“Fair enough,” says Elliot, taking the script.
I almost don’t let go — it feels like I’m giving up a baby or something, or at least handing over my private diary, and I hold on a little harder than I mean to so that Elliot sort of has to yank the thing out of my hand.
“I’m not sure I have everything in the best order,” I say. “And you can cut anything of mine, but we’ve got to use Cameron’s songs.”
Cameron has already written three numbers: “It Sucks to be Fat,” to the tune of “It Sucks to be Me” from Avenue Q; “Defying Gravity,” rewritten from Wicked into a victory anthem for the fat heroine who triumphs over her low self-esteem; and my favorite, “Blubber,” to the tune of “Trouble” from The Music Man. If you ask me, that one’s freaking brilliant.
The next day after third period I head out to the props trailer. I’m pretty nervous, because I know by now Elliot, Cameron, and Suzanne have all read the script and I’m not sure how I will handle it if they don’t like it. Suddenly this idea — writing a script, putting on a show, defying Mr. Parkinson and the theatre department and the school and Cynthia Pirelli — has become my whole life. If it doesn’t work — well, I try not to think about how that would feel.
I open the door and step into the trailer, and the three of them are sitting on the sofa with these serious looks on their faces, like they’re the judges on American Idol or something. I don’t quite know what to say, so I just stand there for a second, bracing myself for the punch in the gut I’m afraid is coming.
Then Elliot stands up and holds up a bottle of Coke and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you future Tony Award winner Miss Agatha Stockdale!” And Suzanne and Cameron stand up and start clapping and Elliot puts his arms around me and I just fall into his hug limp with relief. They liked it. They really liked it.
“I tell you,” says Elliot, “Jewish immigrants have Fiddler on the Roof, the descendants of slaves have The Color Purple, Hispanics have In the Heights — “
“And half of West Side Story,” says Cameron.
“And now,” says Elliot, “fat people are gonna have — whatever the hell we decide to call this masterpiece.”
“To the fat people,” says Cameron, raising his Coke and winking at me.
“To the fat people,” says Suzanne, and they all three clink bottles and then grab me in a massive group hug, and life just couldn’t possibly get any better.
Then I find out I’m failing math, I hear a rumor that Cynthia Pirelli has a crush on Roger Morton, I realize I still have to write most of the second act, and I remember I have an audition tomorrow and I haven’t even started learning my monologue. And once again, it sucks to be me.
Scene 5
I had imagined the School of the Arts audition being held on an empty stage in a cavernous theatre, where I would stride with purpose to the apron, say my name, and then act the hell out of my two monologues into the darkness. Instead, I’m sitting on a plastic chair in a fluorescent-lit hallway outside an ordinary classroom. I got a peek in when the last girl came out looking like she was going to throw up, and there are four people sitting at a table about three feet from where you have to act, and there is no darkness to hide them. Crap! Here’s the deal with me and college — Mom has no money at all; Dad and Karl make a decent living, but they thought it was more important to send me to a good middle and high school, so they spent a lot of savings on Piedmont Day. So even with their help I’ll need some sort of scholarship to go to Carnegie Mellon or Northwestern. But the School of the Arts is public, and it’s in-state, which means we could afford it no problem. Plus their drama program is one of the best. Terence Mann went there, and he was the Beast on Broadway, and Javert. So I’m not exactly putting all my eggs in one basket, as Miss O’Brien so annoyingly calls it, but this audition is a BIG DEAL. If I nail this, my dream isn’t just alive, it’s kicking ass. If I screw it up — well, I don’t even want to think about that right now.
The door opens and closes again, and another girl who looks like she’s gonna puke staggers out and they call out another name that’s not mine. I wish Elliot could have waited in here with me. He drove me over to Winston-Salem because Dad was working and Karl was on call, but only auditioners are allowed in the green room (they actually call it that, even though it’s not a room and it’s not green). Elliot would at least take my mind off my impending doom. He’d think of something to say that would dissolve, for a few minutes anyway, the rock in my stomach. Elliot is like that — he’s brilliant and cool and everything, but when you really need him, even if you’re a fat girl who’s failing math, he’s just a regular guy who’ll hold your hand and talk to you and make you feel better. Only now he’s probably pacing the parking lot, and the thought that he’s stuck out there waiting for me with no idea what’s going on makes me more nervous instead of less. And the door bangs again, the sick looking kid (a guy this time) walks out, and not-my-name is called.
On top of everything else I’m taking a gigantic risk with both my monologues. You have to have one classical and one contemporary, and the classical one was Mr. Parkinson’s idea — this is back when he was my friend and mentor and before he became the devil incarnate, or at least bewitched by the demon of artificial cleavage.
“You don’t think it’ll make me look like an idiot?” I asked him.
“It’ll make you look bold,” he said.
God, I hope he’s right. If there’s one thing I don’t feel right now, it’s bold. And then there’s my contemporary monologue. That I can’t blame on Mr. Parkinson. That one is all my fault. Mr. Parkinson gave me like six to choose from — I can’t even remember where they were all from now. One was from Love Letters, I know, because I liked that one. It was Melissa as a teenager after she gets sent away to boarding school and hates it. I understood. But I let them all languish on my desk while I worked on this stupid unnamed play and in the end I decided — oh, crap — door opening again, very sick looking kid this time (honestly not sure if it’s a boy or a girl).
“Agatha Stockdale.”
Crap.
There they sit. Four total strangers who hold my life in their hands. My eyes are watering and I can hardly see them, which is a good thing, but I’m also twice the size of anyone else they’ve seen this morning, and standing there in front of them like some sort of animal being inspected, I’m suddenly hit by the futility of trying to be a fat actress. Sure there’s an occasional Roseanne or Rosie who gets to play the cynic or the best girlfriend, but who wants to plunk down $100 for a Broadway ticket to see some fat chick? Not me, that’s for sure. And yet here I am, fat Aggie, foolishly auditioning for one of the best acting schools in the country just so I can get my heart broken. Again.
“When you’re ready you can begin with your classical piece,” says a voice.
When I’m ready! I’ll never be ready. So I swallow hard, stare at a smudge on the wall just above the firing squad, picture a field in France, and begin.
This day is called the feast of Crispin.
He who outlives this day and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named…
The good news is that as I put myself on that field in France, rousing a tiny band of Englishmen to go into battle against a great French army, the room fades away. Mr. Parkinson taught me this. He worked this monologue with me every day after school for a month until I could completely disappear into it. And now instead of the faces of my executioners, I see the faces of Bedford and Exeter, of Warwick and Talbot, of Salisbury and Gloucester. I see them gradually come to believe that we can win, that against all odds we can bring glorious victory to England, and to me — King Harry.
That’s right. You see, Parkinson’s idea was that I play the role of Henry V, who, in case you didn’t know, was a guy. So even though I disappear into the speech, even though I think I do a pretty good job under the circumstances, there is still a tiny part of my brain that is not in France, that is not Harry — a tiny part of my
brain is still in that room inside that fat girl and looking at that firing squad and thinking this was such a bad idea. They’re going to think I don’t even know the boys’ parts from the girls’.
And as I finish the last few lines, the rest of my brain returns from France to join me in that room.
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
And now every fiber of my being is shouting at me Bad idea! Bad idea! And I can only imagine that the silence from the table is stunned incomprehension. “What on Earth do we say to the crazy fat girl?”
“Henry the Fifth,” says a voice.
Crap, crap, crap. You’re supposed to say the name of the play and the character before you do the monologue. Now I really am an idiot.
“Yes,” I say, in a voice that is almost below the level of human hearing.
“And your contemporary piece?” says the voice.
Crappity, crap, crap, crappers. I can’t tell them the name of my contemporary play. It doesn’t have a name. I haven’t named it yet. You see, I spent so much time working on Aggie’s big monologue that I knew it backwards and forwards by the time I was done, so I figured what could be more contemporary than a monologue that was written this week? But I haven’t named the freakin’ play yet, and now I have to give it a name right now.
I try to conjure up the list I had on the back of an envelope on my desk at Dad’s. Drama Queen, Fat Blog, Fat — something else. I can’t remember. All I can remember is that a lot of them had “Fat” in the title.
Then suddenly I think about the fact that I have to sing sixteen measures of a song a capella after I finish my monologue, and after the disaster that was my Hello, Dolly! audition, I know that will be the final nail in the coffin of my dream, and the title comes to me.
“My contemporary monologue is from The Fat Lady Sings,” I say. “I’ll be performing the role of Aggie.”
There’s an awkward silence while I wait for them to say, “And who’s the playwright?” and then I will be completely busted. I don’t know for sure that you can’t perform your own material, but I’m guessing.
“Whenever you’re ready,” says the voice.
Bullet dodged. I begin.
Are you Tim? Hi Tim, I’m Aggie. I’m your two o’clock. Oriental hot stone massage — that’s me. I guess you’re wondering why I’m standing here wrapped in a shower curtain instead of lying on the massage table. It’s a funny story, actually. Well, maybe not “funny.” I guess “pathetic” is a better word.
That’s where you laugh and break the tension, but instead — awkward silence. Oh, well.
You see, I came here with my friend Suzy. You probably saw her in the lounge. She’s the perky one. Every part of her is perky. Her knees are perky! Anyhow, Suzy, she’s my best friend. Surprise, I know — the prom queen and the fat girl, who would think, right? So for my birthday Suzy says she’s going to give me a spa day, and I figure a manicure and a yogurt shake or something like that. I mean, I’ve never been to a spa, so I say “sure.” So we get here this morning and we have our manicures and our yogurt shakes and then Suzy wants to take our clothes off and go into a steam room.
Are you self-conscious, Tim? Probably not — what am I saying? I mean, look at you — you’re practically a god. I mean, are those muscles even real? Sorry. Anyway, where was I?
Oh, right, so we’re sitting in this steam room, naked. Naked! And of course Suzy is perky — I mean, her ankles are perky and her — well, you know. They’re extremely perky. But not me. “Droopy” would be a better word for me. If I were a dwarf, I’d be Droopy the Dwarf. I know, I know — I’m not exactly a dwarf.
So we’re sitting there and I’m hoping maybe Suzy will think my cheeks are bright red because of the heat, not because I’m mortified with embarrassment to be naked in front of another human being, especially a perky one. And Suzy’s just talking! Just chattering on like we were fully clothed and eating hamburgers. And I’m just wondering if it would be socially acceptable for me to wrap my towel around myself — although to be honest, Tim, I am not sure it would fit. I mean, have you seen the towels in this place? They are not made for coverage, I tell you. When I buy a towel, I want acreage. These things are Lilliputian.
So just when I don’t think I can stare at the wall any longer pretending not to see Suzy’s body and hoping, please God, that she’s not looking at mine — though honestly how can you miss it — the door opens and this other woman steps in. A complete stranger. And she’s naked. And she’s perky! And that’s it for me — I rush out, clutching the towel to try to cover at least some of my lack of perkiness, but as soon as I’m in the hall I see a woman walking towards me and she is wrapped in one of your towels, so you can imagine how tiny she is. So I turn the other way and there you are and — well, you know what you look like, I’m sure. I mean, there are mirrors all over this place. I know — I’ve been trying to avoid them all day.
Now I’m trapped, so I open this door and hide in this room. You know this room. And then of course I hear the handle turning, so I make a dash for the shower in the corner there, and that’s when I drop my towel — not that it was doing me much good. And then you come in and the other lady comes in and — well, I guess you know what happened after that. I mean, you were here. What was that, like, a ninety-minute massage? Must have seemed a lot longer for you the way she rattled on and on about her husband and his poker club. Does everyone talk through the whole thing like that?
Anyway, after ninety minutes you start to forget that you’re naked in a shower listening to someone else’s massage. So when you leave, and then she leaves, I step out and I am just stretching because ninety minutes standing still on a tile floor is not great for my back — since I’m not thin or perky — and my sweaty foot slips on the tile and I grab the shower curtain and there is this brief Psycho moment when I hear the rings popping off the rod and I imagine you finding my body sprawled on the floor. But I’m OK. I mean until a second later, when I hear you coming in I’m OK.
Then I panic and wrap myself up in the shower curtain, which I have to tell you fits a lot better than those towels, and so now here I am. Your two o’clock.
OK, on the one hand, I think I kind of nailed it. I got all the beats right, and I think I balanced the humor and insecurity pretty well. I even heard laughter coming from the firing squad at a couple of points, which is a good sign. The problem is, I’m afraid they’ll think I wasn’t acting. I mean, even if they don’t know I wrote it, they’ve got to realize that I’m an insecure fat girl just like the one in the monologue. I didn’t exactly show range.
The singing audition is a blur, because even while I’m singing “Home” from Beauty and the Beast (or sixteen bars of it, anyway) I’m going back over the monologue in my head, trying to figure out if they laughed in the right places, if there’s anything I could have done better. By the time someone says, “Thank you very much,” I’ve pretty well convinced myself that all I’ve proven to them is that I’m crazy enough to do a man’s speech from Shakespeare and I can be myself in front of strangers for four minutes. In other words: disaster.
I stagger back out into the hallway, and it’s hard to believe it’s only been ten minutes since they called my name. I feel like I’m either gonna faint or throw up, and then I remember that everyone else who’s come out that door has looked sick, too, and that makes me feel slightly better, but only slightly.
Elliot is waiting for me outside the front door of the building. He takes one look at me and wraps me in a hug.
“I’ll bet you were fabulous,” he said.
“You know, I hear banking is a very rewarding career,” I say, doing my best to laugh off the feeling that my dream is ending here on this freezing cold sidewalk.
“Yeah, well, with your math grade, I think you’d better stick to acting
,” says Elliot.
I don’t know whether to punch him or kiss him, so I just grab his arm and pull him towards the car. “Take me home,” I say.
Elliot points the car towards the interstate and I do my best to forget the fact that I will probably never see this campus again.
“I heard a rumor something was going on between Roger and Cynthia,” I say. “Do you know what the deal is?” I figure I went into the weekend with three problems, one of them has now been dealt with one way or the other (the audition), I might as well start in on the other two (Roger and Cynthia, math class).
“I wouldn’t call it a deal,” said Elliot. “Although Roger did say that Cynthia’s been kind of coming on to him.”
“Coming on to him how?”
“I don’t know, just being flirty and stuff. You know how girls are around Roger.”
“She’s up to something, trust me. She has a plan.”
“Look, Aggie, I know you don’t want to believe this, but Cynthia Pirelli is not a diabolical genius.”
“Not a genius, maybe.”
“Didn’t you sort of like her before she got cast as Dolly?”
“And before she bought her boobs.”
“Yeah, well, before all that, didn’t you sort of like her?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say I liked her,” I say, though in truth I liked her just fine. In fact, she was the only skinny person outside the theatre department who ever gave me the time of day. And she did help a lot with math. But that was before.
“I know Roger Morton would never go out with me,” I say, “but it just bugs me that she gets to spend so much time with him.”
OK, it more than bugs me. As of yesterday, after I heard that Cynthia was into Roger, it officially keeps me awake at night.
“How do you know he would never go out with you?” says Elliot. I figure he’s trying to make up for the other day when he told me not to get any “illusions” about Roger.
“Oh, come on, Elliot. Have you ever seen Roger with a girl who had an ounce of body fat?”
The Fat Lady Sings Page 5