by Susan Vaught
Burke grabs my hand, then plows us through the rest of the people trying to beat second bell to class. He doesn't hesitate to bash people out of our way, and what with all the screaming from idiots flying in every direction, most underclass fools take a hint and make room.
He drags me all the way down Building Two's corridor—against the crowd flow, no less—until we get to the entrance of the journalism suite. Just inside the door, he pulls me aside and lays a big one on me, right on the lips, right against school policy.
I don't wear bubblegum lip gloss. Mine's vanilla. Big-girl flavor, for the big girl and her very big boy.
"You taste good," he whispers in my ear, over the catcalls and whistles ringing from the hallway.
Burke smells like sandalwood and oil and leather and everything guys are made of, and for two seconds, he makes the world completely go away. Sometimes I wish I was smaller, just so Burke could hold me closer. I feel shielded when he touches me. Safe and comfortable and absolutely relaxed.
When he lets me go, I give his ear a brush with my fingertips, because I know he likes that. He salutes me, wishes me luck with Freddie and NoNo, then takes off to his class before second bell can ring.
I watch him charge down the hall until he's out of sight, smiling like a giant goofball.
Okay, so I can't stay mad at Burke even though I know he is stranding me on the shopping trip from hell, because that's what any shopping trip with NoNo will be. I could go with my family, of course, but throwing myself from the Building Two roof has more appeal.
So NoNo it is. And if I beg Freddie, she'll come, too, even if her ulterior motive is to grab a major school cable-news piece, and watch NoNo wig out and drool all over a major high-end store.
. . .
The cafeteria seems more crowded and hotter than usual, but that's probably because I'm worried NoNo won't cooperate. We're sitting at a back table near the door, in the section the seniors stake out and defend vigorously, and nobody's too close to us. I think they can tell we're tense, and when Freddie, NoNo, and I get agitated, people scatter.
"Does Hotchix sell animal products?" NoNo jabs at her homemade trail mix of nuts, cranberries, and something purple and kind of square and squishy-looking. I have no idea what the purple square squishy stuff is and don't want to ask. I probably can't pronounce it anyway.
NoNo's muscles tense, making her skinny arms look that much skinnier, poking out of her Greenpeace T-shirt. "If they sell animal products, I don't want to cross their threshold. This cafeteria is compromise enough for one lifetime."
Freddie, in a green designer dress that costs more than everything in my closet, lets out a groan loud enough to be heard over the lunch clamor. "Hotchix is probably full of leather and fur—but that's why you want to go in. We'll get 'em three ways from Sunday, on everything you can think of, in print and on the cable news." She manages a bite of cafeteria mac-and-cheese without getting a smidge on her dress. A skill, truly. One I don't have.
I'm not eating. I haven't eaten in front of people since fifth grade, when I got tired of the staring, even from the teachers. When I was younger, I used to throw fits and scream, or cry and try to explain that even though I was fat, I still had to eat a meal here and there. Then, slowly, I got to where I just didn't feel hungry if other people were around to watch.
"Please, NoNo?" I give her my best-friend gaze. "We need your body type to make the point, and we'll totally back you up on the animal-products angle."
NoNo chases around some of the purple squishy things with her fork. She glances up at me with those wide green puppy eyes, and her cheeks flush pink underneath her big brown freckles. Her red hair is shorter than most of the dykes Freddie knows, because she's donated it again, this time for cancer-kid wigs, I think.
"All right. I'll do it." She shivers. "But no animal products touch my skin."
I grin.
Freddie grins bigger. I can already see the wheels spinning in Freddie's newswoman brain, about how to play this, and play it big. She'll have some major ideas.
I foresee hidden cameras.
Social discomfort.
Sociopolitical commentary.
Animal products and by-products.
Yeah.
I wonder if NoNo is still taking pills for her nerves.
. . .
By the time we finish this little expose shopping trip, NoNo will need some kind of medication. That much I know for certain. By the time Freddie drops me off at home after play practice and newspaper stuff, it's nearly midnight, and my folks are already asleep. Mom's left me a sweet little note about not working too hard, and she's left me a plate, too.
I rip off the foil. Beans with greens and cornbread, and mac-and-cheese way better than anything the school could make. "Poor man's feast," my dad calls this meal. It's his favorite. And I'm totally starving from not eating all day long. Just the sight of the food makes my stomach ache and rumble, and I eat it way too fast... everything on the plate and left over in plastic containers in the fridge, too—not that there's much, because my dad polishes off a lot, trust me.
I finish with five or six cookies. Just a few, even though I want the whole bag.
I'm trying.
I really am trying, though I'm not totally sure why.
It never really matters.
The Wire
REGULAR FEATURE
for publication Friday, August 10
Fat Girl Pornographing
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
That got your attention, didn't it?
Quit being a pervert.
I'm not talking about the oh-so-illegal-at-this-school sex thang. I'm talking about the third definition of pornography, according to the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition:
Lurid or sensational material.
Yeah, that definition. The one that gets lost in all the body parts and grunting sounds, especially in perverted minds like yours. Mind out of the gutter now? Good.
I think we all agree that dirty pictures, whatever the degree of dirtiness, probably qualify as lurid and sensational. Next down the ladder we have scenes of gory death like in stalk-and-slash movies or "real life" accident footage. There is definitely something wrong in a society where sex flicks get trashed as illegal, but snuff flicks make billions at mainstream movie theaters.
Then we have the more insidious—that's sinister, subtle, or menacing for all you can't-read-above-fifth-grade-level types. Like pictures of bloody streets and dead gang members and hysterical relatives screaming and waving their hands. That's lurid, and definitely sensational. Usually, newscasters say something about racial violence or poverty or God knows what, but behind them, blood and pain stain the television screen.
My friend NoNo and I think shots of Holocaust victims can be pornographic. Shock value. Exploitative. It depends on how they're used—to commemorate and honor the dead is one thing, but to do that "Face of Death" thing, that makes me totally sick. Ditto photos of civil rights workers who didn't survive. What they did matters, sure, but so often these pictures are pornography, used without regard for relatives, friends, or other people who might be devastated by the images.
So far, I think we might be agreeing on what constitutes pornography, in that third definition way. Now, I'll probably piss you off.
Let's talk about the endless television news reports about obesity, featuring big jiggly bellies and fat waggling butts walking down the street. Fat bellies just strolling along, like they have some right to be in the world. They never show faces or eyes or mouths or opinions or thoughts. Nope. Just the bellies and butts, with a sound bite about what the obesity epidemic is doing to our nation or our health-care system or whatever they're hyped up about that day.
And worse—a whole new level of worse—health broadcasts showing fat people eating. Shoveling in those high-fat foods. Or shots of half-ton people flopping around in their beds or getting hauled to the hospital on slings and hoists usually used to lift whales for
transport.
Why isn't this pornography?
Simple answer: It is.
It's designed to maximize the horror and disgust felt by people less fat than the bellies and butts. It's designed to make you say, "Jesus God, how can they do that to themselves?"
I'll tell you what it really is, though. It's spectacle. It's lurid. It's way past sensational.
It's pornography.
If the evening news wants a jiggling belly shot, hey, I'll go volunteer—but I'll get my say in the process. Tattooed across my swaggling giant butt will be the phrase: GET A FRIGGIN' CLUE.
Across my belly, you'll read: I'M STILL A PERSON.
Surprise. Did you know that? Does that matter to most viewers? Does it matter to you?
It doesn't matter to the pornographers.
Stop the exploitation.
Stop all pornography.
CHAPTER
TWO
Freddie, NoNo, and I stare at the glitzy storefront window of Hotchix on Wednesday afternoon, at exactly 4:30 PM. It'll make for a tight deadline given the paper goes to press Thursday, but play practice usually goes short on Wednesdays and I've got my homework in reasonable shape. We've already spoken to all relevant adult obstacles. No worries, though. We have the blessings of Principal Edmonds (Yeah, stick it to the man—I mean, the woman—whatever—stick if to somebody), Ms. Dax (Bold journalism, girls), our parents (Don't you dare get arrested), and his ed-itorialness Heath Montel (I like it. It's got ba—uh...).
Freddie supplied the word ovaries, by the way, with an appropriate you-are-such-a-caveman glare.
Hotchix is the store, of course.
One thousand square feet of haute couture, teen-style. All the best girls get their hot threads from Hotchix, but I have never seen a Hotchix model who has any body fat.
The three of us gaze into the window of glamour as the rattle-tattle thunder of the south end of Garwood Su-permall washes up and back like a psychotic tide. All the noise echoes the waves crashing in my brain.
NoNo looks like her brain went on holiday last week, but NoNo often looks like that. It's deceptive. As for Freddie, well, her brain's probably busy picking out escape routes for when NoNo finds animal products and starts screaming and throwing things. Freddie's been best friends with NoNo and Burke since they were little kids. I met them all six years ago, when my family moved to Garwood.
Since NoNo's in such a wad, Freddie keeps peeking over the top of her sparkly sunglasses and fiddling with the jewel-studded earpieces. Any second now she'll dislodge the wires to the voice-activated MP3 recorder Heath hot-wired into her prized shades—forget about the tiny wireless cam crowning the V-neck of her purple lace and muslin dress. With her silky black hair piled into a perfect princess up-do, Freddie looks more like a fashion-runway escapee (from a country with body-fat requirements for their models, because honey, Freddie's got hips) than a coconspirator, but she's the biggest activist I know. Other than me, of course. And NoNo. Buuu-uuut, NoNo's "causes" run a little different from the mainstream—or are at least more extreme.
I'm wearing my usual, a size 4X loose-fitting shirt with a blue skirt. It's way easy to hide cameras and mics all over me, though Heath thought my curly blond hair was probably the best place to tuck wires.
You have the thickest hair, he had told me while he worked with his big hands behind my ears.
That had made NoNo snicker, and made Freddie kick NoNo, at which point NoNo said a few words NoNo doesn't normally say. Freddie can do that to a person.
As for NoNo, she's in her usual attire, too. Bright blue hemp jeans and a dye-free colorgrown red striped T-shirt reminding me of that kid in the Where's Waldo? books, only lots less vivid. We had a hell of a time finding anywhere to hide anything electronic on NoNo, but she agreed to wear a bulky hemp necklace and carry a bag, after we proved it wasn't leather or any other product derived from animals or animal testing, and made in a country that does not use child labor.
We argue again for a few seconds about who should go in first and decide on Freddie, since she's sort of middle ground. Too big in the hips for a lot of Hotchix stuff, but not totally off their snubby little planet. Then we wait until the store's empty except for the saleswomen.
Freddie erases her usual serious, intelligent expression, the one that she uses when she's Ms. News Anchor on the Garwood High cable station, and walks into Hotchix.
NoNo and I watch as fashion hell swallows Freddie whole.
My breath catches in my chest—the group of clerks look like they might turn rabid and eat her.
Don't panic.
Have you lost your mind?
Probably.
I check the button on my recorder, then NoNo and I watch Freddie rifle through the racks and hold up a few items. The cluster of saleswomen glance one from the other. I see a sneer or two, and one whispers to the lady next to her. That lady takes about a minute to head over to Freddie.
That's NoNo's cue. Strands of her very short red hair stick to her pale, freckled forehead as I give her the go-on thumb jerk.
NoNo blinks. Swallows hard. "They have so many animal-based products in that store, Jamie," she whispers, like anyone but me could hear her over the dull roar of the mall.
"Nothing will bite you, I swear to God." I resist the urge to shove her forward. "We're exposing them, remember? Just think of how you can use all the animal stuff in your column."
Of course she writes for Green Revolution, the city's underground conspiracy rag, circulation twenty. Maybe twenty-five. But NoNo seems to take strength from this idea. She straightens to her full height, almost five feet ten inches, and heads into Hotchix.
She doesn't even get to a clothes rack before all three remaining saleswomen move to engage her. The one who reaches her first looks close to our age, but I figure her for midtwenties. All of them look about that old. Hotchix probably has hiring profiles, screening for girls with a youthful, thin, chic appearance.
NoNo's victorious clerk is busy yanking things off hangers and out of stacks and loading them into NoNo's scrawny arms while the other four saleswomen wander back toward the registers.
It's my turn now, baby.
Get ready, Hotchix. Here I come.
Over the threshold and through the door.
The aroma hits me first. Leather and cotton, with undertones of cedar. It smells new inside Hotchix. And young. And, as much as I hate to admit it, good. Didn't expect that, but okay. I can take it. Should have figured on some unknowns, since I don't go in stores like Hotchix very often, even to shop with NoNo or Freddie.
In real life, I'm relegated to Diana's and the West End, and lately, as I've gotten a little larger, just to Diana's. Diana's smells like old-lady perfume, and they sell lots of lime green and bright purple stuff for "mature, shapely" women, which I've never quite figured out. I don't fancy myself as a giant grape. Do older fat women cherish looking like grapes? My grandmother made my blue skirt. At least she gets the whole no-grapes-please thing.
NoNo's high-pitched voice lifts over the top-ten soundtrack blasting through the store as she asks if the jacket the clerk just loaded on to her try-on stack is real leather. Freddie's head turns, calculating the location of the exits. She locks eyes with me for a few seconds, then goes back to picking out an outfit or two with her bored saleswoman.
The clerk with NoNo assures NoNo it's faux leather and keeps piling on options.
Of the two available salesclerks in Hotchix, neither of them comes toward me. They study me, though, and I catch each expression on camera. Surprise, annoyance, then eye-rolling. Mild disgust, followed by a head-to-toe check of my body, and more obvious disgust. They stop looking at me and start talking to each other.
I catch bits and pieces of what they say.
. . . Not sure why she's here.
Can'I be to shop...
Bel her boyfriend can't wait to get some of that...
Maybe buying a gift. You go.
Nofriggin' way. You.
This I'm ready for. I've heard it more than once. Lots, in fact. Which is why I shop at Diana's, where the clothes make me look like a grape.
The women at the register give me a few more snide expressions, then ignore me. Seems like the bigger I get, the more invisible I become. Another fifty pounds, and I'll be an outright ghost.
Freddie and NoNo, who are not ghosts, head toward the fitting rooms with their sales associates in tow. While they're gone, I go through three racks, all full-price stuff, and two different tables of shirts.
No one says a word to me.
The clothes are hot, damn it. Especially the stuff with tassels and bangles and wild designs. So much attitude. My taste, no question. It bugs me I can't wear any of the colorful, fresh things I touch, that the gods of clothes making don't mass-produce stuff for Fat Girls. We're what, three in ten now, stats-wise? But stores like Hotchix would rather ignore us thirty-percenters. Guess our money doesn't spend as well as Freddie's or NoNo's.
Still nothing from the clerks, except snickers if I handle something especially small.
After about ten minutes, like we planned, I wave at the counter huggers. "Hello? Excuse me? I'd like some assistance."
My two victims glance at each other. I swear if I hadn't been watching, they would have drawn straws or done rock-paper-scissors. The nearest clerk moves from behind the counter, but I think she got pushed, judging by the way she stumbles. By the time she gets to me, though, she's smiling and chirpy and sales-y and trying oh-so-hard not to rake my large body up and down, up and down, with her big blue eyes—and probably working twice as hard not to roll them halfway back in her head. With her spiky blond hair and the way her cheeks and lips puff out, she reminds me of a blowfish. Her nametag says Pepper.