The Fat Lady Sings (6 page)

"We can have auditions as soon as Aggie gives us a script," says Elliot, "or even part of a script."

It's been a week and a half since
Wicked,
and I've barely done any homework that whole time. I've been writing and rewriting and editing and writing some more. If I were at Mom's house my floor would be ankle-deep in discarded pages -- Mom never comes into my room, so what does she care. But Mom wanted to "switch weeks" this week. She does that sometimes when she "just doesn't have enough energy" for me -- it's so nice to be loved. So I've been at Dad's this whole time. There it's a little different, because the house is decorated within an inch of its life (surprise, surprise) and no room is exempt from Karl's obsessive cleanliness. In the end I didn't use any of my first draft, but now I have about fifty pages of script. I'm not completely satisfied with it, but it does feel like it might be on its way to becoming a show.

Even though it's not always laugh-out-loud funny, I think it is a comedy now -- though there are certainly poignant moments, too. Poignant, but not melodramatic, I hope. It turns out that by making Aggie and the cheerleader friends (yes, I named the main character after myself -- lame, I know, especially since I hate my name), I'm no longer attacking the issue of Aggie's insecurity about her weight head-on -- which is what got me in trouble before with that over-the-top speech in the lunch room. I'm not avoiding the issue, I'm just approaching it more obliquely, allowing it to slip out in a series of songs and scenes and even in Aggie's big monologue when Suzy (she's the skinny cheerleader friend) takes Aggie to the spa for the day. I'm hoping this speech is now less Tennessee Williams and more Christopher Durang. (Can you tell from that last paragraph that I've been working on my SAT vocabulary? Poignant. Oblique. Pretty good, I think.)

"I've gotten a lot written," I say. "The problem is I still don't have a real story -- just this series of moments in the friendship between the prom queen and the fat girl."

"So what if there's no story," says Cameron. "
Company
doesn't have a story. Why not take a risk? Make it a concept musical."

"Yeah," says Elliot, "a concept musical."

"A concept musical?" I say, doubtfully. "Are you comparing me to Stephen Sondheim?"

"If you're gonna steal an idea," says Cameron, "you might as well steal from the best."

"Look," says Elliot, "why don't you just give us what you've got and we'll start to work. You can always make changes if you need to, but we have to start somewhere." Elliot is now calling himself the "producer" of this as-yet-unnamed extravaganza. Cameron is lyricist and director; Suzanne is designer and technical director, and I am playwright and star.

"OK," I say, pulling a sheaf of papers out of my bag and handing them to Eliot. "But this time I don't want to be around when you read it."

"Fair enough," says Elliot, taking the script.

I almost don't let go -- it feels like I'm giving up a baby or something, or at least handing over my private diary, and I hold on a little harder than I mean to so that Elliot sort of has to yank the thing out of my hand.

"I'm not sure I have everything in the best order," I say. "And you can cut anything of mine, but we've got to use Cameron's songs."

Cameron has already written three numbers: "It Sucks to be Fat," to the tune of "It Sucks to be Me" from
Avenue Q;
"Defying Gravity," rewritten from
Wicked
into a victory anthem for the fat heroine who triumphs over her low self-esteem; and my favorite, "Blubber," to the tune of "Trouble" from
The Music Man.
If you ask me, that one's freaking brilliant.

The next day after third period
I head out to the props trailer. I'm pretty nervous, because I know by now Elliot, Cameron, and Suzanne have all read the script and I'm not sure how I will handle it if they don't like it. Suddenly this idea -- writing a script, putting on a show, defying Mr. Parkinson and the theatre department and the school and Cynthia Pirelli -- has become my whole life. If it doesn't work -- well, I try not to think about how that would feel.

I open the door and step into the trailer, and the three of them are sitting on the sofa with these serious looks on their faces, like they're the judges on
American Idol
or something. I don't quite know what to say, so I just stand there for a second, bracing myself for the punch in the gut I'm afraid is coming.

Then Elliot stands up and holds up a bottle of Coke and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you future Tony Award winner Miss Agatha Stockdale!" And Suzanne and Cameron stand up and start clapping and Elliot puts his arms around me and I just fall into his hug limp with relief. They liked it. They really liked it.

"I tell you," says Elliot, "Jewish immigrants have
Fiddler on the Roof,
the descendants of slaves have
The Color Purple,
Hispanics have
In the Heights
-- "

"And half of
West Side Story,
" says Cameron.

"And now," says Elliot, "fat people are gonna have -- whatever the hell we decide to call this masterpiece."

"To the fat people," says Cameron, raising his Coke and winking at me.

"To the fat people," says Suzanne, and they all three clink bottles and then grab me in a massive group hug, and life just couldn't possibly get any better.

Then I find out I'm failing math, I hear a rumor that Cynthia Pirelli has a crush on Roger Morton, I realize I still have to write most of the second act, and I remember I have an audition tomorrow and I haven't even started learning my monologue. And once again, it sucks to be me.

Scene 5
I had imagined the School of the Arts
audition being held on an empty stage in a cavernous theatre, where I would stride with purpose to the apron, say my name, and then act the hell out of my two monologues into the darkness. Instead, I'm sitting on a plastic chair in a fluorescent-lit hallway outside an ordinary classroom. I got a peek in when the last girl came out looking like she was going to throw up, and there are four people sitting at a table about three feet from where you have to act, and there is no darkness to hide them. Crap!

Here's the deal with me and college -- Mom has no money at all; Dad and Karl make a decent living, but they thought it was more important to send me to a good middle and high school, so they spent a lot of savings on Piedmont Day. So even with their help I'll need some sort of scholarship to go to Carnegie Mellon or Northwestern. But the School of the Arts is public, and it's in-state, which means we could afford it no problem. Plus their drama program is one of the best. Terence Mann went there, and he was the Beast on Broadway, and Javert. So I'm not exactly putting all my eggs in one basket, as Miss O'Brien so annoyingly calls it, but this audition is a BIG DEAL. If I nail this, my dream isn't just alive, it's kicking ass. If I screw it up -- well, I don't even want to think about that right now.

The door opens and closes again, and another girl who looks like she's gonna puke staggers out and they call out another name that's not mine. I wish Elliot could have waited in here with me. He drove me over to Winston-Salem because Dad was working and Karl was on call, but only auditioners are allowed in the green room (they actually call it that, even though it's not a room and it's not green). Elliot would at least take my mind off my impending doom. He'd think of something to say that would dissolve, for a few minutes anyway, the rock in my stomach. Elliot is like that -- he's brilliant and cool and everything, but when you really need him, even if you're a fat girl who's failing math, he's just a regular guy who'll hold your hand and talk to you and make you feel better. Only now he's probably pacing the parking lot, and the thought that he's stuck out there waiting for me with no idea what's going on makes me more nervous instead of less. And the door bangs again, the sick looking kid (a guy this time) walks out, and not-my-name is called.

On top of everything else I'm taking a gigantic risk with both my monologues. You have to have one classical and one contemporary, and the classical one was Mr. Parkinson's idea -- this is back when he was my friend and mentor and before he became the devil incarnate, or at least bewitched by the demon of artificial cleavage.

"You don't think it'll make me look like an idiot?" I asked him.

"It'll make you look bold," he said.

God, I hope he's right. If there's one thing I don't feel right now, it's bold. And then there's my contemporary monologue. That I can't blame on Mr. Parkinson. That one is all my fault. Mr. Parkinson gave me like six to choose from -- I can't even remember where they were all from now. One was from
Love Letters,
I know, because I liked that one. It was Melissa as a teenager after she gets sent away to boarding school and hates it. I understood. But I let them all languish on my desk while I worked on this stupid unnamed play and in the end I decided -- oh, crap -- door opening again, very sick looking kid this time (honestly not sure if it's a boy or a girl).

"Agatha Stockdale."

Crap.

There they sit. Four total strangers who hold my life in their hands. My eyes are watering and I can hardly see them, which is a good thing, but I'm also twice the size of anyone else they've seen this morning, and standing there in front of them like some sort of animal being inspected, I'm suddenly hit by the futility of trying to be a fat actress. Sure there's an occasional Roseanne or Rosie who gets to play the cynic or the best girlfriend, but who wants to plunk down $100 for a Broadway ticket to see some fat chick? Not me, that's for sure. And yet here I am, fat Aggie, foolishly auditioning for one of the best acting schools in the country just so I can get my heart broken. Again.

"When you're ready you can begin with your classical piece," says a voice.

When I'm ready! I'll never be ready. So I swallow hard, stare at a smudge on the wall just above the firing squad, picture a field in France, and begin.
This day is called the feast of Crispin.
He who outlives this day and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named...

The good news is that as I put myself on that field in France, rousing a tiny band of Englishmen to go into battle against a great French army, the room fades away. Mr. Parkinson taught me this. He worked this monologue with me every day after school for a month until I could completely disappear into it. And now instead of the faces of my executioners, I see the faces of Bedford and Exeter, of Warwick and Talbot, of Salisbury and Gloucester. I see them gradually come to believe that we can win, that against all odds we can bring glorious victory to England, and to me -- King Harry.
That's right. You see, Parkinson's idea was that I play the role of Henry V, who, in case you didn't know, was a guy. So even though I disappear into the speech, even though I think I do a pretty good job under the circumstances, there is still a tiny part of my brain that is not in France, that is not Harry -- a tiny part of my brain is still in that room inside that fat girl and looking at that firing squad and thinking
this was such a bad idea. They're going to think I don't even know the boys' parts from the girls'.

And as I finish the last few lines, the rest of my brain returns from France to join me in that room.
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

And now every fiber of my being is shouting at me
Bad idea! Bad idea!
And I can only imagine that the silence from the table is stunned incomprehension. "What on Earth do we say to the crazy fat girl?"

"
Henry the Fifth,
" says a voice.

Crap, crap, crap. You're supposed to say the name of the play and the character before you do the monologue. Now I really am an idiot.

"Yes," I say, in a voice that is almost below the level of human hearing.

"And your contemporary piece?" says the voice.

Crappity, crap, crap, crappers. I can't tell them the name of my contemporary play. It doesn't have a name. I haven't named it yet. You see, I spent so much time working on Aggie's big monologue that I knew it backwards and forwards by the time I was done, so I figured what could be more contemporary than a monologue that was written this week? But I haven't named the freakin' play yet, and now I have to give it a name
right now.

I try to conjure up the list I had on the back of an envelope on my desk at Dad's.
Drama Queen, Fat Blog, Fat
-- something else. I can't remember. All I can remember is that a lot of them had "Fat" in the title.

Then suddenly I think about the fact that I have to sing sixteen measures of a song
a capella
after I finish my monologue, and after the disaster that was my
Hello, Dolly!
audition, I know that will be the final nail in the coffin of my dream, and the title comes to me.

"My contemporary monologue is from
The Fat Lady Sings,
" I say. "I'll be performing the role of Aggie."

There's an awkward silence while I wait for them to say, "And who's the playwright?" and then I will be completely busted. I don't know for sure that you can't perform your own material, but I'm guessing.

"Whenever you're ready," says the voice.

Bullet dodged. I begin.

Are you Tim? Hi Tim, I'm Aggie. I'm your two o'clock. Oriental hot stone massage -- that's me. I guess you're wondering why I'm standing here wrapped in a shower curtain instead of lying on the massage table. It's a funny story, actually. Well, maybe not "funny." I guess "pathetic" is a better word.

That's where you laugh and break the tension, but instead -- awkward silence. Oh, well.

You see, I came here with my friend Suzy. You probably saw her in the lounge. She's the perky one. Every part of her is perky. Her knees are perky! Anyhow, Suzy, she's my best friend. Surprise, I know -- the prom queen and the fat girl, who would think, right? So for my birthday Suzy says she's going to give me a spa day, and I figure a manicure and a yogurt shake or something like that. I mean, I've never been to a spa, so I say "sure." So we get here this morning and we have our manicures and our yogurt shakes and then Suzy wants to take our clothes off and go into a steam room.