The Next Big Thing (3 page)

At what age did you lose your virginity?
19
 

Describe your first sexual experience:
Describe it? It happened so fast I can barely remember it! Suffice to say, it was NOT good.
 
 

How many sexual partners have you had?
3
 
 

Have you ever had a one-night stand?
No, I’m too scared of diseases.
 
 

Have you ever engaged in sexual activities with another woman?
That would be a great big NO.
 
 

When was the last time you masturbated?
I plead the fifth!

By the time I was finished, the show’s producers knew me better than my dearest friends. They knew I stole a bottle of nail polish when I was seven, two of my three boyfriends cheated on me, I never attended the prom because I couldn’t find a dress that fit, the only medication I took was Ortho Tri-Cyclen, and I’d tried pot a few times in college but that, otherwise, I’d always steered clear of drugs.

I debated the last question—what would my autobiography be titled—for almost fifteen minutes before putting down,
Height/ Weight Disportionate.
I was especially proud of that answer. It seemed pretty clever; when I finally launched my writing career, they wouldn’t have to hire someone to market my book. I could easily take that on myself. By far, the hardest part of the entire application was the essay. We were supposed to write three to five hundred words, finishing the sentence “When I’m thin . . .”

It was deceptively difficult. I had already spent so much time listing things that I longed to do when I lost weight: sky-diving, wearing a bikini on the beach, going on a blind date, shopping for lingerie. In fact, question number twenty-nine had asked:
What would you do if you could snap your fingers and become a size six?
I thought about that essay for hours. I got up and fed my fish, flipped on the TV and watched Letterman, visited a few websites. I was stalling, I knew, but I was also stumped. Finally I decided it was better to put something down and not worry about how it was received. I picked up my pen and wrote: 

When I’m thin I want to be a tall skinny
blonde. This is probably because I’m a short fat blonde. (Hey, give me credit for at least liking something about my appearance.) Although, for a while, I longed to be Kate Winslet, when
Titanic
was all the rage. She was so pale (like me) and lithe-some, even though she wasn’t all that tall or thin. I mean, she was certainly thin enough, but by Hollywood’s standards she was big. Of course, we all know how messed up Hollywood’s idea of women is.

Turn on any TV or go to any movie and there it will be, staring you in the face, like one giant advertisement for anorexia. Magazines are atrocious on our self-esteem, and books aren’t much better. Any way you slice it, fat people are the butt of every joke. The scary part is how readily we accept it. Fat people are easy to pick on. What can we say? We can’t deny we’re overweight. It’s written all over our bodies.

But what I want to know is, how fat is fat? Howard Stern slams girls who weigh 105 pounds but have a tiny bit of cellulite, and everyone tunes in to egg him on. Pencil-thin actresses like Gwyneth Paltrow and Courteney Cox slap on fat suits and America howls with laughter. Am I the only one who finds this offensive? I know a lot of tubby guys who just adored
Shallow Hal
. I couldn’t even bring myself to watch it. The trailers made me feel violated and sick. Gwyneth Paltrow has no clue what it’s like to be an overweight woman. For her to claim otherwise is a gigantic slap in the face.

And Monica’s fat phase on
Friends
is a bad joke. A before and after picture would never look like that! I could starve myself every day for the next fifty years and I wouldn’t be as slender as Courteney Cox. My right arm undoubtedly weighs more than her entire body. Which is why I think it would be funny, in an ironic way, if I end up a TV star. Big old me, next to all those little actresses. Okay, so I’d be a reality TV star. But that’s close enough for me!

 
Finishing the essay seemed to clear a mental block; I breezed through the rest of the application. Even the other free-form section—a blank space on the last page that encouraged us to “tell the producers something you’d like them to know” came easily. Inspired by Letterman, I drafted a Top Ten list of the annoying things people tell fat girls.

1.
You have such a pretty face.

2.
There’s this great new diet you should try.

3.
You’re only overweight because you’re lazy.

4.
Have you ever heard of exercise?

5.
Fat people are really unhealthy.

6.
It’s okay for someone like me to eat fatty foods because I’m so thin. It’s too bad you have to watch what you eat.

7.
I’ve heard great things about gastric bypass surgery.

8.
So-and-so lost fifty pounds practically overnight with Tae Bo-Slimfast-Atkins-Jenny Craig-Weight Watchers-Hollywood Diet.

9.
Skip dessert.

10.
Just eat less and exercise more.
 

I was proud of myself for being so honest. When all was said and done, I’d only lied about one thing; I omitted any mention of Nick. I felt a momentary pang of guilt, but knew that it was for the best. When it came time to divulge my current relationship status, I checked the box marked “single,” and moved on without a second thought.

Chapter Three

“From the looks of this, Kat, you haven’t made any progress at all. And frankly, I’m surprised. It’s completely out of character for you to blow off an assignment.”

My job at Hood & Geddlefinger consists of one thing: researching prospective clients—individuals as well as corporations—and then preparing a dossier of information about them. It involves combing through tedious company reports, news clippings, and Internet resources.

After Monday’s meeting, which I fantasized through, Richard gave the research team a list of seven businesses. He requested info packets on all of them by Wednesday afternoon. William and Donna each took two companies, and I took three. To an outsider, it may sound like I got the short end of the stick, but the opposite was true. Preparing a dossier on my three small companies would have required very little effort on my part. I say “would have,” because I never did it. I worked on my
From Fat to Fabulous
application instead.

Suddenly, it was Thursday morning, and I was seated in Richard Geddlefinger’s office. He had accosted me the second I walked through the door and dragged me off for a one-on-one meeting.

I don’t like Richard’s office. It’s a striking mix of high-brow and white trash. Between the rigid green and brown furnishings, the tan walls with their stucco finish, and the swimsuit model calendar, it feels like a gentleman’s study run amok. All that’s missing is a painting of dogs playing poker. But what really bugs me are his chairs. I can’t fit into them. The sides cut into my thighs, scrunching my legs together like two giant sausages. Sitting there, I felt enormous.

“Richard, I’ve tried my best. Really, I have.” I fidgeted, trying to make myself comfortable, while feebly defending my lack of productivity. “I went to the websites—their servers were down. I searched
The Commercial Appeal
for articles and turned up nothing. I left messages at every company and no one called me back. I’m not sure what else you want me to do.” Even to my ears, the excuses sounded ridiculous.

Richard fixed me with a pointed gaze. “How many times did you try to call?”

“Once, maybe twice—I tried everyone at least twice,” I quickly amended.

“You called twice!” he exclaimed. “Come on, kiddo, you know you can’t leave one message and then throw in the towel. You call, you fax, you e-mail!”

I shifted awkwardly in my too-small seat. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

“Do better by the end of today. I want that info before you leave.”

“I don’t know if I can do that. I’m leaving early today. I’ve got three hours of comp time left over from last week, remember?”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Not anymore.”

Seeing the look of shock on my face he added, “I’ll let you go early tomorrow. You can get a jump start on the weekend.”

Under any other circumstances I would have been thrilled. Richard rarely lets anyone out early on a Friday. But I had been counting on leaving early today so I could film my audition video and get it to FedEx in time to make the cutoff for overnight delivery.

“That’s no good,” I said miserably. “I really can’t stay late today, Richard. I . . . I have a dentist appointment this afternoon?” I tried.

He snorted. “You sound like Donna. Now, seriously, I need that information by the end of today. Got it?” He waved me away, and I headed off down the hall.

Donna knew something was wrong as soon as she saw me. “Oh, shit, Kat, what did Richard say?” she asked, nervously, as I made my way to my cubicle. “He didn’t fire you, did he?”

I sighed. “No, but he said I’ve got to finish those three dossiers before I leave today.” I sat down at my desk, burying my head in my hands.

Donna leaned over and patted me on the shoulder. “Maybe it won’t take as long as you think. How far into it are you?”

“Donna, I haven’t even started.” I looked up just in time to see her eyes bulge. I had hoped she’d cheer me up with a well-timed wisecrack. But she looked alarmed.

“What do you mean, you haven’t started? What on
earth
have you been doing since Monday?”

“Daydreaming.” I gave her a crooked smile. “About the show, about Nick. Shopping for my audition video. Filling out the application. Now I’m royally screwed. I’m going to miss the deadline!”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’ll tell you what, give me half your to-do list, and I’ll see if I can help you out.”

She couldn’t be serious.

“What about all of
your
work?” I asked. “Don’t you need to get that done first?”

“I got it finished yesterday. Richard’s already okayed most of it.”

Sensing my hesitation, she added, “I don’t mind helping you out. Just promise me one thing, okay?”

“Sure, anything!
” I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was so lucky to have her as a friend.

“Don’t forget me when you’re rich and famous!”
 
 
 
With Donna’s help, I made it out of the office by 3:15 P.M. I got home in record time, walking in the door as the clock struck 3:30. That gave me several hours to film something that could only be two minutes in length, max. Once I got the tape made, my application could be signed, sealed, and delivered.

Simple
, right?

Wrong.

I ran into trouble right away. I only had two minutes to impress
From Fat to Fabulous
’s producers, so it was crucial to make every second count. I needed a killer opening line to hook them.

I picked up my spiral notebook and scrawled,
Are you ready to let the Kat out of the bag? Pick me and I’ll show you the true definition of Kat Scratch Fever!
I quickly crossed it out. It was beyond cheesy, even for a reality show.

Hello! I’m Kat Larson. Welcome to my new and improved thinner life!
Too upbeat. Besides, I didn’t
have
a new and improved thinner life yet. That’s why I needed to go on the show.

I’m Kat, and I am desperate. I can’t live one more day as a fat person.
Too depressing.

They’d think I have suicidal tendencies. I went on like this for almost thirty minutes before the phone rang. Grateful for the interruption, I dashed into the living room and picked up the cordless, glancing down at the Caller ID. It was Nick.

“Hi,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. I didn’t want to slip up and tell him about the video. I wasn’t planning on
ever
telling him about the reality show. He’d learn about it once it was over, but if all went according to plan I’d be thin by that point and it wouldn’t matter.

“I didn’t expect you to answer,” he said, taken aback.

“Why’d you call, then?” I teased.

“I felt bad. I
know haven’t been available much lately. I wanted to leave you a sweet little message. Tell you how much I miss you and all,” he said.

“Aw, that
is
sweet
.
” I glanced at the clock. It was 4:03 P.M. Time was running short, but I figured I could spare five minutes.

“How are things going at
Status
?”

“State-us,” he corrected. “You Americans never pronounce anything right.” I knew something was wrong. It wasn’t like him to get snippy.

“Are they keeping you very busy?”

“Not anymore,” he told me, sighing. “They shorted my section for next month. In fact, it was really quite absurd. I lost four pages, which means I’m going to have to toss out a number of articles.”

“Why’d they do that?” I asked.

“Some twat in entertainment landed a last-minute interview with that prat Johnny Depp. Apparently, Johnny is more important than the new Gucci line. What a load of cack!”

I’d take Johnny Depp over Gucci any day, but I didn’t tell him that.

“A load of cack,” I repeated, smiling. I love Britspeak.

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, go on, guess. It’s not that difficult.” I couldn’t tell if
he was being sarcastic or not. “It means a load of shit. You say it when something is out of order.”

“Like an elevator? Or a lift, as you Brits would call it
.” I loved messing with him about his adorable accent. Usually he liked it, but tonight he sounded irritated.

“Come on, Kat,
are we going to do this all night? ’Cause I can think of many other things I’d rather talk about . . .” His voice grew soft. I looked at my watch. Five minutes had passed already. . . . Oh well, I reasoned, I could spare five more.

“I’ve been thinking about you lots today,” Nick said shyly. “I imagine the things we’ll do together . . . sipping
red wine by the fireplace, long conversations over coffee. I’ve never met someone I can talk to like this before.”

I smiled. “I know. Me too.” It was the truth. Despite the great distance between us, I was closer to Nick than almost anyone. He didn’t hoard his emotions the way most men did. He was so honest, genuine. And he was passionate about everything—from movies to politics to art to culture. I felt I could learn so much from him.

“It’s such torture being without you, Kat. These past few days I’ve done nothing but think of you. I kept hoping you’d fly over and surprise me. That’s a hint, by the way.”

Fat chance of that happening
, I thought.

“I’d love to, Nick, but you know I can’t afford it.”

“I just imagined you walking in through the front door of my flat,” he went on, seemingly ignoring my previous comment, “how beautiful you’d look . . .” I blushed.

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’m being serious,” he said. “I want to see you. I need to see you. If you can’t come here perhaps I could fly out to Memphis. I’m off deadline right now and I could stand to get away. Say yes, Kat, and I’ll be on the first plane out.”

I sat dumbfounded, staring at the phone.
Why the sudden urgency to meet?
“What’s the rush?” I asked, trying to keep my tone even. I was praying my voice didn’t give away how frightened I was.

Nick sighed. “I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s hard wanting someone and having them over four thousand miles away. It does your head in.”

I was silent for a minute, then Nick added, “I’ve got a better idea, Kat. Let me buy you a ticket to London. Can you get a week off work? Or how about coming over for a long weekend? Think about how it would feel. Wrapping ourselves in each other’s arms. Spending the night together. Making love for the first time . . .”

It sounded great. But I knew there was no way
he’d want to make love to all 227 pounds of me.

“I wish I could
, Nick,” I said. “Believe me, I
really
do. But it’s just not possible right now. Soon I promise.”

Silence.

“Nick?”

“I need to go, Kat. I’ve got stuff to do, things to think about.”

I had never heard him sound so abrupt. I felt a stabbing pain right in the center of my chest.

“You’re not thinking of breaking up with me, are you?” I whispered. The clock was nearing 4:45 P.M. but suddenly the audition didn’t seem so important.

“No, no, nothing like that. I just need some space.” His tone softened, and I felt my whole body expand in a sigh. “Like I said, I’m just stressed. Think about the date you want to meet. I’ll call you in a few days.”

“I love you
.”

He paused for an agonizing minute and then said, “I love you, too.”

We hung up, I took a deep breath, and then went straight to work on my video.

I needed my new and improved thinner life NOW. I threw off my work clothes, changing into the purple button-down shirt and black pants from Lane Bryant. I set the camera up on my bureau and started recording. Since I hadn’t figured out what I wanted to say, I’d have to wing it.

Be yourself,
it had said on the
From Fat to Fabulous
website. A noble piece of advice, but I wasn’t stupid. Nobody gets on a reality TV show by acting natural. I botched the first two takes; I had the camera set too low and wound up filming my boobs. Annoyed, I stuck a phone book under the camera’s base and tried again. I waited until the tape finished rewinding and then hit Record. Smoothing out my shirt I walked over and began talking.

“Hi!” I shouted, smiling brightly. “I’m Kat Larson, and I’m gonna be
the
new It Girl of reality TV!” I would take an upbeat approach. It was doubtful the producers wanted some boring girl who sat on a couch all day staring at her hands. I rambled on about the trials and tribulations of plus-sized clothing, the pain of growing up a size eighteen in a size-two world, and the endless search for a guy who wasn’t scared off by the stigma of dating a “fat chick.”

Since I didn’t have access to any editing equipment, I needed to film straight through in one take with no flubs, no stumbling over words, no losing my train of thought. And I couldn’t run over my allotted time. A good closer is just as important as a good opener, and I had to make sure to leave myself enough space to finish properly. I didn’t want to just trail off. So I rewound the tape, and started over again. I timed myself, and discovered that my exit—a showy cartwheel out of the room—took around ten seconds to complete, from start to finish. That left me a minute and fifty seconds to get everything in. Which isn’t very long.