Big Fat Manifesto (11 page)

Heath.

My heart does a lame skip-and-bump, and my skin heats with embarrassment.

The desk thing is bad enough, but now, today, in front of
him?

Why do I care? I don't care.

But I do.

Being humiliated in front of Heath feels a thousand times worse than being humiliated in front of a bunch of strangers.

Maybe he won't look up. Maybe he won't realize what's going on with me—but of course he does look up before I even finish
the thought.

When he sees me, he smiles.

I wave.

Heath mouths
good luck.

You too,
I mouth back.

He keeps gazing at me and smiling.

I'm so stuck. It's time to sit down. The proctors say so, several times, but if I try to sit in one of those desks, it'll
be a disaster. I won't fit. I'll probably break the damned thing.

Christ. In front of Heath.

Somebody boil me in hot water. Ifd be lots less painful than this.

"Take your seats," a proctor demands, sounding law-enforcement firm. "Now, please. Yes, take your seats."

I'm wanting to cram my pencils in my eyeballs.

Oh,
screw
it.

I straighten as much as I can, make myself as wide as humanly possible, and bowl my way straight down front to the proctors'
table. The plastic chair I pull out looks small, and sure enough, it sags beneath me when I sit down. But it holds. And I'm
at the table, where I fit.

I don't even glance at Heath. I don't want to see the look on his face now. He'd never laugh at me, I don't think. But he
might feel sorry for me, and I really would rather die than see pity in his handsome blue eyes.

As for the proctors, let them say something about my seating choice.

The chick in the pencil skirt looks like she might, but another proctor catches her eye and shakes his head. When he looks
in my direction, he smiles at me like he understands.

Okay.

Whatever.

Maybe his mom's a Fat Girl, or his sister, or his best friend. Maybe he used to be fat and got his gut shrink-stapled. Or
maybe he's had to take three dozen sensitivity classes and the ACT people consider being fat a bona fide disability.

Heath doesn't exist. I'm not looking at Heath. No way.

All I care about is keeping my seat without any drama or big production, acing this test, and putting the ACT part of senior
year nightmare finally, finally behind me.

Only by the time the test comes around, I'm so sleepy I want to close my eyes. Or leave. Or slap one of the forty or so people
staring in my direction because I'm sitting at the proctors' table.

Don't look at Heath.

Nothing like trying to pull open a sealed test booklet on cue in front of an audience. Or reading passages full of "underlined
material" I'm supposed to correct for the English section. It seems so stupid, deciding between "they're" and "there" and
"its" and "It's" when Burke's in the hospital and Mom's probably still out in the car crying.

My stomach hurts.

I know I'm sweating.

Don't look at Heath.

The passages don't want to make sense, and I can't remember the damned difference between
further
and
farther,
and even more, I totally don't care.

My first pencil breaks because I'm pushing down too hard.

This is a nightmare. It's worse than a nightmare.

I need these scores. I need the highest everything I can get for
scholarships and special grants and admission to Northwestern.

That refrain's getting old. I'm tired of singing it to myself.

For a while, I sing
Wiz
songs in my mind, and squint at underlined material, and hack at where to position adverbs in sentences and which words should
have an
-ly
ending.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The proctors calling time on the English section is just white noise.

I finally look at Heath.

He's got his head down, working away.

Nothing gets into my brain. Absolutely nothing. It's like my eyes can't even see the questions.

After a while, I give up, turn the test answer sheet over, dig through my memory to remember some of the recent letters Fat
Girl received, and start writing on the blank back side. I can always tag the letters later, and clean up the wording once
I'm back at school and see the actual text.

For now, I'll do my best and worry about the rest later.

Burke may have given me no choices in whether or not he had his surgery and started all his changes. GetLifeRight, the yellow-skirted
BWNTE, Blowfish—all of them—can get stuffed.

I've got a choice now, and I'm choosing not to suffer through this damned test anymore.

The Wire

FEATURE SPREAD

for publication Friday, October 5

Fat Girl Answering II

JAMIE D. CARCATERRA

Dear Fat Girl:

How is Fat Boy doing now?

Time postsurgery, seventeen days. Pounds lost, thirty-five. He's still in the hospital. He has an infection in his left big
toe, if you can believe that. A tiny sore, but it's getting better. Oh, and he got a haircut.

Dear Fat Girl:

How did the ACT go?

Don't ask. I'm banned from taking it again because I refused to hand in my answer sheet, which had the rough draft of this
column on the back of it. Guess my last scores will just have to do. Play practice is getting too intense anyway. The ACT
and its desks and its yellow-skirted proctors can all get stuffed. Like I said, don't ask.

Dear Fat Girl:

Does Fat Boy really froth like a cappuccino
maker when he eats too much?

SERIOUSLY, don't ask THIS question anymore. Yes, he froths. Yes, Freddie pukes every time somebody brings it up. Next person
who asks this gets to catch NoNo when she faints. Knock it off. You're all totally gross.

Dear Fat Girl:

Do you think Fat Boy did the right thing,
having this surgery?

It really doesn't matter what I think about his decision, does it? He had the surgery, and I'll be right beside him all the
way. Fat Boy made a choice for himself. At least he had the choice to make. Not everyone does.

Dear Fat Girl:

Can you tell Fat Boy's losing weight?

Definitely. He's still a big guy, but he's changing every time I see him.

Dear Fat Girl:

Are you on a diet to keep up with Fat Boy?

No. You can get stuffed along with the ACT people.

Additional Note from Fat Girl:

Choice.

I mentioned choice in one of my responses. When was the last time you looked up that word? According to
Dictionary.com
Unabridged
(version
1.1), choice
is "the right, power, or opportunity to choose; option." The right. The power. The opportunity. The option.

Have you ever thought about what it would be like not to have the right, power, opportunity, or option to choose what happens
to your own body? I particularly like the
power
part. The bottom line is, choice means power.

Take away somebody's choice, and take away her power. That's wrong, isn't it? To rob somebody of power? Of rights? Of options?

If you agree, please leave a message for Ann Smith at GetLifeRight Enrollee Services.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

It's no easy feat, finishing a scholarship application and a college entrance application exactly one hour before mailing
deadlines, in the hall, dressed in red and white striped tights, a green hoopskirt, and glitter.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it." I dab Freddie's whiteout pen against the date while NoNo rolls her eyes. She disapproves of whiteout
pens. Too many chemicals. NoNo's very presence is getting on my nerves today, even though I don't know why. Maybe It's the
perpetual worried look on her face when I'm already nervous. Or maybe It's the whiteout thing. Or maybe It's just that NoNo
would never have to play the fat part in any play.

My hands shake. All I can smell is sweat and ink and whiteout. If I don't get this stupid application done and get back to
the auditorium in time for final run-through, Dunstein will go Evillene on
me.
We open in three hours.

My first opening night without Burke who's still in the hospital.

Heath said he would try to come if the typesetter cooperates.

"It doesn't matter what date you put on the application." Freddie leans against a row of lockers in the deserted hallway as
I doctor the date yet again. "They won't know for sure when you signed it."

"It matters if I wrote down the wrong year." I keep my glower directed at Freddie. I'd rather pretend NoNo isn't standing
in front of me in her bright blue jeans and drab brown T-shirt, chewing her fingernail because I'm polluting the environment.
She's probably late for some Militant Green or Save the Chinchillas rally, or maybe an old-fashioned Down with Anything Sane
and Normal protest march.

"Just give me the apps." Freddie sounds tense. "The main post office closes in half an hour, and I'm not driving all the way
out to the airport for the overnight drop."

She gestures to her sharp pin-striped pantsuit. "I do have a date, you know." "She goes to college," NoNo whispers, like somebody
might overhear, or like Freddie cares if anyone knows she's dating a college woman.

"I'm just glad It's not that scary tattoo-chick from the library," I mutter, drawing a snort from Freddie.

At least Freddie's current girlfriend seemed calm when I met her, and like she might not tap-dance on Freddie's feelings if
things don't work out. I hate it when Freddie dates snobby women, with or without studded dog collars, and ends up bawling
and eating donuts for days when they dump her.

I smudge the last pen mark. "Crap!"

"Just give them to me!" Freddie thrusts out her hand.

Swearing, I hand over the applications. Freddie grabs the papers and hands them to NoNo, who holds them like they're toxic.

My ears buzz, and a wave of heat crashes across my face and neck. "Oh, for God's sake, NoNo, just fold them and stick them
in the envelopes!"

NoNo flinches like I slapped her, which makes Freddie puff up like Blowfish from Hotchix. "Take it easy," she says, her voice
quiet.

"Seriously, Freddie, don't you ever get tired of it?" I'm getting louder instead of quieter, and I feel light and free and
heavy and evil all at the same time. My voice booms in the empty hallway, louder, louder, like I'm projecting to an auditorium
the size of Carnegie Hall. "It's Wite-Out. Wite-Out. Not rat poison! Does everything have to be a friggin' catastrophe with
her?"

NoNo's head droops until her chin touches her chest. Her arms sag, too, and my application smacks against the legs of her
too-blue jeans. She doesn't say anything, which, insanely, makes me madder.

"Well?" I ask, taking a step toward her. "Do you have to freak out about everything?"

"Back off." Freddie projects better than I do. Her snarl hits me like a push in the chest. My teeth clamp shut, and I back
up a fraction. My face cools off a little, but not much.

No words.

If I say anything it'll be bad, and bad wrong.

NoNo's shaking from head to toe, and I worry she's about to fall over, or drop the applications, or both. Freddie takes the
papers from her, tucks them into the envelopes, and seals the envelopes tight, all the while staring straight at me.

Somehow, I keep my mouth shut and my body still. I want to rant worse than Evillene ever dreamed of ranting. I want to call
NoNo names and beat Freddie into the tile. But I don't. I really, really don't want to do that. I want to snatch the applications,
tear them up, and just... run away. Go away. Get away. No paper, no Heath, no play without Burke in the audience. No fat part.
No skinny part. No bariatric surgery. No environmentally friendly anything. There has to be some place in the world without
any of these things, right?

When she finishes with my applications, Freddie says, "We're leaving now." They both turn away from me, and Freddie leads
NoNo straight down the hall and out of the building.

I stand there and stand there and stand there. It seems like forever, but I can still see Freddie and NoNo through the glass
panes in the door, walking farther and farther away, across the parking lot.

The sun's going down.

And Burke's still in the hospital, and It's opening night, and I just sent my applications to Northwestern University with
a crummy ACT score and my National Feature Award portfolio to the judges without a Fat Boy wrap-up—and pissed off my best
friends who are mailing them, and the show must go on.

"Evillene!" Dunstein yells from behind me.

By the time I recover from my heart attack and turn around, he's already gone, back through the auditorium's swinging doors.

I hurry after him. When I push through the doors, I'm surprised to see several back rows already filled with people, and what
looks like a news crew from Lois Lane's station setting up in the corner.

Well.
Guess we're going big-time here at Garwood.

Flashbulbs spark as I sail down the aisle toward the stage. Yeah, boys and girls. Evillene's on the move.

As I pass the aisle seat three rows from the stage, where Burke usually sits, I turn my head.

If he weren't stapled and sick, he'd be here by now.

More flashbulbs blaze through my consciousness as I make my way onto the stage, then behind the curtain.

What the hell?

Dunstein's waiting for me, and he's smiling.

I stop in my tracks. Look down at my skirts to be sure I don't look like a freak. Dunstein never smiles on opening night.
Bark, yap, screech, shiver like a psychotic Chihuahua, yes. Smile, no.

"Sold out," he says. If the little man had whiskers, they'd be twitching. He beckons me toward the makeup area for a quick
touch-up and more powder. "And most of the season ticket holders actually showed up. You did great."

"Me?" Total confusion. "I didn't do anything. Thespian Club and Drama Boosters do tickets and promo. Are we really a sellout?"

"First time ever, and
you
did it. Your column." He shakes his finger in the air. "What's it called?"

"'Fat Girl Manifesto.'" My lips and cheeks suddenly feel numb.

He nods. "A newspaper, a national magazine, and a regional television affiliate. They've all come to see Fat Girl."

My words melt away like a wicked witch drenched by a bucket of water. It takes a lot of my energy just to nod.

Dunstein's babbling about how my columns on Burke are starting to attract national attention and provoke debate about adolescent
bariatric surgery.

He cannot be serious.

Is that even possible, that anybody outside Garwood would bother with our dinky school newspaper?

We still use a typesetter, for God's sake, and the principal's tried for years to "retire" us.

But Dunstein is serious, and he won't shut up, and I wish I had a bucket of water to melt him. Instead, I do a quick self-check.
Fists, unclenched. Mouth, closed. Smile, fake but present. Then I rehearse the lines to my opening number in my head over
and over, until Dunstein finally lets me pass.

As I'm walking toward costumes and makeup, my cell buzzes against my leg.

I yank it out of my pocket and see Burke's number on the display.

A smile tugs at my lips.

He's the only one who'd call me on opening night. He didn't forget after all, even though he's sick and still locked up in
a hospital.

Warmth edges out some of my nervousness as I punch the green button and lift the phone to my ear.

"Hey, baby." I'm still smiling.

"Hey back." He sounds pumped. "Guess what?"

I'm waiting for It's
your opening night
or
break a leg
or see,
I'd never forget my favorite witch on a big night.

What he says is, "I got weighed again—and I've lost thirty-eight pounds.
Thirty-eight
in eighteen days. Can you believe that? And that's weighing late in the day. I'll be down even more in the morning." "I—uh.
That's great." The phone shifts on my ear as I force myself to stand up straight when I'd rather just pitch the phone and
sit down.

When I don't keep gushing, Burke says, "Sounds like you're standing in a well. With a crowd. Did you go out?"

The noise of the audience and the murmur from the cast and props guys get on my nerves. They sound like water, rushing and
roaring, then dropping to a whisper and rising again. "It's the first weekend in October, Burke."

"The first—
oh.
Opening night!" A slapping sound comes over the phone, like Burke popped himself on the forehead. "Well, I know you'll do
great. Break a leg, baby. Give 'em hell, okay?"

My chest feels tight. "Okay."

Burke says he loves me, and I say I love him and hang up the phone.

Still want to throw it, but too many people crowd around me. It's time to move. Gotta go.

Give 'em hell. Yeah.

Maybe it would have been better if he hadn't called at all.

But that's stupid. I'm glad he called. And he did remember to wish me luck, stage style. That should count. He is in the hospital
and everything.

Losing weight just by breathing.

I try to forget about that, about everything, as I force myself to the dressing area and pull on my costume.

Time zooms by as I get final wardrobe touch-up, makeup, hair, and green glitter nails poking out of red and white striped
gloves. Then It's time for boots and whip, and I'm ready. I'm not Jamie or even Fat Girl. I'm the queen of mean, the master
of monkeybats. I'm the Wicked Witch of the West, modern style.

I'm Evillene.

And I don't make my first appearance until the second act.

Fat girls, even wicked witches, rarely have meaty parts.

Tonight, though, I'm not sorry.

Every time I glimpse the audience, I can't help noticing the reporters in the back rows and Burke's empty season-ticket seat.
The whole thing gives me a hollow ache way down inside, like the universe has flipped on its side and won't roll back over.

Lights blaze. Guys moving props swear under their breath. It's getting hot as hell like it always does, and I mentally dare
my makeup to run. Music swells and falls, swells and falls, and the first act ends and It's my turn now.

I settle myself in my painted wooden throne, still out of sight.

It's barely big enough, but lots better than ACT chairs.

The Winkie chant begins.

Winkies (monkeybats) walk across the stage tugging ropes.

My throne starts to roll across the floor, just like It's supposed to.

The Lord High Underling whips the Winkies and yells at them to pull harder and finally bellows, "Make way! Make way! The Wicked
Witch of the West. Make way for Evillene!"

Groaning and crying from the Winkies. Another big tug, and my giant-ass throne rolls into view and stops, center stage.

I give the world my best glare, squinch my face, shove myself to my feet and yell my first line without even having to work
up the emotion.

"Shut up!" I sweep my pointing finger across all the Winkies. "Because I'm evil with
ev-ry-body
today!"

The music for "No Bad News" kicks up high and fast, I turn square with the audience to start the song—and Burke's reserved
chair isn't empty anymore.

Heath's sitting in it.

My chin drops a fraction.

He's dressed in jeans and a blue polo, his blond hair hangs in his eyes, and I think he has glue all over his hands, but he's
here. To see me be Evillene. And he's sitting in Burke's seat.

The music gets loud, pauses, and starts back. Winkies stare at me. Shit. I missed my cue.

With a fast nod, I rearrange my face into hate, doom, and disaster, start my walk, and belt my lines as I pop my whip over
everybody's head again and again. Lots of wide hip action. Lots of shoulder.

I so hope my boobs don't fall out of this green corset top.

Glitter rains as I
pop, pop, pop
that whip and sing, and Winkies scatter and duck.

I'm Evil.

I'm Evillene.

Take that, Heath and Burke and Freddie and NoNo.
Pop!
Take that, reporters and Dunstein.
Pop!
Anne Smith. ACT.
POP!

"Don't nobody bring me, don't nobody bring me, no bad news!" I do a big whirl and sweep with the whip.

Heath probably thinks this is a total gas.

And
what
are those reporters writing?

Fat Girl: Feature Columnist or Whip Freak?

I free-fall through the rest of my lines, Evillene-ing on instinct. We're to Scene III and Heath's still here, and he's smiling
whenever I peek at him through the tiny gap between wall and curtain.

I let loose a major offstage Evillene cackle, then barrel out to make my last grand entrance.

As I project my lines, demanding Dorothy's slippers, Heath's still smiling.

I can't see the reporters because of the angles of the lights.

My fight with the Cowardly Lion begins. He calls me crazy.

"Is that an insult?" I screech at the lion, loving the opportunity to yell without pissing anybody off.

"No, Your Fatness," Lion stammers. "It's just—"

"Your Fatness?" I bellow with real gusto. "Your Fatness?"