Burke, Heath, and me, demanding to know everything that happened.
We scoot them out of the main office foyer into the hallway, where at last, at last, I can breathe. The doors are propped
open, and a cool breeze swirls down the hallway. Everyone else is in class, so for the moment at least the hall is our private
domain.
Burke says, "Jamie gets to do a Fat Boy wrap-up."
Freddie's eager smile turns huge. "And after that?"
Heath shrugs. "After that, 'Fat Girl Manifesto' continues. Nobody said we had to stop."
"Yesssss."
NoNo raises one scrawny, dye-free arm like she does when she's leading protest chants. "Victory for the people."
Burke puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him. "That's my girl. My movie-star babe."
I feel stiff touching him, even though I don't want to, and I keep looking at Heath, who keeps looking at me.
Heath's eyes blaze, but his voice is quiet when he asks, "You coming to the cave to work on next week's layout, Jamie?"
He's been doing it alone for, what, three weeks now? I'm letting him down. Okay, I'm totally chickening out, but I can't go.
Can't be alone with him. For lots of reasons.
"Freddie and I promised to help NoNo with some protest rally fliers, and my parents have me on lock-down because of the television
stuff." I omit that we're meeting at Burke's to do NoNo's fliers. Don't want to say it, to see that flicker of discomfort
in Heath's eyes again.
"Okay." Heath stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets, lingers long enough to give me another brief once-over, nods at all
of us, and drifts away, Heath style. He heads down the main hall, toward the exit that leads to the journalism suite. The
way he moves, so quiet and fluid, like liquid flowing downhill, makes me wonder if I imagined he was just standing here with
us.
I'm still staring in Heath's direction when Burke says, "Aw, man, I forgot all about that flier stuff. I've got a group meeting
tonight."
Freddie, NoNo, and I give him a look.
"Group meeting?" Freddie says slowly, and at least I know she's as surprised as I am.
"GBS." He points to his belly. "Gastric Bypass Support. It meets Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Mom and my sisters are making
me go. But you guys can still hang at my place and use the kitchen.
I'll
be back home before you're finished."
GBS group three nights a week.
Well, whatever. Football took more time than that.
Only, I wasn't jealous of football.
Why do I feel jealous of time Burke's going to spend at group meetings?
With other people like him, losing weight fast. Probably girls. Probably a lot more girls than boys, judging by male versus
female stats on weight-loss surgery.
Bring those curves down to a manageable level, Jamie... yeah.
My teeth click together as f remember that comment.
And
you're worrying about curves and weight loss and Burke with other
girls while
you're
busy wishing you could go hang with Heath on
a late night "for the newspaper."
You're so going to hell, Jamie Carcaterra.
Our parents finally make their exit from Principal Edmonds's lair. Heath's father drifts silently down the hall just like
Heath did, and I can't help watching him, can't help thinking about Heath and wondering more about his life. I really don't
know a lot about the boy, wonky taste in music and old-fashioned graphic design skills aside.
Bits and pieces, like the stuff we talked about that night under the drafting table.
Everything about Heath seems as liquid and hard to grasp as the way he moves. Just... flowing right through my fingers and
slipping away.
As the Westins and my folks say hello to Freddie and NoNo, Burke asks me if he can borrow a few bucks. He looks toward the
end of the hallway, to the vending machines.
"I don't have any money, sorry." I pat his shoulder. It's the truth, but I don't think I'd loan it to him even if I was flush.
Burke looks disappointed, but shifts quickly to a muscle pose. "You'll get good pictures for my final feature, right?"
Freddie glances in our direction and groans. NoNo laughs.
I sigh. "Yes, Mr. America. We'll get some major buff shots."
"Ones that really show how much I've lost?" Burke sounds anxious—like actually worried. Hall lights reflect off his bald head,
and his entire body seems slick and shiny. "Because sometimes it doesn't show on film unless the angle's exactly right."
"It won't be hard." I pull his arm down out of his magazine model pose and hold onto it, then make myself kiss him on the
cheek. His skin is soft and stubbly all at the same time. "Your weight loss is so obvious now. People will see it."
