The Next Big Thing (9 page)

Sarah shrugged. “It’s the same stuff they asked on the application and over the phone. What’s the difference?”

“I don’t know,” I told her, punching the elevator button for the lobby.

“I guess it’s worse in person.”

“If you think that was bad, you should see what they ask you for
The Real World.
” She shuddered. “My God, every other question is about sex.”

I stared at her in surprise. “You tried out for
The Real World
?”

She nodded. “And
Survivor, Big Brother, The Bachelor.
You name it, I’ve auditioned for it. Hell, I even tried out to be one of the suitors on
The Littlest Groom
! The only one I can’t audition for is
American Idol,
and that’s because I have no talent.”

“But why?”

“I love reality TV,” she said simply. “I’m completely addicted to it.”

I leaned back against the elevator wall and thought this over. “Do they ever let big
ger girls on those shows?” I asked.

“Every once in a while they do. It’s not often. I made the finals of
Big Brother
and
The Real World
—I got flown out here to audition for both. But none of the other shows ever called me.” She grinned. “That’s why this is so exciting. Finally, I have a real chance to make the cast! Before, I was always hampered by my body, but this time it’s going to work in my favor.”

We reached the first floor and walked into the lobby.

“So what do you think our chances are?” I asked, as we grabbed two diet Cokes from the drink machine and sat down on one of the couches.

“It’s tough to say,” Sarah mused. “Making it this far is a pretty big deal. I’d say it’s fifty-fifty.” She took a giant swig of her drink.

“Really?”

“Think about it. There are twenty-five of us here. They’re probably going to pick between ten and fifteen for the show. Odds are, either me, you, or Regan will get picked.”

At the mention of Regan’s name I made a face. “What’s with that girl?” I asked. “She seems kind of ditzy. Really immature.”

“Ah, she’s not bad,” Sarah said. “She’s only nineteen, what do you expect?”

I changed the subject. “What do you suppose the producers will base their decision on?”

“God, I couldn’t even begin to tell you. If I had the secret formula, I’d have aced my auditions for
Big Brother
and
The Real World.
” Her eyes misted over at the thought. “I was so close both times, that’s what kills me.”

I patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t stress it. I bet you’ll get
From Fat to Fabulous.
If you play up your previous experience they’re bound to pick you.”

Sarah shot straight up in her seat, shaking her head vehemently. “Uh-uh. That’s the kiss of death. I’m going to play it
down,
if anything. I seriously considered lying on my application. But you can’t be too careful. It would be my luck that one of the crew here would recognize me from a previous reality-show audition.”

I eyed her quizzically. “Why is it such a big deal? I mean, I honestly can’t see how it would hurt.”

She tilted her head back and took another long drink from her diet Coke. “It turns the producers off, that’s how. They wonder why all these other shows rejected me, like maybe there’s a good reason I’ve never been selected before. Think of it like this: You wouldn’t go in for a job interview at UPS and say, ‘FedEx didn’t want me, Airborne Express didn’t want me, but I’m hoping you guys will!’”

She had a point. “Why do you think they interviewed us in a group?” I asked, shifting subjects. “They’re so hell-bent on secrecy I’m shocked they even allow us in the same room.”

“It helps them see how we respond in social settings,” Sarah informed me. “They don’t want to get saddled with some giant wallflower. The individual stuff tonight and tomorrow, that’s what I’m looking forward to. That’s where you really get the chance to shine, to show them how hungry you are for it.”

We both smirked.

“No pun intended,” she added.

Chapter Eight

When Gigi informed me we’d be getting medical exams I had imagined a huge group of big girls in wispy paper gowns lined up against a wall. When the itinerary revealed the location hadn’t yet been decided I imagined them parading us out into the hallway and examining us there. Or taking us to the lobby.

So when one of the crew members of
From Fat to Fabulous
came through the dining room at lunchtime passing out information about the doctor’s visits, it was all I could do to keep my food down.

“Can you believe they’re forcing us to get a medical exam?” Regan asked nervously. Regan, Sarah, and I had snagged seats close to the buffet table and were hurriedly scarfing down
turkey sandwiches.

I nodded sympathetically. I could only imagine the flack a girl like Regan must get from doctors. The first thing I always hear from a doctor is, “We’ve got to do something about your weight.” The last thing I hear when I walk out of their office is, “Next time you’re in I want to see less of you.”

The first time I saw that my internist, Dr. Irwin, had written
treating for obesity
on my medical chart I nearly cried. Okay, forget the nearly. I
did
cry. What he wrote shouldn’t have shocked me—I know he was just doing his job—but it did.

It’s not that I don’t know I’m fat. And, lest I ever forget, there are plenty of people—even total strangers—who are more than willing to remind me. I sure don’t need to hear it from a doctor.

And I especially don’t need their empty promises. Three different times, in fact, I have visited doctors who professed to know how to “treat” my weight problem. One prescribed pills, which, after reading the side effects (bowel incontinence), I decided not to take. I’d rather be 227 pounds than have to wear an adult diaper. Another doctor touted gastric bypass surgery. “There are some risks involved, including bleeding ulcerations and incessant vomiting,” he told me. “But I can’t overemphasize how rare those are. Overall, it is a very positive procedure. I’ve seen patients who couldn’t walk because they were so large get their lives back.”

“I walk just fine,” I said. “But thanks, anyway.”

But the worst was Dr. Irwin. He really had me psyched to get thin.

“We’re going to knock this weight off you, Kat,” he told me the first time we met. “And we’re going to do it the right way, without surgery or dangerous medications.”

When I told him about how difficult it was for me to lose weight – how I failed every diet I ever tried, how I would work so hard to lose some, only to gain it back – he seemed genuinely sympathetic, truly concerned.

“Do you suffer from fatigue?” he asked.

“Constantly.” I told him, which was the truth.

“Give your history with your history with your weight, this really sounds like hypothyroid,” he said, looking gravely concerned. “I’m shocked no one’s ever looked into it before!”

I’d certainly heard of an underactive thyroid and I had, at varying points, even suspected I might have one. My hair was awfully fine, almost straw-like, and I was always cold and always tired – when you combined that with the weight gain, I had all the classic symptoms (or so Google said).

No doctor had ever taken me seriously before. But Dr. Irwin
checked my thyroid, my blood sugar, my kidneys, my gallbladder, and a whole bunch of other things. His nurse took seven vials of blood from me. The spot on the crook of my elbow where she pricked me was a sickly green for days.

“If it’s an underactive thyroid we’ll have you sorted out in no time,” Dr. Irwin assured me. “Thyroid medicine makes you lose weight like you wouldn’t believe.” He sounded so assured that he’d figured out the problem, and was halfway to solving it. I was overjoyed. Finally, my prayers were being answered! I went around on cloud nine for days, anticipating the miracle thyroid medicine that was going to “sort me out.”

The day the test results came in was devastating. Dr. Irwin found nothing, and believe me, he checked everything. Even weird stuff like my BUN/Creat ratio. But nope, all levels were normal.

Usually, this would have been great news. But I took it like a death sentence. My
thyroid fix had evaporated into thin air. I kept on going to Dr. Irwin after that, but I never quite trusted him again.

Sarah interrupted my thoughts. “They do medical exams at all the reality-show auditions. The producers don’t want to bring on anybody who’s likely to get sick or hurt. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.” She
took a bite of her sandwich. “I’m actually relieved about this one. At least I’m not the only overweight person.”

We finished eating and got up from the table. We’d been divided into groups for our medical exams but, unfortunately, this time neither Sarah nor Regan was in the same one as me. I waved good-bye and went back to my room to freshen up.

My doctor’s appointment was scheduled for 2:00 P.M., which gave me just enough time to shower and change. The medical exams were being held on the seventh floor. I had assumed they would take place in a suite or a meeting area, but the location turned out to be a regular double room like mine. At least it wasn’t the lobby.

The doctor, a young, smiling woman in a white coat that read
Dr. Sloane,
greeted me at the door.

“Kat?” she asked tentatively.

I nodded and she held the door open and motioned me inside. A nurse stood by a table with various vials on it. Two other girls were perched nervously on one of the beds. A few minutes later, a third arrived. “Now that we’re all here, do any of you have questions about what we’re going to be doing today?”

I raised my hand. “I have a lot of questions. Nobody has told me
anything.
”

She briefly detailed the procedure. “I’m going to do a routine physical. Listen to your heart, check your blood pressure, breathing capacity, and so on. We’ll also take urine, blood, and a small hair sample from the base of your neck. Nothing invasive. Nothing to get too upset over. You girls look like you’ve been paid a visit by the grim reaper.”

I looked around at the other contestants. They were ghostly pale. They’d likely had to endure the same “fat girl” speeches from doctors that I had.

Luckily, Dr. Sloane seemed okay. Even if she did weigh us and make us change into the dreaded paper gowns. She finished around 3:00 P.M. and turned us loose. “Thanks, girls,” she said. “I appreciate your patience.”
 
 
 
 

As soon as I got back to my room I picked up the phone and dialed Donna’s cell. It was after 5 P.M. in
Memphis, which meant my package had been delivered.

The moment of truth had arrived!

My fingers were shaking so badly I goofed up twice and had to start over. Finally, I managed to get the number right. I listened to it ring.

When she answered, I would ask her to open the package and tell me what was inside. I knew I should wait until I got home on Monday—that was what Nick would have preferred—but I couldn’t. That was two whole days away. I needed to know NOW!

Donna picked up on the second ring.

“Is it platinum or g
old?” I shouted into the phone.

“Is what platinum or gold?” Donna asked. I hated it when she toyed with me like this.

“My engagement ring!” I yelled.

“Oh, yeah, the package.” The tone of her voice was not promising.

“What happened?” I asked, my heart sinking. “It’s not so much
what
happened. It’s who,” she told me. “Your landlord wouldn’t give it to me. He said it was a federal offense to read other people’s mail.”

All the energy drained out of my body and I toppled backward onto the bed. I felt like a deflated balloon.

“You’re kidding me.”

“ ’Fraid not. He said he couldn’t release your mail to anyone but you.”

“That bastard!”

“He isn’t the friendliest man,” she agreed. “But I do see his point. Anyone could say they’re a friend of yours. He’d have no way of knowing. And like you said, this package is expensive. I’m sorry, Kat, I tried.”

“I know you did. Thanks.”

“I did see it sitting on the table, though,” she said thoughtfully. “At least, I
think
I did. I couldn’t get close enough to read the name. But it was a giant FedEx box, like the kind you’d use to ship a TV. Do you know if Nick sent it FedEx?”

I strained to remember. “I’m not sure, but I know he picked the delivery time, so probably. But that can’t have been my package,” I said, shaking my head. “An engagement ring would come in a small box.”

I heard Donna groan.

“Don’t say it,” I warned her. I hoped she’d listen, but she didn’t.

“I hate to go here again, but I can’t help myself. I’m your friend and this is disturbing on so many levels. First off, Kat, I had no idea you were so eager to get married.”

I’m not. I’m eager to be engaged, to walk around flashing a diamond ring. Eager to have my life settled.

“And second off,” Donna continued. “Do you really want an engagement ring from a
total stranger
?”

“Nick’s not a total stranger!” I protested.

“Until you meet him, he’s a total stranger,” she argued. “And if he sends you an engagement ring—
in the mail
—he’s a total stranger who’s lost his mind.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay,” she obliged, her tone lightening. “How did it go today? I assume you’re finished with your interviews if you’re calling me.”

I kicked off my shoes and rolled over to the far corner of the bed.

“Not exactly,” I said. “Or maybe a better way to put it would be, I’m not sure.”

“Huh?” I explained we were “on call” all day, uncertain of when—and if—we’d be summoned upstairs for another round of interrogations.

I was about to launch into a tirade about Gigi and her attitude when I recalled what she’d said.
My lips are sealed.
I wasn’t supposed to be talking about any of this! I surveyed the hotel room suspiciously, rifling through the nightstand and peering under the bed. I don’t know what I expected to find. A hidden camera, a stashed tape recorder? If they really wanted to bug my room they’d have used something minuscule and undetectable.

“I’d better not talk about this,” I said. “My lips are sealed,” I threw in for Gigi’s benefit. If someone on the staff of
From Fat to Fabulous
was listening, I wanted to show I’d heeded their advice.

“Uh, okay,” Donna said. “I didn’t realize this subject was off-limits, too.”

“No, it’s not. I mean, it is!” I scrambled, struggling for the right words. “Legal reasons,” I finally said, dropping my voice to a whisper.

“Why are you talking so low?” Donna asked, mimicking my tone.

“The room might be bugged!” I hissed. “I don’t want anyone to overhear what I’m saying.”

“Kat, you’re too much. If there were bugs in your room, trust me, they’d be able to pick up whispering. And anyway, why in the hell are you worried about bugs?”

“We signed confidentiality agreements,” I said, still keeping my voice low. You can never be too careful. “If we tell anyone from home what’s going on out here, we could get disqualified . . .” I paused, dramatically. “Or even sued!”

“That doesn’t surprise me. But I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“You don’t know what these people are like,” I insisted.

“Kat, will you please talk in your normal voice!” Donna said.

“Uh-uh,” I whispered. “Bugs.”

“If the producers were going to do anything, they’d tap your phone, not bug your room. They’d be concerned about your calling people at home and spilling secrets,” Donna lectured. “Use your brain here.”

I winced. Donna was being a tad harsh.

“And anyway,” she added, “there are privacy laws protecting us from that kind of thing. We don’t live in a police state.”

There was a knock at the door. “Kat,” a voice called out. “You in there?”

“Donna, I gotta go,” I hissed. Slamming down the phone and leaping off the bed, I ran across the room. I prayed Gigi wasn’t on the other side of the door, come to send me packing. I brought my eye up to the peephole. When I saw who it was, I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief.

“Hi Regan,” I said, swinging the door open so she could step inside. I was surprised to find her standing there—she’d never asked my room number, or even what floor I was staying on.

“What’s up?”

“That Gigi woman has been trying to call you for half an hour but your line’s been busy,” she said. “And apparently your cell phone is off.”

Oh, shit!
My phone had died earlier that day and in all the excitement I’d forgotten to recharge it.

“She sent me down here to get you.”

Uh-oh.
My pulse quickened.

“Do you know what she wants?” I asked, trying to sound casual.