Authors: Susan Vaught
Big Fat Manifesto (7 page)
Sweat coats my face and neck, and I think about how I'll shine and look pale next to pancake-Lois, but oh well.
Lois thrusts the microphone forward. "Can you repeat what you just said?"
I clear my throat. "Yes," I enunciate in my stage voice, "I'm Jamie Carcaterra, aka Fat Girl."
"Fat Girl, can you tell me the real motivations behind the provocative column you're writing for Garwood's school newspaper,
The Wire?"
Lois beams after her question. It's enough to blind a person, the way the sun blazes off her whitened teeth.
Her question and the mouth-glare catch me off guard, so much so that I don't know what to say. "Uh..." comes out clearly,
as well as "I—well..."
Heath steps up beside me in a hurry. "I'm Heath Mon-tel, editor-in-chief. Jamie's writing Fat Girl so people know what it's
really like being overweight in today's society."
Lois gives him a look that says,
Okay, thanks. Now move.
I recognize it, because I've used that look many times myself.
Ever polite, Heath fades back without being asked out loud.
"Ms. Carcaterra, by medical definitions, would you consider yourself overweight or obese?" Lois asks without skipping a beat.
"Morbidly obese?"
"I... don't really like clinical terms and distinctions. I'll just stick with fat, thanks." I work up a first-class stage
smile, one I hope looks decent on camera.
God, I wish Burke and Freddie and NoNo would show up.
Lois moves in a little closer. "Are you affiliated with the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance that you mentioned
in your first column?"
Quick search of the growing crowd. Still no Freddie or NoNo in sight. "No, but they have a lot of great articles and resources
on their Web site."
"Why did you choose a column name and a term that most children use to poke fun at overweight females?" Lois's tone gets more
strident. "Was that a political statement?"
"No," I say honestly. Then, "Yes. The fat part, but not the girl part, or the whole fat-girl name. It's just what I am. I'm
a Fat Girl. I wanted to put the words into print."
Lois blinks like she's not following me.
Freddie so needs to steal this bitch's job.
Whip-fast, Lois's voice switches from confrontational to sweetly sympathetic. "You must have suffered terribly from teasing
and bullying due to your size. Is that why you're so angry?"
I'm angry?
The sun seems hotter across my cheeks, and I fidget in my Diana's skirt and blouse, one of my best, a silky brown with tribal
prints woven across the belly, arms, and waist.
I'm angry right now? Am I?
I shrug. "If I'm mad right this second, it's because you're asking questions that don't make sense. And actually, no, I haven't
been teased or bullied much at school. I have good friends. People seem to like me. I'm usually the one doing all the teasing—and
the bullying, too."
"You admit you're the bully. I see." Back to confrontational now. "Are you biased against thinness and thin people? Did that
bias motivate your sneak attack on the Hotchix clothing chain, because they serve primarily normal-sized teens?"
"Sneak attack?" Who
is
this chick? Has she been bribed by the fashion industry or something?
Beside me, Heath steps forward again. I glance at his way-red face as he pushes his hair out of his eyes and says, "Hey, lady,
you know what you can do with your attitude and your—"
I take hold of his arm to cut him off. After letting him go, taking a second to calm myself, spending another second wondering
how red my own face has turned and estimating how brightly my sweat is glowing on camera, I respond with, "Can you define
normal for me? Because—"
"I read your column on vanity sizing, Fat Girl," the reporter interrupts. Her voice gets louder, even more forceful, and a
little sarcastic. "Tell the truth now. Isn't that just another cop-out to avoid limiting your diet and increasing your exercise?"
My smile goes cold. I feel it, and I don't care. Fine. She wants Fat Girl, then it's Fat Girl she'll get. "That's a first-class
boundary violation. You have as much right to ask about my diet and exercise as I have to ask why you got ass fat injected
into your lips. Care to share?"
Lois looks flapped. Before she can open her enhanced mouth again, I add, "Did you see Freddie's cable piece on Garwood's channel?
I'd say I was the one who was attacked at Hotchix. How fair is it that larger teens have to buy clothes from expensive specialty
stores—stores that target older women who enjoy looking like fruit?"
This time the poofy lips say, "Is it true your boyfriend Burke Westin, one of our local football stars, is about to have gastric
bypass surgery?" Lois-Lane-from-hell looks directly at the camera. "A very controversial procedure for teens."
That question yanks my words away again, and 1 suddenly hate the reporter even more than I was already hating her. Tears pop
into my eyes. A hundred responses fly through my mind, each nastier than the last, but my chest gets so tight I can barely
say, "Yes."
Eyes glittering with triumph, she moves in for the kill. "What are your feelings about Burke's potentially tragic choice?"
When I don't answer, when my hands start shaking, Heath's hand clamps on my shoulder. "Read her column and find out like everybody
else," he says, loud enough to get the attention of one of the teacher-chaperones as she drifts close enough to hear. "Come
on, Jamie."
Commotion.
People talk louder and louder, but I'm not processing as Heath forcefully moves me away from the reporter.
The chaperone takes over behind us, insisting that Lois and her crew back off.
I hear the principal's name, and something about harassing students, and police.
We get a few yards away, then a few more, toward the visitor field house the senior girls have been using to change clothes.
Tears spill down my cheeks. Near the goal post, I pull back from Heath's firm grip and double over, trying not to puke many-times-reprocessed
juice. He drops to one knee beside me and keeps one hand on my back.
I hear giggling from the field house.
The hand moves. Then it comes back.
"You okay?" he asks quietly. "Want to go hide out in the journalism room?"
I shake my head.
Freddie's voice rises over the low rumble of chatter and more giggling from the field house. "What the hell happened, Jamie?
Hey, Jamie!"
By the time I stand up, Heath has faded into the crowd before I can even thank him. I squint, trying to pick out his blond
head, but no luck. Then Freddie and NoNo surround me, Burke grabs me and holds me tight.
For a few seconds I float away and breathe in that scent I love, and enjoy how strong and powerful he is.
At least for now.
5oon
I won't fit in his arms. He'll get small, and I'll be so big I
won't fit right here against him, where I belong.
Both of my hands slide up to his chest, and I push back from him before I break out sobbing like a complete idiot.
He looks so handsome in his three-piece suit and tie, required for his football picture. I'm glad the coach let him take a
medical out instead of academically disqualifying him, so he could still be in the picture and do stuff with the team.
"Want me to bust somebody up, baby?" he asks, totally serious. "Because I will. You just point the way."
He flexes his fingers and makes fists, probably without even realizing what he's doing. And once more, I'm aware that seemingly
the whole senior class has gathered around us to stare.
Okay, I might have been a ghost once upon a time. Maybe they didn't really notice me past my bylines or my stage roles. Maybe
they didn't pay that much attention to me or my friends or my size, or whatever.
But they're damn sure noticing Fat Girl now.
I'm not liking it much. Not this way.
It takes Freddie a few minutes to insult them all enough that they go away. NoNo chats with the teacher-chaperone, giving
quick-witted reassurances and urging the teacher to "man the perimeter" to make sure the reporters don't come back.
Guess she's been to enough protests to know the strategies.
Sometimes NoNo really surprises me.
I wait for everybody to gather close again. Then, clutching Burke's hand for support, I tell my friends what happened.
Without crying. Getting madder as I talk.
NoNo mentions the word
lawsuit
once, but Freddie mentions it twice, along with volunteering to help Burke bust somebody up.
When I get to the part about Burke's surgery, though, he grimaces.
My heart bumps against my ribs as I study his pained expression. "What?"
"Nothing, really." He lets go of my hand. "I guess it doesn't matter if all of Garwood knows I'm having the surgery. With
The Wire, it's not like it was some big secret. It's just... television feels different."
Hot waves of shame wash through me. I reach for his hand and snatch it back to me. "I didn't even think about your privacy.
I'm so sorry!"
"Don't be." He squeezes my fingers. "If I can't hold my head up in public about it, I shouldn't do it, right?"
"Can you hold your head up in public about it?" Freddie's tone is hopeful, but she can't see that fanatic gleam inching back
into Burke's eyes.
"Not a problem." This time, he kisses my hand.
Freddie blows out a loud breath. Her face shifts from hopeful to resigned to best-friends-till-the-end. "Okay, then. I guess
that's settled."
NoNo nods, her eyes roving around us as if she's expecting an army of Lois Lanes and cameras.
That's settled.
Yeah, right.
It's anything but settled for me, but what am I supposed to say?
A hug, some warmth, some looo-oove. What I feel, everything
I feel, so I don't have any regrets.
God
I hate this!
But Burke...
I scoot closer to him, lean my head against his shoulder, where, for now, I still fit.
"I love you," I whisper.
He says he loves me too, but when I close my eyes, all I see is that gleam in his eyes.
REGULAR FEATURE
for publication Friday, September 14
Fat Boy Chronicles II
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
I have a few things to say to the investigative reporter from one of Garwood's news channels who ran that insulting piece
on me two days ago. First, please feel free to eat my pink, size 5X, cheeky, stretchy, lacy undershorts. Second, you edited
that piece to make me look like a thin-hating axe murderer. Third, you're an unethical sensationalist wench, and one day Frederica
Acosta will take your job.
Now forget you.
The purpose of this piece is to tell all of you what Fat Boy is about to go through, so you'll get those positive thoughts
flowing.
Some of the stuff is standard hospital crap. No food or drink after midnight, arrive at the hospital at an ungodly early hour
so you can sit around and wait, put on an embarrassing ass-flashing cloth gown with broken snaps and two laces that aren't
long enough to tie, and wait for the anesthesiologist to knock you into next week with a shot and some very stiff gas.
Once they get Fat Boy into the operating room, they'll slice his abdomen in several places, stick in some tubes, and pump
him full of gas. That's so the surgeon can see what he's doing.
After turning Fat Boy into Fat Gas Boy, the surgeon pokes a teeny lighted camera and little surgical tools through those slice
holes, and watches what he's doing on a computer monitor.
Are you sicked out yet?
Keep reading.
The surgeon will then proceed to staple Fat Boy's gut together to make a pouch at the top, which at first will hold about
two tablespoons of food or liquid. Eventually, it'll stretch out to hold about one cup. Think about that tonight while you're
ramming down the typical four to six cups of chow.
After that gross-iosity, the surgeon will snip open a piece of Fat Boy's small intestine and hook it up to his newly stapled
stomach pouch. Everything will now bypass the bottom of the stomach and the top of the small intestine—that's where
bypass
surgery gets its name. Yum.
Fat Boy, assuming he's still alive and having no other major problems that require bigger cutting, will get stitched or stapled.
Then he'll get shoved out to the recovery room and shot full of pain medication, which will make him Legally Stoned Boy. Perhaps
the only redeeming moment of this whole nightmarish experience. At least until they yank him out of bed and make him march
around to prevent nastiness like blood clots in the legs.
For one to two days, no matter how much he marches or begs, he'll get no food or liquids.
Then he'll get liquids. Milk, broth, maybe juice, and maybe if he's very, very lucky, cooked cereal. This lasts two to three
days.
He'll graduate to gelatin, then pureed food—
for a month.
Delish, yes? And so it goes. He'll have no idea what he can tolerate, or how much. He'll have no idea what he still likes
or doesn't like. He won't ever eat an entire pizza again. No megasized milkshakes or large fries with that, or vats of chili
on homecoming night. He'll even be giving up his very favorite meal: the Bag'o'burgers from Hotstop Grill.
All of these delights, Fat Boy surrenders—not just now, but forever.
So, like I told you, send positive thoughts to Fat Boy, and do it now.
My eyes rocket open, and I sit up in bed.
Did I oversleep?
Christ, did I miss Burke's surgery?
But the glowing green clock display says 2:00 AM. I've only been asleep for a few hours. My breathing slows down, and I rub
my tight chest. It's still two hours before I need to shower, but I figure what the hell and get up. No sense trying to sleep.
I'm wired and fired like I could run ten miles, if my boobs wouldn't give me black eyes the second I tried.
After my shower, I put on one of my dad's old robes and sit in the kitchen, as far from Mom's piles of junk as I can get,
and work my way through a whole pot of instant coffee by myself. With each hot, bitter sip, I think about Burke. I wonder
if he's sleeping. If he's scared.
Maybe he needs me. Maybe I should call?
But if M
&
M stayed over...
They probably did.
So if I call Burke and they hear his cell ring they'll throw a giant bitch-fit about how he needs his rest before surgery,
and make his morning miserable.
I go back to my coffee and make some bacon and biscuits, and finally a couple of boiled eggs. By the time Mom staggers in
for her morning snack, I'm dressed, the second pot of coffee's already brewed, and I'm polishing off some half-stale donut
holes Dad's probably counting on for his breakfast.
Mom mumbles something that sounds like, "Up early."
When I nod, she grunts, sucks down the touch of coffee she likes with her cream, and stumbles back out to get dressed. She
wanted to drive me to the hospital this morning instead of Freddie, but I don't know why. I hope she doesn't surprise me with
I
took the day off to support you,
or something equally sweet but crazy-making.
The whole time she's digging for her keys, I go back and forth between worrying about Burke and sweating Mom's motives. Then
I start glancing at my watch, because it's closer and closer to the time, and I do
not
want to be late.
She finally locates the damned keys under a pile of magazines beside her kitchen chair. "Knew they were around here somewhere."
Yeah, like five hundred other things we've lost in stack-hell.
But I smile and wish I'd thought to buy snacks to take along with my notebook, pens, pencils, phone, and the book of Yeats
poetry I need to finish for English. At least I did stuff a few diet soft drinks in my pack, in case the hospital machines
run out.
Mom gets the car started in record time, and we leave our driveway in the weird, gray light before sunrise. If Burke has to
be at the hospital at 5:00 AM, so do I—M
&
M or no. Mona and Marlene will just have to get a grip. They aren't scaring me away from my guy when he most needs my support,
even if I'd rather die than watch him get rolled away on a surgical gurney, bound for a gut stapling.
It's his decision.
That's my latest phrase.
It's not for me to judge, or rant or flip out or beg. It's his body.
It's his decision.
Mom's asking me if I've got money for meals, and I'm nodding, barely listening.
It's his decision.
That's a hard argument, though. I mean, if you're a couple, if you've been together and you're tight, shouldn't one half of
the couple have a say in what happens to the other half? Do people have to be married for that rule to kick in? Would I feel
this way if I was the one having the surgery?
It's his decision.
"...
angry with us?" The tail-end of Mom's question drifts through the car like the ever-present smell of rust and old fabric.
She turns onto the road heading for the hospital. Rain starts to spatter against the streaked windshield, turning oncoming
headlights into kaleidoscopes.
"What?" I ask, trying my best to remember what she might have said before the angry part. "Why would I be mad at you?"
Mom sighs. "You're a million miles away. I'm sorry this is so stressful."
All I can do is blink at her.
"I asked if you're angry because Dad and I haven't ever considered this surgery for us, or for you." Mom guides the car into
the hospital parking lot and up to the front entrance, which will be unlocked, per Burke's paperwork, right at 5:00 AM, the
hour he's due to arrive. A small crowd mills in front of the door, probably today's surgery patients, and pathetic people
like me, scared to death they'll lose everything that matters.
I squint, but I don't see Burke or his family.
"Never figured weight-loss surgery was an option for any of us," I mutter to Mom, scanning the crowd for Burke, his parents,
and his evil older sisters.
The
we can't afford bariatric procedures
part of that thought goes unsaid.
Mom's fingers tap against the steering wheel. "Dad's asked for a copy of the policy his company bought, just to be sure, but
he doesn't think it's covered by the benefits."
My head swivels toward Mom like I have no control of my own neck.
She's gazing straight out the rain-streaked windshield, tapping her fingers. Her gray hair falls against her broad shoulders.
I think she's wearing Dad's home clothes, because her black sweats look a few sizes too big for her.
What she said, about the policy... my mind combs over the words, trying to make sense of them. Something inside me shifts
left, then right, and my head throbs like my brain's expanding. "So you're saying bariatric surgery . . .
might
be covered by Dad's insurance?"
Mom swallows hard. Her face looks pinched in the rainy gray dawn and parking lot lamps. "Maybe. Eighty percent of it, anyway.
The other twenty percent, we'd have to pay ourselves."
"Oh."
Pop
goes the expanding brain.
"Jamie, if you want to do this, we'll find a way." Mom finally looks at me. Her expression tightens, turns desperate as she
lets go of the wheel and clenches her hands. "I don't want you to go through life unhappy with yourself like I have, and Dad.
We didn't even realize kids could have this operation. If we had—"
"Mom!" I raise both my hands and almost choke to death on the sudden lump in my throat. "I don't know if I'd do it, even if
the insurance will pay, okay?"
In my mind, Fat Girl snaps,
Wlw says I'm unhappy with
myself?
Ami?
Brain expanding...
Head throbbing...
I mean, yes, I've admitted I'd love to be magically thin, but this way? From a surgery that could kill me, that no one even
knows the long-term consequences of?
Dad's insurance might pay. If I want to try this, maybe I can.
Mom's nodding. She gives me a lame, trembling smile, then a kiss on the cheek. "I wanted you to know we're checking things
out. We'll do whatever we can."
When I get out of the car, my legs shake. My head feels too big and heavy for my neck, but I shoulder my pack, stuff my hands
into my skirt pockets, and try to breathe as I walk toward the hospital's front entrance.
Today's for Burke. I need to remember that and support him, and take good notes for Fat Girl.
But if I want this surgery for myself maybe I can have it.
The front doors open, and the crowd surges inside, leaving me behind.
I think I see Burke and his family now, so I walk faster.
By the time I get inside, people have scattered, following colored lines on the floor to different areas. Remembering Burke's
instructions, I follow orange, for surgery. Rainy, wet smells give way to cool, canned air and that antiseptic, alcohol scent.
There's a touch of pine, too, probably from floor wax, since every white tile shines like glass.
Two gleaming hallways later, I enter the auditorium-sized surgical admissions area, and find Burke standing by the long wooden
front desk with his family. He's wearing jeans and his football jersey, and he's got his arms folded across his chest like
he does when he's nervous. The sight of him makes my stomach clench. Somehow, in this huge room Burke seems smaller than he
should be, like a little boy instead of big man. I want to hug him. I want to grab him and shake him and talk him out of this.
But his mom and dad are signing things, and M
&
M hover like bees around everyone else, buzzing at each other.
They see me, and the buzzing gets louder and more ominous.
When Burke spots me, he breaks into a big grin, unfolds his arms, then holds them out to hug me.
Seconds later, my face presses into his shoulder and I take a deep breath, savoring his sandalwood-leather guy smell. His
strong arms tighten around me, and I hug him back hard, hard, harder, trying not to think
what if this is
the last time?
But I think it over and over and hold my breath to keep from crying. I'm still shaking from what Mom said and seeing Burke
look so tiny in the big room, and because I'm half-scared of M
&
M no matter how I act to everyone else.
"Everything's gonna be fine," Burke whispers in my ear, and his low, sexy voice gives me shivers. He kisses the top of my
head and pulls back until he can see me. "You know that, right?"
"Sure," I lie, and somehow keep the tears back. My heart's pounding, thumping, hurting. I so don't want any of this to happen.
But what can I do? Everything I think of is so selfish and stupid.
It's his decision. It really
is his
decision.
"By noon this'll all be over, and I'll be stoned out in recovery." Burke leans down and brushes his lips against mine. His
big hands grip my arms gently, and I love how they feel. "Then I'll be in my room, and you'll be there with me, okay?"
All I can do is nod, which Burke takes to mean I believe him, because he's Burke, and a guy, and guys can be so totally stupid
sometimes. Especially about important things. He lets me go after another quick kiss.
M
&
M mutter louder and head toward us, matching frowns decorating their perfect, thin faces. They both have on suits. Mona, brown,
and Marlene, forest green. Compared to my family, they look streamlined and modern. Twice as mean, too.
I go stiff and plan my verbal defense, as much as I can with these two.
"Hey,"
Freddie's voice rises from behind me and fills the space around us. M
&
M pull up short and actually smile toward the door, where I assume Freddie and NoNo have entered. So not fair. M
&
M
like
Freddie and NoNo. I guess because they aren't dating Burke.
Freddie and NoNo look streamlined and modern today, too, with Freddie in a sharp lavender skirt and blouse and NoNo in khakis
with a form-fitting T-shirt. Only I'm un-streamlined, un-modern, in my flouncy blue broom skirt and flowing white blouse,
with my hair loose and messy like Mom's.
Burke's parents join us, and everyone's talking but me.
Why can't I talk?
Why can't I chatter and smile and act like this is just peachy? I
need
to. I really do.
But there's a nurse with a chart standing at the desk, and she's calling Burke's name, and taking him, leading him away. He's
waving.
No.
The nurse directs us toward the surgical waiting room down the hall, and Freddie and NoNo tug at my arms, and I'm trying to
smile at Burke and blow him kisses and say something, like
I love you,
or
be safe,
or
be well,
or
please
GOD
don't do this,
but I can't, and all I really want to do is scream.
No. No!
I don't want to watch the doors close behind him. But I watch. Not listen to M
&
M talk about how wonderful this will be, or Burke's mom the nurse worrying that they won't have compression hose to fit Burke's
legs so he might be at more risk for clots and all the other technical medical stuff she obsesses about. But I listen. And
then I walk, numb and quiet, trying to hold Burke's big grinning image in my mind, ignoring the shiny hallway all the way
to the waiting area.
The
family
waiting area, M
&
M point out, but Freddie and Burke's mom say something to them about promises they made to Burke, and they chill, at least
a little bit.
The waiting room's almost as big as the surgery admissions room, only there's light brown carpet and light brown chairs, and
tribal-looking prints on all the walls. A nurse sits at a desk reading, and beside her there's a phone for the doctors and
surgical nurses to call with reports or to tell families about problems. My eyes steer away from the phone.
It won't ring for Burke-problems. It'll just ring around noon, to tell us he's through.
This room smells like antiseptic, too, only with an overlay of sweat and perfume and aftershave and the coppery, tense scent
of raw nerves. The lamp lights are soft, and probably meant to be soothing, like the subdued colors and the scattered bunches
of magazines on end tables.
I'm not soothed.
When I look at the clock, it's 6:00 AM. TWO hours until the surgery begins.
I sit a few chairs away from everyone else, pop open a diet soda, and take my notebook out of my pack. The blank pages seem
to stare at me, and no matter how much pen tapping I do, I don't have that flash of inspiration I need to start a column.
My eyes drift to the clock. 6:15... 6:20... 6:31.
Freddie's talking to M
&
M about college choices, and I can't help listening. They're pushing her to go for law as a first major instead of mass communications.
"Once you get to law school, you could specialize in communications law or even intellectual properties." Marlene waves a
hand like the matter's settled. "Law will pay the bills, honey. Everything else can be a hobby."
"I'm thinking about environmental law," NoNo says with her gaze on the ceiling, like she's counting the panels, or assessing
whether or not they're energy efficient.
"So it's law now?" I ask, surprised. "I thought you were fixed on conservation and ecology."
NoNo nods. "That too. I want to keep my options open."
