by Susan Vaught
GetLifeRight Enrollee Services Department
Energy drains out of me until I feel like a puppet with broken joints.
I sag back against the tattered seat. My face turns hot and I sweat worse. Probably stink worse than Mom's garlic-basted home clothes.
I should ball up the letter and pitch it to the floor. Should have done that when I first saw the envelope.
How is it fair that some fat people can afford to get treatment and other fat people don't even have a chance to make that decision? The news keeps saying that being fat is just as bad as having cancer, that I'll die young from my fat and have all kinds of miserable health problems—but cancer kids always get treatment, don't they?
Now I do ball up the letter and pitch it on the Ford's dingy floorboard. Then I step on it for good measure.
Clearly, fat kids and fat people are worth exactly nothing to GetLifeRight and Ann Smith, Enrollee Representative Class III.
"Guess that's a no." Mom sighs.
"That's a no." My voice bounces through the car, sounding bright and light and without a care. "Not covered."
Sometimes I amaze myself. I'd rather scream and throw a fit, but what's the point? Would it change GetLifeRight's mind? What about Ann Smith? Would she give one flying damn?
Mom lets out another sigh, and this time the sound lasts until my teeth grind. "I'm sorry, Jamie. I really thought—well, I hoped—we could offer you this option. I know it was important."
"What? No way." I smash my foot against the crumpled letter again. "I don't want any of us to go through what Burke's going through. Even if that letter had said yes, I wouldn't have done it."
Would I?
My hands come to rest against my belly, which I guess will be a part of me probably forever. Smartass cheerleaders and people like Ann Smith will get to ask me if I'm pregnant and call me Blubber after that Judy Blume character, and the Blowfish saleswomen of the world get to keep right on ignoring me.
I see Ann Smith in my mind's eye, all stick-skinny, probably wearing a halter dress with bright pink spring flowers, and white peep-toe pumps. I'd break my thick Fat Girl neck even trying on a pair of pumps. Most fat girls don't wear heels. Add that to the list of girl-shit I'm shut out from, thanks to being big, and thanks to GetLifeRight declining the only treatment known to have a shred of success.
Ann Smith merges with Blowfish in my mind, and with all the women who look like them, act like them, live and breathe like them, worry over two pounds, and whine about a tiny pooch just below their bellybutton.
BWNTE.
Bitches Who Need To Eat.
Screw them. And GetLifeRight with them.
"Jamie," Mom's saying softly, over and over.
When I finally look at her, I realize the Ford is parked at the curb outside West Memorial Library. Droves of BWNTE stream past our car, loaded with presharpened number two pencils.
"Damn," I mutter, fighting an urge to yell about something, anything, just to yell my head off. "I forgot my pencils."
Mom brightens and rummages in the pocket of her dirty black sweats. She fishes out three pencils, two of which are slightly used and chewed (my dad the pencil eater)—but all sharpened.
"Thanks." I take the pencils from Mom's hand. "You're the best."
I hate myself for how sad and worried Mom looks. All because our insurance company won't pay to nearly murder me like Burke's has, and I decided to be a sniveling dork about it.
If Ann Smith had to live with Mom's expression, she'd find a way to get that damned benefit reviewed. Tomorrow.
Before I get out of the car, I squish myself across the front seat and give Mom a big, sloppy hug. "You really are the best. You and Dad both."
Mom sniffs in my embrace and presses her face against my neck. "I'm so sorry, honey. If we could do this for you, we would. You know that, right?"
When I let her go, I make sure I'm smiling. "I told you, I wouldn't have had the surgery even if we had the benefits."
"Okay." Mom brushes a lock of hair off my forehead, and her mouth trembles. "I just—it has to be so hard for you, knowing your boyfriend's going to be thin, and you still having to struggle. I wish I could take that away from you."
How many times have I wished I didn't have her genes, or Dad's, or any of my family's biology? But right now, I don't care. I don't even care about garlic home clothes or the fact that she's crying in front of people who might know me.
"You don't have to take anything away from me, Mom. I can handle myself just fine." I give her hand a squeeze and hope that's enough, because my pencils and I have to go.
Mom wishes me luck as I get out of the car, and I'm terrified to look back because I might see her crying all by herself and I'd lose my mind completely.
Why does the sky have to get so gray in the fall? A little light would be nice. A little sunshine. Anything to perk up my mood. As it is, I barely have the steam to get in the Memorial Library door, follow the signs to the small auditorium, and make my way inside.
The first thing I see is a room full of chairs with attached desks.
Oh, no friggin' way. Not today.
The nearest proctor looks at me expectantly. She's dressed in a yellow pencil skirt and flowery white shirt, and I can tell it will never in a million years occur to this BWNTE that I don't fit in desks like that. She can't just offer a solution. Oh, no. I'll have to ask.
Then she'll probably talk loud about the solution, and I'll probably stuff her into the nearest pencil sharpener and crank her head to a fine point.
I scan the room in complete frustration, and my eyes land on a blond-haired boy lounging in one of those desks. He's wearing Dockers and a white T-shirt, and I'd know him anywhere.
Heath.
My heart does a lame skip-and-bump, and my skin heats with embarrassment.
The desk thing is bad enough, but now, today, in front of him?
Why do I care? I don't care.
But I do.
Being humiliated in front of Heath feels a thousand times worse than being humiliated in front of a bunch of strangers.
Maybe he won't look up. Maybe he won't realize what's going on with me—but of course he does look up before I even finish the thought.
When he sees me, he smiles.
I wave.
Heath mouths good luck.
You too, I mouth back.
He keeps gazing at me and smiling.
I'm so stuck. It's time to sit down. The proctors say so, several times, but if I try to sit in one of those desks, it'll be a disaster. I won't fit. I'll probably break the damned thing.
Christ. In front of Heath.
Somebody boil me in hot water. Ifd be lots less painful than this.
"Take your seats," a proctor demands, sounding law-enforcement firm. "Now, please. Yes, take your seats."
I'm wanting to cram my pencils in my eyeballs.
Oh, screw it.
I straighten as much as I can, make myself as wide as humanly possible, and bowl my way straight down front to the proctors' table. The plastic chair I pull out looks small, and sure enough, it sags beneath me when I sit down. But it holds. And I'm at the table, where I fit.
I don't even glance at Heath. I don't want to see the look on his face now. He'd never laugh at me, I don't think. But he might feel sorry for me, and I really would rather die than see pity in his handsome blue eyes.
As for the proctors, let them say something about my seating choice.
The chick in the pencil skirt looks like she might, but another proctor catches her eye and shakes his head. When he looks in my direction, he smiles at me like he understands.
Okay.
Whatever.
Maybe his mom's a Fat Girl, or his sister, or his best friend. Maybe he used to be fat and got his gut shrink-stapled. Or maybe he's had to take three dozen sensitivity classes and the ACT people consider being fat a bona fide disability.
Heath doesn't exist. I'm not looking at Heath. No way.
A
ll I care about is keeping my seat without any drama or big production, acing this test, and putting the ACT part of senior year nightmare finally, finally behind me.
Only by the time the test comes around, I'm so sleepy I want to close my eyes. Or leave. Or slap one of the forty or so people staring in my direction because I'm sitting at the proctors' table.
Don't look at Heath.
Nothing like trying to pull open a sealed test booklet on cue in front of an audience. Or reading passages full of "underlined material" I'm supposed to correct for the English section. It seems so stupid, deciding between "they're" and "there" and "its" and "It's" when Burke's in the hospital and Mom's probably still out in the car crying.
My stomach hurts.
I know I'm sweating.
Don't look at Heath.
The passages don't want to make sense, and I can't remember the damned difference between further and farther, and even more, I totally don't care.
My first pencil breaks because I'm pushing down too hard.
This is a nightmare. It's worse than a nightmare.
I need these scores. I need the highest everything I can get for scholarships and special grants and admission to Northwestern.
That refrain's getting old. I'm tired of singing it to myself.
For a while, I sing Wiz songs in my mind, and squint at underlined material, and hack at where to position adverbs in sentences and which words should have an -ly ending.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The proctors calling time on the English section is just white noise.
I finally look at Heath.
He's got his head down, working away.
Nothing gets into my brain. Absolutely nothing. It's like my eyes can't even see the questions.
After a while, I give up, turn the test answer sheet over, dig through my memory to remember some of the recent letters Fat Girl received, and start writing on the blank back side. I can always tag the letters later, and clean up the wording once I'm back at school and see the actual text.
For now, I'll do my best and worry about the rest later.
Burke may have given me no choices in whether or not he had his surgery and started all his changes. GetLifeRight, the yellow-skirted BWNTE, Blowfish—all of them—can get stuffed.
I've got a choice now, and I'm choosing not to suffer through this damned test anymore.
The Wire
FEATURE SPREAD
for publication Friday, October 5
Fat Girl Answering II
JAMIE D. CARCATERRA
Dear Fat Girl:
How is Fat Boy doing now?
Time postsurgery, seventeen days. Pounds lost, thirty-five. He's still in the hospital. He has an infection in his left big toe, if you can believe that. A tiny sore, but it's getting better. Oh, and he got a haircut.
Dear Fat Girl:
How did the ACT go?
Don't ask. I'm banned from taking it again because I refused to hand in my answer sheet, which had the rough draft of this column on the back of it. Guess my last scores will just have to do. Play practice is getting too intense anyway. The ACT and its desks and its yellow-skirted proctors can all get stuffed. Like I said, don't ask.
Dear Fat Girl:
Does Fat Boy really froth like a cappuccino maker when he eats too much?
SERIOUSLY, don't ask THIS question anymore. Yes, he froths. Yes, Freddie pukes every time somebody brings it up. Next person who asks this gets to catch NoNo when she faints. Knock it off. You're all totally gross.
Dear Fat Girl:
Do you think Fat Boy did the right thing, having this surgery?
It really doesn't matter what I think about his decision, does it? He had the surgery, and I'll be right beside him all the way. Fat Boy made a choice for himself. At least he had the choice to make. Not everyone does.
Dear Fat Girl:
Can you tell Fat Boy's losing weight?
Definitely. He's still a big guy, but he's changing every time I see him.
Dear Fat Girl:
Are you on a diet to keep up with Fat Boy?
No. You can get stuffed along with the ACT people.
Additional Note from Fat Girl:
Choice.
I mentioned choice in one of my responses. When was the last time you looked up that word? According to Dictionary.com Unabridged (version 1.1), choice is "the right, power, or opportunity to choose; option." The right. The power. The opportunity. The option.
Have you ever thought about what it would be like not to have the right, power, opportunity, or option to choose what happens to your own body? I particularly like the power part. The bottom line is, choice means power.
Take away somebody's choice, and take away her power. That's wrong, isn't it? To rob somebody of power? Of rights? Of options?
If you agree, please leave a message for Ann Smith at GetLifeRight Enrollee Services.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
It's no easy feat, finishing a scholarship application and a college entrance application exactly one hour before mailing deadlines, in the hall, dressed in red and white striped tights, a green hoopskirt, and glitter.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it." I dab Freddie's whiteout pen against the date while NoNo rolls her eyes. She disapproves of whiteout pens. Too many chemicals. NoNo's very presence is getting on my nerves today, even though I don't know why. Maybe It's the perpetual worried look on her face when I'm already nervous. Or maybe It's the whiteout thing. Or maybe It's just that NoNo would never have to play the fat part in any play.
My hands shake. All I can smell is sweat and ink and whiteout. If I don't get this stupid application done and get back to the auditorium in time for final run-through, Dunstein will go Evillene on me. We open in three hours.
My first opening night without Burke who's still in the hospital.
Heath said he would try to come if the typesetter cooperates.
"It doesn't matter what date you put on the application." Freddie leans against a row of lockers in the deserted hallway as I doctor the date yet again. "They won't know for sure when you signed it."
"It matters if I wrote down the wrong year." I keep my glower directed at Freddie. I'd rather pretend NoNo isn't standing in front of me in her bright blue jeans and drab brown T-shirt, chewing her fingernail because I'm polluting the environment. She's probably late for some Militant Green or Save the Chinchillas rally, or maybe an old-fashioned Down with Anything Sane and Normal protest march.
"Just give me the apps." Freddie sounds tense. "The main post office closes in half an hour, and I'm not driving all the way out to the airport for the overnight drop."
She gestures to her sharp pin-striped pantsuit. "I do have a date, you know." "She goes to college," NoNo whispers, like somebody might overhear, or like Freddie cares if anyone knows she's dating a college woman.
"I'm just glad It's not that scary tattoo-chick from the library," I mutter, drawing a snort from Freddie.
At least Freddie's current girlfriend seemed calm when I met her, and like she might not tap-dance on Freddie's feelings if things don't work out. I hate it when Freddie dates snobby women, with or without studded dog collars, and ends up bawling and eating donuts for days when they dump her.
I smudge the last pen mark. "Crap!"
"Just give them to me!" Freddie thrusts out her hand.
Swearing, I hand over the applications. Freddie grabs the papers and hands them to NoNo, who holds them like they're toxic.
My ears buzz, and a wave of heat crashes across my face and neck. "Oh, for God's sake, NoNo, just fold them and stick them in the envelopes!"
NoNo flinches like I slapped her, which makes Freddie puff up like Blowfish from Hotchix. "Take it easy," she says, her voice quiet.
"Seriously, Freddie, don't you ever get tired of it?" I'm getting louder instead of quieter, and I feel light and free and heavy and evil all at the same time. My voice booms in the empty hallway, louder, louder, like I'm proje
cting to an auditorium the size of Carnegie Hall. "It's Wite-Out. Wite-Out. Not rat poison! Does everything have to be a friggin' catastrophe with her?"
NoNo's head droops until her chin touches her chest. Her arms sag, too, and my application smacks against the legs of her too-blue jeans. She doesn't say anything, which, insanely, makes me madder.
"Well?" I ask, taking a step toward her. "Do you have to freak out about everything?"
"Back off." Freddie projects better than I do. Her snarl hits me like a push in the chest. My teeth clamp shut, and I back up a fraction. My face cools off a little, but not much.
No words.
If I say anything it'll be bad, and bad wrong.
NoNo's shaking from head to toe, and I worry she's about to fall over, or drop the applications, or both. Freddie takes the papers from her, tucks them into the envelopes, and seals the envelopes tight, all the while staring straight at me.
Somehow, I keep my mouth shut and my body still. I want to rant worse than Evillene ever dreamed of ranting. I want to call NoNo names and beat Freddie into the tile. But I don't. I really, really don't want to do that. I want to snatch the applications, tear them up, and just... run away. Go away. Get away. No paper, no Heath, no play without Burke in the audience. No fat part. No skinny part. No bariatric surgery. No environmentally friendly anything. There has to be some place in the world without any of these things, right?
When she finishes with my applications, Freddie says, "We're leaving now." They both turn away from me, and Freddie leads NoNo straight down the hall and out of the building.
I stand there and stand there and stand there. It seems like forever, but I can still see Freddie and NoNo through the glass panes in the door, walking farther and farther away, across the parking lot.
The sun's going down.
And Burke's still in the hospital, and It's opening night, and I just sent my applications to Northwestern University with a crummy ACT score and my National Feature Award portfolio to the judges without a Fat Boy wrap-up—and pissed off my best friends who are mailing them, and the show must go on.