The Makedown (2 page)
I had secretly harbored a crush on Kyle since I watched him make the winning shot at the state basketball finals. As the clock ticked, Kyle coolly lobbed the ball in the air. He didn’t wait to see if the ball went in; instead, he raised his hands overhead and unapologetically chanted his own name. Kyle’s confidence seduced me, producing a detailed fantasy sequence.
Fantasies provided the bulk of my adolescent entertainment. This was understandable, considering how often I was told I resembled a young Roseanne Barr, “only with acne and really bad hair.” The comparison to Roseanne Barr doggedly followed me until
The Rosie O’Donnell Show
debuted, and everyone decided that I looked like her “only with acne and really bad hair.” I actually sent my local congressman a letter asking for a countywide moratorium on unflattering celebrity comparisons. I am still waiting for a response.
Fantasy was my sole refuge from a life of rampant humiliation and self-loathing, and I gave myself plenty of time to construct elaborate make-believe scenarios, like one in which I resembled Alyssa Milano and hung with such high-octane acts as the Backstreet Boys and ’N Sync. The celebs had come calling after witnessing my superslick Britney Spears – inspired dance moves on a Malls Across America tour. On break from touring, I stopped by to watch Kyle score the winning shot at the state championship. He ran to me in the stands, pushing away parents, popular kids, and semipopular kids by the handful, pulling my size-six body into his arms. Gasps filled the auditorium as Kyle gave me the most romantic kiss any eighth-grader had seen outside of Cinemax. “Anna, that shot and every other shot I make is for you. You’re my girl.” “Oh Kyle, you’re more romantic than Michael Bolton.” “That’s right. I even wrote you a song. Anna, I’m your man-na,” Kyle sang as he possessively slung his arm around my shoulders.
I shivered in excitement, but hearing a loud “Hey look, fat Anna is trying to dance,” I returned reluctantly to my eighth-grade social studies reality. I unfolded Kyle’s note, allowing myself to contemplate the possibility that it held a confession of his feelings as opposed to a joke about our teacher. My heart crawled up my throat, restricting my oxygen intake and reddening my face. At first sight, the words were indecipherable, a jumbled mix of letters. The phrase I yearned to see, “Anna, I like you. Can we go steady forever?” was not there. Nor was there anything regarding Mr. Van Leeuwin’s hippy attire. No, the note read “Anna Norton has a camel toe because she masturbates with superglue.” For the record, I did not have a camel toe; it was merely a thick seam in my stretch pants. As for masturbation, I was deliberately unaware of my body and therefore centuries away from learning how to use it for my own satisfaction. In shock, I dropped the note to the floor, nearly suffocating on my own self-loathing.
To my right sat fellow nerd Sally Worthington. Clearly aware of the contents of the note, she watched me suffer. Her face didn’t offer compassion or understanding but rather disgust and repulsion. Unlike plumbers, truck drivers, or teachers, nerds had no union. “Anna, if you brushed your hair and wiped the dried food off your face, they’d stop being so mean to you,” Sally said with a level of irritation that surprised me. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why she even cared, but in retrospect I realize she saw me as bad press; I was giving nerds everywhere a bad rap. It was one thing to be socially inept and painfully out of style, but ignoring society’s grooming standards was unforgivable. Unable to respond to Sally, I ran out of the room to seek refuge in the relative privacy of the girls’ bathroom.
Middle school is cruel; I was not to be given the luxury of a quiet cry. “Hey Norton, I think I can solve your problems,” Jordan Marins, the Dense Princess of eighth grade, jeered as she passed by. “Go home, stick your face in peanut butter, and let your dog chew it off!” She and the gang of idiots trailing behind her burst into laughter. I wanted to tell Jordan that I was sorry I got 100 percent on the history exam, while she received a class record of 7 percent after confusing the Civil War with the Vietnam War. Instead of calling out her stupidity, I mumbled, “I don’t have a dog.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s because you
are
a dog,” Princess Jordan retorted. I consoled myself with thoughts of her working the counter at McDonald’s after failing out of cosmetology school. I loved these fantasies, and this one was so powerful that I didn’t hear Jordan bark in my ear before trotting off victoriously.
As the years passed and the insults increased, my beloved make-believe ceased to protect me with the same virility it once had. During this decline, a voice emerged within me more vile and putrescent than anything I encountered in the school hallways. Meticulous student that I was, I created a log to capture the criticism hurled my way. I named it Hello Fatty and began tracking the insults I received in addition to my own assessments. It was of the utmost importance that I remained ahead of the mudslinging curve, attempting to callus my emotions and create a protective barrier from others’ verbal attacks. “Hey Norton, you know you got a rat’s face and a pig’s body?” Kyle would yell across the crowded hall between classes. Pity was all I could offer Kyle. That was his best shot. Rat’s face? Pig’s body? I was performing on a much higher and nastier level of insults; it almost wasn’t fair.
Hello Fatty,
Cellulite curds swarm the tires of lard on your legs like bees to honey. So deep are the rolls of blubber that mold and fungus have grown, creating a rancid-egg smell. Pus-filled sacs form because of your massive thighs rubbing together. As you enter history class, the sores explode, staining your pants and making you look like a child who has soiled herself. Students barf uncontrollably at the sight of you, because you are the foulest of all beasts.
xoxo Anna
Hello Fatty was an important part of the rigid schedule I maintained throughout high school. Every day after school, I studied, ate dinner, danced with my imaginary friend, and logged insults. Due to Mother’s habit of “cleaning my room”— code for “looking for dope”— I took great care to hide Hello Fatty. Mother became convinced that I was smoking “grass” after watching a special on the local news. She settled on drugs as the only logical explanation for my abundant appetite. She confronted me the next afternoon. As I studied, Mother eyed me suspiciously, watching crumbs descend from the front of my shirt. Finally, when I could take no more, I yelled, “What?”
“Anna, I need to ask you a serious question.”
“Mmmhmm?” I grunted, licking my fingers clean of remnants from my afternoon snack.
“Are you partaking in the illegal narcotic known as grass, dope, or marijuana?”
“What?” I asked with outrage. “No. Why would you ask me that?” I said with all the defensiveness one expects from an overweight teenager.
“Look at yourself, covered in Doritos dust and Pringles crumbs! It’s called the munchies!”
“Mother, how dare you! You know damn well I’m just fat!”
Fat.
The word had haunted me most of my life. I didn’t want to be fat anymore. Actually, I didn’t even want to be
me
anymore. All my fantasies and Hello Fatty one-upmanship proved insufficient protection. I needed more. I needed a Fairy Godmother. While my advanced age led me to reject the possibility of a real Santa Claus, Tooth Fairy, or Easter Bunny, I accepted Fairy Godmothers (FGs for short) as incontrovertible truth. The FG job description was simple: intervene when parents were unable to see that their children’s clothes and general demeanor were causing them to be exiled to nerd-dom. Admittedly, the aforementioned definition of FG was not directly lifted from a fairy tale. After reading countless fairytales, I took it upon myself to create a modern translation. Then, while perusing
People
magazine’s weight-loss issue, I happened upon a high school student’s transformation. Her before looked like . . . well, me. Her after was a stunning, slim, and desirable teenager. How could she have pulled it off? The young woman had morphed into an entirely new person through an extensive makeover, the likes of which could only have been accomplished by a devoted FG. Soon, everywhere I turned, FGs’ exertions grabbed my attention, bolstering my belief.
While scientifically unsound, my theory held enormous emotional protection. This devout belief in FG shielded me from an everyday regimen of spitballs, loneliness, and mockery. Technically, all those horrid afflictions still plagued me daily, but I wasn’t bothered by them. It was impossible to be leveled by the horrors of my life while simultaneously believing that FG could transform my exterior, endowing me with self-confidence. Obviously, FG didn’t have time to intervene on just anyone’s behalf. Lightweights crying over being stood up at prom or having fat ankles need not apply. Long-term catastrophic social and emotional annihilation were prerequisites for an FG intervention, so I welcomed them. What didn’t kill me made me a better candidate for FG’s limitless transformative powers.
As high school waned, I dared to believe that everything would change in the next year. College. That was where FG would make her long-awaited appearance, guiding me through a makeover to average looks and modest happiness. For clarification’s sake, I didn’t actually think an old lady with a wand was going to show up, a gaggle of mice in tow. FG could come in many forms; hell, she could even come as a rabid hyena with a taste for virgin blood, for all I cared. She simply needed to come, and as quickly as possible.
I
wish I could say FG found me at the University of Pennsylvania, but try as I might, I couldn’t seem to find her anywhere. She did not arrive in the form of a roommate, excited as I had been to meet the oft-imagined Jane Zelisky. I had spent days dreaming up our interactions— at last, I’d have a friend who would look beyond my off-putting exterior and adore hanging out with the real me, and I envisioned us together in every possible scenario— late-night pizza parties, midmorning chocolate bar hunts, afternoon sugar cereal binges— the full gamut of interpersonal adventures. My dream was shattered mere hours after arriving on campus by a geeky RA who bore an eerie resemblance to Howdy Doody. “Anna Norton?” the lanky redheaded boy asked cautiously, eyeing a clipboard and my room number. “I’m your resident advisor, George Macadamia, but every one calls me Nut on account of the whole Macadamia thing. They’re really popular in Hawaii— macadamia nuts, that is. I haven’t been to Hawaii, but that’s what I read online,” he babbled without making eye contact. An ease fell over me; Nut surpassed me in terms of both
awkwardness and randomness. “I’m here to talk to you about Jane,” Nut said with a strained face.
“Oh no! Is she okay? Was there an accident?” I screeched dramatically, covering my mouth with my hand as soap opera actors often do.
“Uh. I think she—”
“Is she dead? Is my friend dead?” I screamed, milking the whole “friend” thing for all it was worth. I bent over, clutching my stomach as if poisoned, then straightened to beat my breast in anguish.
“Um . . . um . . . ,” Nut stuttered, visibly uncomfortable with my emotional outburst.
“I knew it! She’s dead! Oh God, why? Why did you take my friend?” I wailed, tears in my eyes. My belief that Nut was on an equally nerdy playing field freed my inner drama queen and then some.
“Actually, she deferred a year, so it looks like you’re going to have the room to yourself.”
It would have played better if she’d died, I thought ruefully.
“Um, isn’t there someone else who needs a roommate?” I managed to pull myself together enough to ask.
“Nope, but I’m across the hall if you need anything.”
Again channeling my inner actor, I regurgitated a scene from many a made-for-TV movie. I slid down the door to portray my complete and utter misery. Slumped over on the floor, visions of the girls’ bathroom at Paul Revere played through my mind, making my tears all too real. Friendship, that ever-elusive mistress, had once again duped me, leaving me with nothing but a weird resident advisor named Nut. Although there was something else to consider. Did Nut tell all the dorm residents where he lived? Or was that a play for friendship? Perhaps even more than friendship? Nut was an übernerd, but that didn’t diminish my desire to win him over with my feminine wiles. No one had ever liked me. In twelve years of formal education, not one boy ever engaged in a crush on me. Girls missing limbs, girls with moustaches, girls with halitosis, and girls with chronic nosebleeds all experienced the sensation of being liked, yet I never made the cut. I yearned to believe that my past was no longer relevant at Penn. Nut would be my white knight! Was he the first sign of FG’s intervention? While devastated by the loss of my friend Jane, my focus had already shifted to my boyfriend Nut.
Hello Fatty,
I’ve met the man who will take my virginity, starting FG’s long-awaited makeover. His name is Nut, and, well, all I can say is I’m NUTS for him. One nerd to another, this is love.
— Anna
The following day I entered the dining hall at 7:30 a.m. for the express purpose of launching my relationship with Nut. I deemed a breathy voice necessary to aid in the seduction. “Um, hello Nut,” I offered in my best Melanie Griffith imitation. Of course, he had already heard my awkward real voice. Visibly affected by my new voice— or so I hoped— Nut could barely respond.
“What?” he said without making eye contact.
“I said hello, Nut,” I whispered.
“Um, okay. Hi, I guess,” Nut said while chewing.
“You guess?” I squawked indignantly before remembering my stage directions and seductively moving my tongue back and forth across my lips.
“Okay, hi.”
I sat down across from Nut and continued my journey to humiliation. “You know I’ve always loved macadamia nuts.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, they’re my favorite nut.”
“Mine, too,” Nut said, finally making eye contact. “I used to be allergic to nuts as a child, but around the time my peeps in high school started calling me Nut, the allergy disappeared.”
“Wow, you’re a medical miracle,” I exclaimed, not even bothering to use my sex kitten voice.
