Big Fat Manifesto (19 page)
Authors: Susan Vaught
FEATURE SPREAD
for publication Friday, November 30,
Post-Thanksgiving special edition,
if I am still alive
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
I'm writing this confession in Freddie's Toyota, on my way to make another confession. And honestly, I'm not sure which admission
will be harder.
My confession to all of you is as follows:
After all my ranting, mouth running, and stand taking, after all my costume-wearing attitude and dramatic stage presentations,
after all the times I've acted like I know more than every last one of you (about everything), I might just be a coward with
no real clue about what I want or what I know. That has nothing to do with me being fat, by the way, and everything to do
with me being an idiot. Sometimes I really, really
can
be an idiot.
As for the other confession:
That's absolutely none of your business.
Early Thursday night, Burke sits in his leather recliner with his hands folded in his lap. He's nervous. He knows something's
way wrong, and It's killing me, and I don't know how to get started.
His big bedroom looks like something out of a
Technology
Today
magazine, and his dozens of machines and gadgets keep distracting me. Sometimes his computer whirs and clicks. His modem blinks.
His neon clock flickers. Everything smells like leather and plastic and guy. Everything smells like Burke, and I'm sitting
in his rolling desk chair, and I'd rather look at anything but him and his nervous expression and his totally transformed
body.
I cannot begin to fathom how much he's changed. Like a new guy. Like a totally different guy. He's nearing sixty pounds lost,
working out with the football team again, walking every day, starting to run—he's turning into a major god, no kidding. And
he will achieve his dream of being buff and fabulous when he walks across the stage at graduation, I have no doubt.
"I admire you," I admit, looking down at my own hands for a little relief. "I've been jealous in so many ways, because you
had this opportunity and I didn't, but the bottom line is, you believed bariatric surgery was right for you and you went for
it. You've battled through horrible things I don't think I could ever face, and you're winning. You're really doing it."
"I'm, uh, sorry about the whole candy bar brownie mess." He gets a hopeful look like Mom does when she's grasping for answers,
trying to help, and it kills me a little more. "Literally. I mean, the literal mess, and the mess of bugging you to bring
it to me, Jamie." When I glance up at him, he's staring at a spot on the floor somewhere between us. "My dad really jumped
my shit about that. He was right, too. It wasn't fair, what I did."
f'rn
an ass. I'm an ass. I'm an ass...
"Hey, I
do
understand." My tone's softer than I mean for it to be. I don't want to lead him on, but I can't help but be nice about this
at least. "If anybody gets eating stuff thafs not good for me, I do. And I get wanting to eat it anyway. Needing to eat it."
Burke's head comes up. He looks at me funny, kind of like he's seeing me new or different, or for the first time. "Whoa. Okay."
His reaction surprises me. "What? What whoa?"
"Whoa because—I don't know." Burke sits back in his recliner. "I've just never heard you say anything like that."
"Anything that honest, you mean?" I'm relaxing, even though I know I don't need to. Even though I'm here to say tough things,
It's still Burke. I still like talking to him.
God, am I doing the right thing?
Burke shakes his head and grins. "You're always honest, Jamie. You tell it like it is. Just look at Fat Girl."
"Fat Girl's loud, but not necessarily honest. I need to be honest now." I scoot forward in the chair and try to get ready.
Burke's expression goes way past tense. He starts to say something, but I hold up both hands, take a deep breath, and leap
into that lovely tidal wave of consequences I wrote about. "You're one of the most wonderful guys—wonderful people—I've ever
met, but I—I don't feel the same way anymore. About you."
He reacts like my tidal wave hit him instead of me, bending in the middle, going still, then fighting up again to the edge
of his seat. "Is it because I'm thinner?"
"Maybe. Maybe I can't handle all your changes." I scrub my hands across my cheeks. "Maybe I secretly feel like crap about
myself, and I got so afraid you'd leave me that I left first. I'm not sure, Burke."
"Jamie, come on. We can get through this, baby. You can—"
"I like somebody else." Deep breath.
Deep breath.
"Heath Montel. Last week, I kissed him. It was wrong to do that before I talked to you. Chickenshit, in fact. And for doing
it that way, ass-backwards and cowardly, I'm really, really sorry."
For a long time, forever, too, too, long, Burke doesn't say anything at all. He just gapes at me while the fans in his computer
run and his modem lights blink and his neon clock flickers. I feel like everything I've eaten all week's about to dump right
out of me, way worse than Burke's candy bar brownie incident.
He shakes his head, slowly this time. Closes his eyes. Looks like he's going to cry—absolutely ripping my heart straight out
of my chest. When his eyes snap open, his expression turns blank for a second, then hard.
"I can't believe you're doing this to me now." His voice is way too quiet. "After everything I've been going through. What
happened to I love
you, baby?
What happened to
I'll be righthere?"
It's tough to breathe now, but I manage. "I really don't know. If I did, I'd tell you."
Burke shoves himself out of his chair and stalks away from me, toward his bed. "Thafs just bullshit. Bullshit!"
I abandon the whole I-want-to-be-your-friend part of the talk, because It's obvious he's not going to go there. From the look
on his face, he might go totally into orbit if I say the wrong thing.
I guess everything I'm saying is the wrong thing to him.
Burke wheels on me. If he weren't standing across the room, if I didn't know him so well, I'd be scared of the rage on his
face. "You're one selfish bitch, you know that, Jamie?"
Me, selfish? I didn't decide to change the life of everyone around
me to get my gut stapled and get skinny so I could
look
better!
Hello? Me? Me?
But I think about Freddie and NoNo and Fat Girl, about the choices I made to keep talking to Heath and getting closer to him.
Deep breath.
"Yes. I know I can be a selfish bitch. In lots of ways, you're right."
Burke's not sure what to do with this. He glares at me, probably to be sure I'm not making fun of him.
When he sees I'm not, he yells, "Why didn't you just call me? Write me a letter? Why did you even come here to pile all this
shit on me?"
Wasn't expecting that question.
But f do at least have an answer. "Because I owed you the truth . . . and the chance to tell me what a selfish bitch I am.
Because I owed you an apology."
An entire minute of silence from Burke.
He's seething.
I know he's really hurting, but this is how guys do hurting, right?
I'm an ass. I'm such an ass. God I hope I'm doing the right
thing.
Outside in the hall, I hear voices. Burke's parents, talking to one of his sisters. They're probably wondering what's happening.
Burke spins around and slams his fist about two feet into the drywall over his bed. Plaster crumbles. The dull thud of the
punch resonates all over my body.
Thafs my cue to get up and move toward the door, but Burke turns back to me so fast I stop.
"You told me the truth and apologized," he says in a spooky-quiet voice. "Now get out."
For a few long seconds I'm facing Burke, and I can see him again, the sweet-faced, round, happy guy I enjoyed for so long.
The safe guy.
This new Burke, the hurt one, the angry one, maybe he won't last long. Maybe he'll charge farther and farther into his new
life of being thin, his support groups, rediscovering sports, and come out the other side able to forgive me and be my friend.
Knock on the door.
"Burke?" his dad calls. "Jamie? Please open the door."
I'm only too happy to grab the knob, turn the lock, and yank the door open.
Burke's entire family is waiting in the hall, even his mom, who's showered and polished and dressed for her night shift.
Everything inside me aches. I'm losing Burke's mom and dad, too, aren't I? Even his vampire sisters. They look like twins
again, hands over their mouths, worried eyes staring from me to Burke to the hole in the wall over his bed.
Burke's dad sizes up the situation in a hurry. He nods to me as I edge out of the doorway into the hall, then holds up a hand
to stop M
&
M and Mrs. Westin from heading into the room. "I've got this," he says in a don't-argue voice. Then he strides inside Burke's
room and shuts the door.
I face Mrs. Westin and the vampire sisters, and all I can say is, "I'm sorry."
It's all I can do not to close my eyes in anticipation of the big furious-female-hiss-and-claw attack.
But Mrs. Westin only sighs and pats my cheek and nods. "Be good, baby. It'll be okay." Another pat. "Things pass."
Her eyes shift to Burke's door.
My eyes fill with tears.
Mona's shaking her head, looking just as sad as her mother, and I completely don't know what to do with that.
Marlene seems to be in shock. Without warning, she launches herself forward and hugs me so tight I almost wheeze from the
force. "You take care of yourself, you hear?"
Stunned, I almost forget to hug her back. When I do, I realize she's crying, and I start blubbering, and feel like a bigger
idiot than ever in my whole life.
"Let us hear from you." Marlene pulls back. Before she lets me go, she wipes her face with her sleeve, and then she wipes
mine.
Too much.
Too much.
I'm going to die of being-an-assness. Gotta go. Now.
"I can... uh... let myself out, okay?" Pathetic, sniveling smile, but It's the best I can do.
Mona gives me a curt nod.
After one last look at Burke's remaining ladies, I take off down the stairs and get myself out.
. . .
When I get to Freddie's Toyota, I swear Freddie and NoNo are completely blue from holding their breath the entire time I was
in the Westin house. Freddie's black hair is plastered against her sweaty face, and NoNo's red spikes look like she's smeared
them down fifty times. The heater's blasting away, and I almost choke on the holiday cinnamon-pinecone scent flowing from
the air freshener hanging from Freddie's rearview mirror.
They don't speak when I slam the door, or while I'm still sobbing like a fool and fastening my seat belt.
Freddie speaks first with, "I better get out of here before he sees my car and executes me for being a traitor."
About a mile down the road, NoNo reaches across the backseat and puts her hand on my knee. "Was it hell?"
I nod.
She pats my leg.
Freddie says, "Okay, we've decided. Christmas Eve with you, Christmas Day with Burke, and Thanksgiving we're ignoring both
of you and hanging out with our own families. Will that work?"
"Yeah." I sob again.
Divorce.
"This won't last," NoNo says, sounding more hopeful than I feel. "Sooner or later, we'll all be okay together."
Another mile down the road, she adds a nervous, "Right?"
FEATURE SPREAD
for publication Friday, December 7
As Yet Untitled
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
Let's start over.
Hi.
I'm Jamie Carcaterra. I'm about to turn eighteen. I'm a writer and an actress, even though I don't know what to call this
feature anymore, and I just refused to play the role of Ursula the Sea Witch in this spring's
Little Mermaid.
It's Princess Ariel or bust, by God.
I'm a decent student, and I want to go to college even though calculus
sucks,
my ACT composite's a bit wobbly, and my advanced biology grade could be better.
I'm Freddie's and NoNo's friend, and Heath's girlfriend. I'm a daughter. I might be an activist, but I'm not sure I've found
my cause. I also might be a big-ass weenie, too, but I'm working on that.
I don't have a lot of money, but I do have a lot of plans, and a lot of dreams. One of those dreams involves Burke Westin
forgiving me one day, so we can be friends, and so we don't have to share custody of Freddie and NoNo.
Oh, yeah. One other thing.
I happen to be fat.
Being fat bugs me some, but it's not my whole life, and I refuse to let anyone define me that way anymore—especially myself.
I'm about to try something new, called honesty. And, according to Freddie, "sharing." I got blown off by the National Feature
Award people because they thought my manifesto about living fat in a skinny world wasn't in the public interest, that it only
addressed the concerns of a small "subset of our population." When I talked to them on the telephone, they said they worried
my column "supported and promoted unhealthy behavior in today's teens."
I think thafs bull.
I think it's discriminatory and wrong. I think they freaked out because some fat-biased news reports put public pressure on
them, and I think they need to get a clue.
My mom got a lawyer through my dad's employee assistance program, and the NFA people have granted me a hearing. Dad and I
fly to New York City a few days before Christmas. I probably won't get to stay in the competition, and even if I do, I probably
won't win. There's always junior college and work study and alternative college funding. I'm looking into all that. But what
the NFA did was wrong, and I refuse to let it stand.
Here's the thing.
For fat people, traveling, especially traveling by airplane, sucks. I'm scared about slogging through the airport, where the
hallways look ten miles long and I know my knees and back will kill me, and I'll sweat, and maybe smell awful by the time
I get where I'm going. I don't fit well in public toilets. I completely don't fit in airplane seats, and I have to use a seat-belt
extender, which usually gets handed to me in some very public, embarrassing fashion. I've only flown once in my life, and
the airline was horrible to my family and tried not to let us get on the plane unless we bought extra seats. We could barely
afford one seat for each of us, much less two. How insane is that?
The trays don't fit over my belly. I have no room for my legs. I'm miserable the whole trip. Then once I get to New York City,
there'll be a lot of walking and meeting people and having to make an impression. My clothes are pathetic. I never feel like
I look good in anything. I mean, I know all girls are like that, but for me it's worse because of the weight.
Like I said, I'm scared. I'm dreading all the little things. That's part of the real, deep truth about being fat. Being scared.
Being tired before battles even start. Dreading the weight of the weight.
But I can do this. I will do this.
Thafs all.
Thanks for listening.
