The Next Big Thing (A novel about Internet love, plus size heroines, and reality TV)

by Johanna Edwards

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. I didn’t waste time asking how she was doing. That was an open-ended question that would invite a twenty-minute answer. I had to cut to the chase. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Oh my God!” I heard her draw in a breath. “You’re pregnant!”

  “Mom, no! Good God, that’s not even possible,” I said, feeling my face flame up.

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked, suspiciously.

  “Nothing,” I assured her. “Don’t worry about it.” It had been many long agonizing months since I’d had sex. The last thing I wanted to do was admit that to all of America.

  “Kat, you’re not gay, are you?” she demanded.

  “Mom!” I exclaimed, horrified. “Believe me, I’m straight. Now, I’ve only got five minutes here, less than that by now, and I’ve got to get this out.”

  Before she could butt in, I blurted out: “I’m in Los Angeles. I got cast on a reality television show.”

  “Pat!” she screamed, summoning my father to pick up the extension. “Oh dear,” she said. Then, “Oh, no!” She alternated between the two for a few seconds until my father picked up the line.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “I’m on a reality TV show,” I said.

  “What channel?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m going to go put it on.”

  I groaned. “Dad, I’m not on right now. We’re filming. And I’ve only got a minute or two before the producers cut me off. I just wanted to say that I love you guys and I’ll be thinking about you lots. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now, but I couldn’t.”

  For the first time in what seemed like forever, both of my parents were speechless.

  Finally, as the last few seconds of the phone conversation dwindled away, Mom asked,

  “You’re not on that island show, are you? Because, if you are, don’t drink the water! Those people come home infected with parasites and all kinds of deadly tropical diseases.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No Mom, I’m in L.A. The water’s perfectly fine.”

  “Hey, what’s this show called?” my dad asked. “I wanna be sure and watch it.”

  “Uh, it’s called From Fat to Fabulous,” I whispered, as though lowering my voice would somehow make the title less humiliating. “It’s a weight-loss show.”

  “Hmph,” my mother said.

  My father let out a small cheer. “Good for you, then. I’m glad to see you’re finally doing something about your . . . problem. Such a shame to suffer with that for so many years. You’ve always had such a pretty face,” he said.

  Mercifully, our conversation was cut off before I could respond.

  From Fat to Fabulous premiered on Saturday, June first at 8 P.M. Eastern Time—almost two weeks after we’d first entered the house.

  Zaidee announced the news over the loudspeaker that morning. “As of tonight, all of America will be watching From Fat to Fabulous,” she said simply, then clicked off.

  Nobody was happy with the time slot.

  “Saturday night is the graveyard of TV,” Alyssa began ranting as soon as we found out. “We’ll be lucky to get five million viewers.”

  “Think lower,” Janelle said. “We’re a summer show, remember. It’ll probably be closer to three million.”

  “We’re going to wind up one of those flash-in-the-pan shows that bombs and then goes off the air after one season,” Alyssa griped. “This isn’t what I signed up for at all.”

  The whole thing was too depressing for words. Nobody wanted From Fat to Fabulous to fail—we were hoping it would become a pop culture icon like Big Brother or American Idol.

  Even Maggie and I—the two contestants who professed to have the least interest in becoming celebrities—were visibly disappointed.

  “I kind of always pictured From Fat to Fabulous being a hit,” I admitted. At that moment, as I said those words, I realized how desperately I wanted the show to succeed.

  I vowed silently to do my part to spice things up.

  So when a reporter named Dean Abrams-Kreegley came to the house later that day to interview us for Entertainment Weekly’s online edition, I was ecstatic.

  My first meeting with the press. My first chance to radiate star potential. Me. In a feature on Entertainment Weekly’s website, one of my favorite magazines since I was a teenager. I thought, This must be how Julia Roberts felt on the eve of Pretty Woman’s release. One minute I was a nobody, the next I’d be a household name. I had to pinch myself to believe it was true.

  Dean Abrams-Kreegley was a short, unremarkable-looking man with a small potbelly and a receding hairline. He wasn’t unattractive, nor was he the slick celebrity reporter I’d been expecting. He looked like somebody’s middle-aged dad.

  He interviewed us one at a time in the living room, writing frantically in a notebook. I wanted to ask him why, considering he had placed not one, but two, tape recorders down on the table in front of me.

  But I thought it might be a stupid question, the kind of thing they taught you in Journalism 101. And the last thing I wanted was to be known as the Girl Who Asked Stupid Questions.

  Gigi Rucker sat in during all our interviews, carefully monitoring what was said. It was a bit nerve-wracking, but before long I was able to put her out of my mind, ignoring her the way I’d ignored the cameramen since day one.

  Dean’s visit was a much-needed breath of fresh air: I was so tired of staring at Janelle, Alyssa, Maggie, Luisa, and Regan, I’d have welcomed anyone—my mother and father notwithstanding—into the house.

  He asked a lot of general questions: how I’d found out about From Fat to Fabulous, what motivated me to apply.

  At every turn I attempted to insert something poignant and heartfelt. “I’m here as an ambassador for big girls everywhere,” I said, treating him to a sincere smile. “Through this show, I’m going to make sure the world knows how truly kind and wonderful most overweight people are. You shouldn’t fear us. We’re not monsters, contrary to popular belief.”

  “Interesting,” he mumbled, jotting something down. I beamed. I hoped they’d use that for a pull quote.

  “Kat,” Dean said, flipping through a stack of notes. “It says here your favorite book is The Great Gatsby. I find it very striking that you’d pick that, given how many of the themes in the novel—set in the excess of the Jazz Age—could be applied to today’s reality television craze. Do you care to comment?”

  Did I care to comment? What was this, Freshman Lit? The Great Gatsby has nothing to do with reality television! I bit my lip.

  Dean added, “Consider Gatsby’s incessant posturing, as well as his desire to become well-known and well-respected. It wasn’t enough to gain wealth; he needed to have the fame to feel satisfied. Much as many otherwise ordinary people so desperately crave the short-lived fame that comes along with a television appearance.”

  I glared at him. He had a lot of balls, calling my shot at fame “short-lived.”

  “There’s a whole host of ways you could connect it to America’s fascination with reality shows. When we watch these programs we’re seeing normal citizens portrayed as larger-than-life, Gatsby like characters. And consider, also, how Gatsby achieved the Great American Dream, much like a modern-day reality star. Because the American Dream is no longer rags-to-riches. The new American Dream is fame,” he said. “Everybody wants to be the next big thing.”

  When Dean still didn’t get an answer, he tossed me an easy one, “Who’s your favorite character in the book?”

  He eyed me suspiciously. It was obvious Dean thought I hadn’t read the novel.

  Well, I’d show him. I had read The Great Gatsby. Unfortunately, I’d read it nearly ten years ago. I’d put that answer on my questionnaire because it sounded smarter than saying my favorite book was Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. I didn’t think it would ever come up again, and now that it had, the only character I could remember was Gatsby himself.

  I
couldn’t say him, for obvious reasons.

  Think, Kat, think! I scolded myself. I looked to Gigi for help, but she just shrugged. I squinted my eyes, struggling to remember. But no matter how hard I concentrated, the names that came to mind were Redford and Mia. As in Robert Redford and Mia Farrow, the actors who’d starred in the movie version of the book. I knew Redford had played Gatsby, and Mia his love interest. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t recall her name.

  Then it came to me. Like light illuminating a darkened room, my mind filled with knowledge. “Nick,” I said at last. “My favorite character in The Great Gatsby was Nick.”

  I had never been so grateful to Nick Appleby in my entire life. He didn’t know it, but he’d jogged my memory.

  Dean raised an eyebrow in surprise. Clearly, he’d expected to catch me in a lie. Well, I’d showed him!

  “I like Nick because he’s a silent observer and as the narrator he offers all these really great insights to the reader.”

  It was a vague answer, and probably something that would never make the article. But I was relieved, nonetheless. If I’d failed to come up with anything, he’d have surely written about how foolish I was, not even recalling the simplest of details from my all-time favorite book.

  “So you work in PR. What’s that like?” I brightened. Finally, a bona fide chance to talk the firm up to the media. “I work for a top-notch firm named Hood and Geddlefinger. We’re talking the best of the best. Make sure you get it right,” I instructed. “It’s spelled G-e-d-d-l-e-f-i-n-g-e-r.”

  “Okay,” Dean said, not writing it down.

  “I love it there, but it’s not my dream career.”

  “That’s interesting. What do you want to do?”

  “Write romance novels. I love happy endings,” I told him, wondering what he’d say if I requested his business card. After all, he might be a good contact person for the future. Maybe he could get a review of my book in Entertainment Weekly. I decided against it. I wasn’t sure about the protocol, and didn’t want to appear inappropriate, or naïve.

  “I have it in my notes that you’d like your autobiography to be called Height/Weight Disportionate,” he said. “Now, is that a misprint?”

  I shook my head. “It’s a play on words. Like taking that saying ‘height/weight proportionate’ and altering it to fit me.”

  “Right,” Dean remarked, scribbling in his notebook. “And you want your title to be Height/Weight Disportionate?”

  I stared at him, realizing what he’d said. “Disproportionate,” I corrected.

  “That’s not what it says here.” He thumbed through his stack of papers, retrieving a Xeroxed copy of my application form. I stared down at the page and saw, much to my horror, in my late-night dash to finish the application I’d misspelled the word. “It’s an honest mistake,” I fumbled. “I was tired.”

  “Mmm hmm. Well, we’re pretty much done here,” Dean said, rising from his seat and shaking my hand. “It’s been nice talking with you, Kat Larson. Good luck in the competition.”

  “Okay, guys, worst fat-girl moment.”

  “Oh, God,” I groaned. “Do we really have to do this?”

  “Yep. It’s on the card,” Alyssa said.

  The following Tuesday, Zaidee came on over the house intercom and ordered us into the living room. When we got there, we found a stack of index cards containing various “discussion questions.”

  “I’d like you to all sit in a circle and then, one by one, go down the list of question,” Zaidee’s voice commanded, drifting down from the ceiling.

  I hated all the games she made us play. I often found myself wishing we did something useful, like learning how to cope with stress eating, or discussing tips to get the most out of our exercise sessions. But, no. We played games.

  The first question on the list was simple: Describe your worst fat-girl moment. What makes it stand out above the rest?

  Alyssa was acting as emcee, prompting us to play along.

  “I don’t think I can pick only one,” Regan said. “There are too many.”

  We all nodded. It was true. How could we roll a lifetime of insults and demoralization into one pat answer?

  “Okay, I’ll go first,” Maggie volunteered. “A few weeks ago Thomas, Owen, and I go out for a steak dinner. Thomas and Owen place their orders, no problem. But when I ask for the twelve-ounce sirloin, the waiter tells me, and I quote, ‘Ma’am, I suggest you have the grilled chicken salad. I don’t feel comfortable serving you a steak.’ So I say, ‘What I eat is my choice.’ Then he says ‘Ma’am, when a patron is too drunk, a bartender cuts him off—he brings him a club soda instead of a beer. When I see someone so obviously obese I cut them off from fattening food.’”

  My jaw dropped. I made a mental note to never visit Jackson, Mississippi, again so long as I lived.

  “Whoa,” Janelle said. “What the hell was his problem?”

  “You should have told him you were on Atkins,” I volunteered. “That would’ve shut him up.”

  “I’d have squirted ketchup in his face,” Luisa chimed in.

  “I’ve had that happen to me,” Regan said sadly. Maggie looked alarmed. “Someone’s squirted ketchup in your face?”

  “No, I’m talking about mean waiters. Lots of times when I go out to eat, waiters tell me about the dieter’s special, or offer to show me the low-calorie menu items.”

  “Guys, I don’t think that’s the kind of thing they’re looking for,” Alyssa jumped in. “It says, ‘worst fat-girl moment.’ Those are pretty trivial things you’re talking about.”

  “That was my worst moment,” Maggie said indignantly. “Unless I go back twenty years, before I was married.”

  “Alyssa, has a waiter ever been mean to you like that?” I asked.

  “No,” she admitted. “Well, then, don’t call it trivial.”

  “Whatever.” Alyssa rolled her eyes. “I’ll go next. Show you girls how it’s done. Two years ago, I was dancing in this club—”

  “Pole dancing?” I asked innocently.

  Regan burst out laughing so hard diet Coke spewed out her nose. “Sorry, Alyssa,” she said, running into the kitchen to get a napkin.

  “Kat, you are so mean.”

  “Fuck her. She’s jealous,” Alyssa said. She waited until Regan had returned, and then continued talking. “As I was saying before Kat rudely interrupted, I was in this club dancing and this man came up to me. Really nicely dressed—designer suit, the whole nine yards. He introduced himself and said he was a talent scout for ICM, and he was looking for some hot new acts to represent.”

  “Ooh,” Luisa said. “Let me guess, he wanted to ‘represent you’ in his bed?”

  Alyssa glared at her. “Hardly. The guy was legit. He wanted to sign me as a dancer, take me on the road for backup gigs with people like Janet Jackson.”

  I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. I couldn’t imagine any legitimate talent scout approaching a random girl at a dance club and inviting her to come on the road with Janet Jackson.

  Janelle and I exchanged pointed looks. “So, what happened next?” she asked.

  “Okay, so they flew me from Boston to New York and I met with all these record label execs and danced for them at their offices.”

  “What does this have to do with being big?” I asked. “Remember, they want your worst big-girl moment.”

  “Wait for it,” she said dramatically. “It’s coming. So, after I dance they were totally going to offer me a contract to go on the road but then this one exec guy goes, ‘Nope, she’s too fat. All our dancers have to wear a four.’” Alyssa sat back, folding her arms against her chest triumphantly. “So there you have it. Because I wasn’t a size four or smaller I couldn’t go.”

  Never in my life had I heard a story that reeked of so much bullshit, on so many different levels.

  “Alyssa, girl, you are a liar,” Luisa said. “They don’t do it like that. The musicians pick their dancers. It’s got nothing to do with some record la
bel guys. If you get to dance with Janet Jackson, it’s ’cause Janet picked you from a casting call herself.”

  “Have you ever been a backup dancer for a major act?”

  “Nope. But I hear things.”

  “Apparently you hear things wrong.” Alyssa shook her head. “That’s how it happened.”

  “Lordy, here we go again. All night, she talks like this,” Luisa griped.

  “What’s the point of this?” I asked, trying to head off a fight. “I don’t see why we have to waste our time answering a bunch of dumb questions.”

  “My guess is, they need some more footage for this week’s show,” Janelle suggested. “They’ll probably edit it so it looks like we just happened to be sitting around talking about these things.”

  “Really?” Regan asked in surprise.

  “You wouldn’t believe the things they can do with editing.” Janelle laughed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At the end of our fourth week in the house we were given a small treat: pasta with meat sauce and garlic bread for lunch. It was a welcome surprise; until that point our lunches had consisted of either grilled chicken salads with fat-free dressing, or sandwiches on low-carb bread with a side of celery sticks. It got old, quick.

  “Eat up. You’re going to need your strength,” Zaidee warned mysteriously, then clicked off of the intercom.

  “What was that all about?” Regan asked.

  “I guess Greg’s going to work us really hard or something,” I said. “Teach us how to bench-press the cameramen.”

  We laughed. Greg had become an inside joke. Our visits to the gym were turning out to be largely unhelpful, as Greg seemed more concerned with getting screen time than teaching us proper form. While most of us were sticking to a daily exercise schedule to fatten up our bank accounts, Greg had little impact on us. He was too busy preening for the cameras.

  When lunch was finished it was Jagger, not Greg, who came for us.

  “Hi, girls,” he said, breezing into the dining room. “Did you have a good meal?”

  “Excellent,” Janelle supplied. “Thanks.”