The Fat Lady Sings (12 page)

"We were making it for youth group, and you looked cold," she says.

"Yeah," I say, and then, because I cannot come up with anything else, again I say, "Thanks."

We sit there forever, it seems like, just staring into the night. There is traffic in the distance and some dry leaves are rattling across the parking lot in the breeze, but other than that it's quiet. I know I should go, but even though it's awkward, there's something bizarrely comforting about this total stranger willing to keep me company without asking any questions.

"Those were my friends," I say, when it's obvious neither of us is getting up anytime soon.

"I hope they'll be alright," she says.

"Me, too," I say. And we sit some more and finally I ask, "Don't you want to know why they were arrested?"

"Not unless you want to tell me."

"It was just trespassing," I say. "It's not like they were doing drugs or anything." I guess I say that about the drugs because I figure she's some sort of big time Christian and I don't want her to think we're a bunch of evil sinners.

"I used to go over there with my friends," she says. "Especially on Halloween. That place is seriously spooky."

"I know, right?" I say, and I turn and look at her.

Her hair is shoulder length and could be a lot prettier if she used a blow dryer and some product -- it's kind of out of control. She's wearing jeans and a plain green T-shirt, and even though she's super skinny her clothes don't really fit right, so they don't show off her figure. Her face looks like it could use a little makeup, too, but I guess that could just be the yellow lights in the parking lot.

I don't know why I'm mentally making her over -- after all, she's the skinny kid, and I'm the fat kid. If anybody needs a change in appearance, it's me. She's still smiling at me, and looking at her, judging her, and then forgetting all that because of her smile makes me feel the tiniest bit better.

"We were putting on a play," I say.

"That sounds cool," she says.

And we start to talk. Her name is Taylor and she's the vice-president of her youth group and sings soprano solos in the youth choir. "Last year we wanted to put on
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,
" she says, "but we didn't have enough money for costumes and stuff, so we just did a sort of concert version with the choir."

"I love that show," I say. And I tell her all about
Godspell,
because I figure what better way to break the ice with a Christian kid who likes theatre than to talk about
Godspell.
Turns out she actually saw our production.

"I thought I'd seen you somewhere before," she says. "You were really good." I still think my life is over, but a pretty darn good way to start cheering up a depressed theatre kid is for a stranger to compliment her performance in something that happened almost a year ago.

I tell Taylor all about
The Fat Lady Sings
and about how Dr. Watkins said we couldn't do it because it was technically a school event since we didn't have a sponsor and about how even if we could do it, Melissa Parsons' mother said she couldn't be in the show and she's the second lead plus we don't have any place to perform and even if we hadn't just been chased out of the sock factory by the long arm of the law we couldn't do it there because it has the wrong kind of electricity.

"There's more than one kind?" she says.

"Who knew?" I say.

And she starts to laugh, and for a split second I am furious that she would laugh at a girl in the depths of her misery, until it hits me too, and then we're leaning back against the wall and laughing at two kinds of electricity, laughing at doing theatre in a haunted sock factory, laughing at
Godspell
and
Joseph
and all the good things in our past, laughing at life and forgetting the present (oh, and by the way, the future, too).

"So don't you need to go inside and be all Christian or something?" I say when we're all laughed out and I've caught my breath.

"You say it like we're some weird cult," says Taylor.

"It was just never for me," I say, afraid to tell her that, yeah, it does seem sort of like a weird cult to me. I mean all the love-your-neighbor stuff is nice, it's just the bit about the invisible man in the sky with the death-defying son that I find hard to swallow. "Besides," I say, "two of my best friends are gay."

"So," says Taylor. "One of my best buds in youth group is gay."

In a perverse way, I love that she says "best buds." "Seriously?" I say. "What kind of church is this, anyway?"

"St. Timothy's Episcopal," she says.

"And they let gay people in?"

"Aggie," she says, "you've been listening to too much talk radio. Not every Christian church is homophobic."

"But I thought the Bible says you can't be gay?"

"It also says you have to sacrifice oxen on a regular basis," says Taylor, "but the closest we come to that is burgers on the grill at the annual parish picnic."

"So is this a Christian thing," I say, "bringing me hot cocoa and being nice to me and everything?"

"I don't know," says Taylor. "Not particularly. I brought you hot cocoa because you looked cold, and I talked to you because you seemed to need somebody to talk to, and I stayed because you seem interesting. I suppose that's Christian, but I didn't really think of it that way."

"I seem interesting?" I say.

"I never met a playwright," she says.

"Anyway," I say, standing up on legs wobbly from too much time sitting on cold pavement, "whether it was Christian or not, thanks for the cocoa and thanks for the talk. I guess I better get home and explain to my -- parents what happened."

"Let me know how it goes," she says.

"Really?" I say.

"Sure," says Taylor, and we exchange cell numbers.

Who knew, on the worst night of my life, that I'd make a new friend.

Scene 5
Getting out of bed the next day
is the hardest thing I've ever done. I just want to lie there all day and eat ice cream. I know, I know, I said I wasn't a fat pig (just fat), but who doesn't feed depression, right? And this is some serious depression. On top of everything else, I only slept about an hour because I was waiting to hear from Cameron and Elliot. Finally Elliot sent me a text about four saying that they had been released into their parents' custody and that the owner of the sock factory wasn't going to press charges. Apparently he really did just want to scare us. Mission accomplished.

I don't feel like getting into the whole thing with Mom, so I manage to avoid her creepy cheerfulness by skipping breakfast and leaving while she's in the shower. Funny how I can be dying to eat ice cream all day, but still have no appetite for bacon and eggs.

I'm walking down the hall at school trying to figure out how I'm going to make myself invisible for an entire day (hey, I was invisible for most of sixth grade, so there must be a way) when I see another harbinger of joy flapping in the breeze. What is it with notes on my locker? This time it's green and I have to unfold it to discover that green is the color of Miss O'Brien, the college counselor. She has my SAT scores, she knows my grades, she's approved my applications (grudgingly, of course, because I'm only applying to schools with amazing theatre departments, which means I won't grow up to be a doctor or lawyer or NASCAR driver and give millions of dollars to the school). What else could she want from me?

At least I get to miss a few minutes of math, because she wants me in her office at 10:00. When I get there she's sitting in her little "lounge" area, which I guess is supposed to put us at ease when we're talking about college or something. Mr. Hart, my English teacher is there too, and there's a familiar looking binder on the coffee table in front of them.
"Have a seat, Agatha," says Miss O'Brien. "One thing I'll say for Agatha," she says to Mr. Hart, "is she's always on time for her appointments."

I hate that -- when people talk about you like you're not even there. Now I wish I had been late.

"Mr. Hart and I wanted to talk to you about this," she says, pushing the binder towards me. I open it and see the title page for
The Fat Lady Sings.
Great. Haven't I already gotten enough grief from Dr. Watkins? We gave up the show -- what more do they want?

"Where did you get this?" I ask.

"Apparently Melissa Parson's mother confiscated it from her daughter and gave it to Dr. Watkins. He passed it on to Mr. Hart and he brought it to me," says Miss O'Brien.

"Did you write this, Agatha?" asks Mr. Hart.

"Yes, OK, I wrote it!" I say. "What's wrong? Is my spelling horrible? Did I use dangling participles? Mixed metaphors? What does this have to do with college anyway?" I guess I get a little worked up, because Mr. Hart shoots me one of those looks he usually reserves for boys talking in the back of class. "What is it?" I ask, a little more meekly.

"I think you misunderstand the purpose of this meeting, Agatha," says Miss O'Brien.

"Agatha," says Mr. Hart, "this is a very impressive piece of work. It's mature and the first act is especially well structured. The character development is excellent, and it's funny. And it has voice. I have such a hard time getting you children to write with voice."

Of course, I love that Mr. Hart likes my play. He likes to give creative writing assignments, and I'd actually thought about showing him the script -- not for extra credit or anything, but just to see what he thought. So yes, I'm flattered, but I still feel like I'm missing something here.

"I don't understand what this has to do with Miss O'Brien," I say.

"Agatha," says Miss O'Brien, "have you ever heard of the Iowa Writers' Workshop?"

"No," I say.

"Well," says Mr. Hart, "I know it's a little early to think about graduate school, but the University of Iowa has one of the best MFA programs in the country, and they offer a degree in playwriting."

"So Mr. Hart and I thought," says Miss O'Brien, "that given your obvious talent, you might want to consider applying to the undergraduate program at Iowa."

"It's really a wonderful place to study creative writing," says Mr. Hart, and then the two of them stare at me like a couple of puppy dogs waiting to be pet. Like they've brought me this great treat and I'm supposed to be grateful or something.

Are they kidding? The University of Iowa? To study writing? Do they not see my
Wicked
T-shirt? Do they not know that I applied only to theatre programs? Have I not made it abundantly clear in every conversation with Miss O'Brien that I am going to study acting? I am going to be an actress.

And then of course it all makes sense.

"This is because I'm fat, right?" I say. "You don't think I can be an actress because I'm fat. You don't think I'll get into the School of the Arts or Carnegie Mellon or anywhere else because who wants to go to Broadway or the movies and see a big fat pig."

"This has nothing to do with that," says Mr. Hart. "You're a good writer and I think it's a talent you might want to nourish."

"Not everything that happens that you don't like is because you're overweight, Agatha," says Miss O'Brien.

God, I hate that. I am not overweight. I am not "over" anything. I'm fat. Deal with it!

"Will you at least look at the brochure?" says Mr. Hart, holding out this glossy booklet.

And as I take it from him I'm thinking,
So this is what it looks like when people stab you in the back -- there's no blood, no broken bones, just a shiny color brochure covered with pictures of happy writers.

After that debacle,
it's almost a relief to meet Cynthia in the library at study hall. At least there I know what to expect -- or so I thought. I'm working on this one problem, and actually doing pretty well -- even thinking that maybe we could start meeting every other day instead of every day -- when Cynthia puts her pencil down and starts staring at me. I try to ignore her, but it's just weird. I mean, she's never just looked right at me like this before. She always tried to avoid making eye contact.

Finally I can't take it anymore. "What?" I say.

"Can I ask you something?" says Cynthia.

I don't answer, but just put down my pencil and return her stare.

"We're friends, sort of, aren't we?"

Well, knock me over with a chicken feather -- Cynthia Pirelli thinks we're friends. I'm so shocked I can't laugh or say no or really even breathe, so I just give her the old arched eyebrow that's supposed to say "are you kidding me?"

"The thing is," says Cynthia, "I was thinking that since I've been tutoring you with math, maybe you might be willing to tutor me, too."

In what,
I want to scream.
Everybody knows you get straight As. You'll probably be the valedictorian or salutatorian or some sort of torian. What could I possibly tutor you in -- how to be fat? How to be an outcast? How to be a loser whose life is falling apart?
But I don't say anything; I just keep the eyebrow up and wait for her to keep talking. It's at least more interesting than calculus.

"You see, I think maybe I need an acting coach, and I was thinking, since you were so good at the audition, maybe you might be willing to -- " She sort of bites her lower lip in this pathetic "please help me" sort of way, and I absolutely don't know what to say.

It's twenty minutes until the bell rings, and I don't think I can outstare her for that long. I don't want to scream at her in the library -- as appealing as that sounds -- so there's only one option.

"I've got to go to the bathroom," I say.

Twenty minutes in a stall is paradise on a day like today.

We must all be psychic,
because as soon as seventh period is over we all show up in the props shed -- me, Elliot, Cameron and Suzanne. Melissa Parsons is there, too, and she keeps apologizing and saying the whole thing is her fault because she left her script out where her Mom could see it, and I guess it is sort of her fault, but I just can't get mad at Melissa. I mean, come on, we were in
Godspell
together -- that's like a lifelong bond. Besides, Melissa is so sweet, and it's way easier to be mad at Squatty Watty. If he weren't such a short-sighted, uncultured oaf, everything would be fine.