Big Fat Manifesto

by Susan Vaught

  "Evillene!" Dunstein yells from behind me.

  By the time I recover from my heart attack and turn around, he's already gone, back through the auditorium's swinging doors.

  I hurry after him. When I push through the doors, I'm surprised to see several back rows already filled with people, and what looks like a news crew from Lois Lane's station setting up in the corner.

  Well. Guess we're going big-time here at Garwood.

  Flashbulbs spark as I sail down the aisle toward the stage. Yeah, boys and girls. Evillene's on the move.

  As I pass the aisle seat three rows from the stage, where Burke usually sits, I turn my head.

  If he weren't stapled and sick, he'd be here by now.

  More flashbulbs blaze through my consciousness as I make my way onto the stage, then behind the curtain.

  What the hell?

  Dunstein's waiting for me, and he's smiling.

  I stop in my tracks. Look down at my skirts to be sure I don't look like a freak. Dunstein never smiles on opening night. Bark, yap, screech, shiver like a psychotic Chihuahua, yes. Smile, no.

  "Sold out," he says. If the little man had whiskers, they'd be twitching. He beckons me toward the makeup area for a quick touch-up and more powder. "And most of the season ticket holders actually showed up. You did great."

  "Me?" Total confusion. "I didn't do anything. Thespian Club and Drama Boosters do tickets and promo. Are we really a sellout?"

  "First time ever, and you did it. Your column." He shakes his finger in the air. "What's it called?"

  "'Fat Girl Manifesto.'" My lips and cheeks suddenly feel numb.

  He nods. "A newspaper, a national magazine, and a regional television affiliate. They've all come to see Fat Girl."

  My words melt away like a wicked witch drenched by a bucket of water. It takes a lot of my energy just to nod.

  Dunstein's babbling about how my columns on Burke are starting to attract national attention and provoke debate about adolescent bariatric surgery.

  He cannot be serious.

  Is that even possible, that anybody outside Garwood would bother with our dinky school newspaper?

  We still use a typesetter, for God's sake, and the principal's tried for years to "retire" us.

  But Dunstein is serious, and he won't shut up, and I wish I had a bucket of water to melt him. Instead, I do a quick self-check. Fists, unclenched. Mouth, closed. Smile, fake but present. Then I rehearse the lines to my opening number in my head over and over, until Dunstein finally lets me pass.

  As I'm walking toward costumes and makeup, my cell buzzes against my leg.

  I yank it out of my pocket and see Burke's number on the display.

  A smile tugs at my lips.

  He's the only one who'd call me on opening night. He didn't forget after all, even though he's sick and still locked up in a hospital.

  Warmth edges out some of my nervousness as I punch the green button and lift the phone to my ear.

  "Hey, baby." I'm still smiling.

  "Hey back." He sounds pumped. "Guess what?"

  I'm waiting for It's your opening night or break a leg or see, I'd never forget my favorite witch on a big night.

  What he says is, "I got weighed again—and I've lost thirty-eight pounds. Thirty-eight in eighteen days. Can you believe that? And that's weighing late in the day. I'll be down even more in the morning." "I—uh. That's great." The phone shifts on my ear as I force myself to stand up straight when I'd rather just pitch the phone and sit down.

  When I don't keep gushing, Burke says, "Sounds like you're standing in a well. With a crowd. Did you go out?"

  The noise of the audience and the murmur from the cast and props guys get on my nerves. They sound like water, rushing and roaring, then dropping to a whisper and rising again. "It's the first weekend in October, Burke."

  "The first—oh. Opening night!" A slapping sound comes over the phone, like Burke popped himself on the forehead. "Well, I know you'll do great. Break a leg, baby. Give 'em hell, okay?"

  My chest feels tight. "Okay."

  Burke says he loves me, and I say I love him and hang up the phone.

  Still want to throw it, but too many people crowd around me. It's time to move. Gotta go.

  Give 'em hell. Yeah.

  Maybe it would have been better if he hadn't called at all.

  But that's stupid. I'm glad he called. And he did remember to wish me luck, stage style. That should count. He is in the hospital and everything.

  Losing weight just by breathing.

  I try to forget about that, about everything, as I force myself to the dressing area and pull on my costume.

  Time zooms by as I get final wardrobe touch-up, makeup, hair, and green glitter nails poking out of red and white striped gloves. Then It's time for boots and whip, and I'm ready. I'm not Jamie or even Fat Girl. I'm the queen of mean, the master of monkeybats. I'm the Wicked Witch of the West, modern style.

  I'm Evillene.

  And I don't make my first appearance until the second act.

  Fat girls, even wicked witches, rarely have meaty parts.

  Tonight, though, I'm not sorry.

  Every time I glimpse the audience, I can't help noticing the reporters in the back rows and Burke's empty season-ticket seat. The whole thing gives me a hollow ache way down inside, like the universe has flipped on its side and won't roll back over.

  Lights blaze. Guys moving props swear under their breath. It's getting hot as hell like it always does, and I mentally dare my makeup to run. Music swells and falls, swells and falls, and the first act ends and It's my turn now.

  I settle myself in my painted wooden throne, still out of sight.

  It's barely big enough, but lots better than ACT chairs.

  The Winkie chant begins.

  Winkies (monkeybats) walk across the stage tugging ropes.

  My throne starts to roll across the floor, just like It's supposed to.

  The Lord High Underling whips the Winkies and yells at them to pull harder and finally bellows, "Make way! Make way! The Wicked Witch of the West. Make way for Evillene!"

  Groaning and crying from the Winkies. Another big tug, and my giant-ass throne rolls into view and stops, center stage.

  I give the world my best glare, squinch my face, shove myself to my feet and yell my first line without even having to work up the emotion.

  "Shut up!" I sweep my pointing finger across all the Winkies. "Because I'm evil with ev-ry-body today!"

  The music for "No Bad News" kicks up high and fast, I turn square with the audience to start the song—and Burke's reserved chair isn't empty anymore.

  Heath's sitting in it.

  My chin drops a fraction.

  He's dressed in jeans and a blue polo, his blond hair hangs in his eyes, and I think he has glue all over his hands, but he's here. To see me be Evillene. And he's sitting in Burke's seat.

  The music gets loud, pauses, and starts back. Winkies stare at me. Shit. I missed my cue.

  With a fast nod, I rearrange my face into hate, doom, and disaster, start my walk, and belt my lines as I pop my whip over everybody's head again and again. Lots of wide hip action. Lots of shoulder.

  I so hope my boobs don't fall out of this green corset top.

  Glitter rains as I pop, pop, pop that whip and sing, and Winkies scatter and duck.

  I'm Evil.

  I'm Evillene.

  Take that, Heath and Burke and Freddie and NoNo. Pop! Take that, reporters and Dunstein. Pop! Anne Smith. ACT. POP!

  "Don't nobody bring me, don't nobody bring me, no bad news!" I do a big whirl and sweep with the whip.

  Heath probably thinks this is a total gas.

  And what are those reporters writing?

  Fat Girl: Feature Columnist or Whip Freak?

  I free-fall through the rest of my lines, Evillene-ing on instinct. We're to Scene III and Heath's still here, and he's smiling whenever I peek at him through the tiny gap between wall and curtain.
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  I let loose a major offstage Evillene cackle, then barrel out to make my last grand entrance.

  As I project my lines, demanding Dorothy's slippers, Heath's still smiling.

  I can't see the reporters because of the angles of the lights.

  My fight with the Cowardly Lion begins. He calls me crazy.

  "Is that an insult?" I screech at the lion, loving the opportunity to yell without pissing anybody off.

  "No, Your Fatness," Lion stammers. "It's just—"

  "Your Fatness?" I bellow with real gusto. "Your Fatness?"

  Man, did I ever put my soul into that line. I step on the carefully taped X like I'm supposed to, grab Lion's arm, and put him in a hammer lock. "I'll cut you up, kitty-man. I'll have your hide!"

  Seconds later, I'm melting, melting, and disappearing. And the music and burning sound effects get deafening. The guys under the stage pop the platform cover back in place, and I'm in the dark, and I'm done. I'm finished.

  Fat Girl has left the stage.

  I pick my way around ropes and pulleys and props and stage guys whispering good job, make it back to the backstage steps, and head for the dressing area. It'll take about a year for the play to finish and for us to bow. It'll take another year for me to get this corset top unlaced and scrub all this glitter off my face. And another year on top of that to be willing to walk out from behind the curtain, head into the auditorium, face Heath, and fool with reporters.

  Breathing hard. Definitely sweating. Definitely stinking. I brush past a stack of wood offstage, turn a corner into the hallway to the dressing area, and nearly plow full-Evillene-force into Heath.

  He's just standing there with his hands in his jeans pockets, grinning like an idiot. His eyes drift from my wig to my glitter makeup, then down to my cleavage and back up again.

  Males.

  All males.

  Boobs turn them into idiots.

  "You were outstanding," he says quietly.

  "Thanks. I can't believe you took the time to show up for this." I notice he smells good tonight, like aftershave. Like maybe his jeans and blue polo are Heath's current version of a nice outfit, and he actually dressed up to come to see me in The Wiz. Except for the dried glue stuck up to his elbows and all over the left knee of his jeans, he does look good.

  Great, in fact.

  Heath manages to keep his eyes where they're supposed to be. "Wouldn't have missed it. You were born for that part. You know that, right?"

  "Wicked Witch of the West. My fondest dream."

  "It's got so much flair and drama. Best part in the whole play." He slides a hand out of his pocket and jerks a thumb back toward the stage. "That's why I didn't stick around. Once you melt, it gets pretty lame."

  My cheeks warm up under all the green glitter. "That's sweet."

  He gets a nervous look, then asks, "You want to grab something to eat, or do you have to stick around?"

  "I'd really like that, but I can't leave until everything's over." My frown is genuine. The first expression all night that feels like mine, my own, and not Fat Girl's or Evillene's. "Curtain calls, and after-play meeting since It's opening night—and I'll have to get out of costume."

  And write Fat Girl for early layout before you get stressed out and kill me.

  He looks disappointed, but I can tell he understands. "Okay, well, if you've got any energy left, I'll be over in the cave. And I'll bring you back some chow just in case."

  I shouldn't go.

  But I know I will, even though I'm tired and wrecked and probably the last place in the world I should be is in the cave with Heath Montel.

  "Thanks," I say quietly, like NoNo telling some big secret "I'll probably be there, if I can dodge the reporters."

  Heath's smile makes me feel like anything but Evil­lene.

  As he walks away, he waves over his shoulder. Even though he can't see me, I wave back.

  Why does it have to be so long to curtain call?

  The Wire

  FEATURE SPREAD

  for publication Friday, October 12

  Fat Girl Leading

  JAMIE D. CARCATERRA

  Why can't a Fat Girl play the lead?

  I mean, seriously, would it hurt your eyes for a large woman to be onstage for hours—-other than in an opera or a play about being fat?

  Why can't Dorothy from Kansas have love handles? Why can't Christine from Phantom of the Opera take up a larger section of the stage? Would she sing less beautifully because she's fat? Would the Phantom and the hero love her less?

  Ah. See, that's probably the rub.

  Nobody wants the Fat Girl. Or more to the point, nobody should want the Fat Girl.

  Isn't that a rule?

  Like the Fat Girl must be thin or well on her way to weight loss by the end of any book, play, or movie.

  And yet, articles abound on why Fat Girls feel bad about themselves, have a higher risk of suicide, and literally kill themselves to be thin.

  Hello?

  Want to stem this tide?

  Next time you morph a famous book into a movie or a play, hire a Fat Girl to play the best role. Let Juliet wear a size 3X. Let Ophelia have a few curves.

  Come on. Be brave. Break the mold.

  Let a Fat Girl play the lead.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Dunstein dismisses the play meeting after only thirty-two minutes of ranting, set changes, scene changes, and new instructions. This has to be a record. He was particularly pleased with Evillene's dramatic melt, which I translate to mean he was ecstatic over the sellout and press attention.

  I fold up the column I wrote while he ran his mouth, but when I try to get out the door, he grabs my arm and whispers, "Be positive when they interview you. Be upbeat."

  When I stare down at Dunstein, he lets me go and his brown eyes widen pitifully like a lapdog about to be spanked. "They're interviewing me?" I glance behind him at the empty room. "Just me? Not the whole cast?"

  Dunstein gestures toward the stage door and does his nervous-dog tremble. "Just don't be an ass. For the sake of The Wiz."

  Okay.

  I thought those reporters came to see the show and write their own pieces and opinions. If my brain hadn't been total confetti, I would have realized they'd want to talk to me, and probably alone.

  My legs and arms feel heavy, and my brain feels like a balloon losing air.

  Visions of Lois Lane's nasty investigative report dance in my head.

  My personality tears down the center. The left half of my essence wants to boil onto the stage in my Evillene glitter and hoopskirt and hold court, run my mouth, really have my say. Do something to get national attention for Fat Girl, and for Fat Girls. Give important, meaty quotes, and shine, shine, shine for the scholarship observation period.

  This could be it. I could do it—make a difference and wow the scholarship judges, too.

  But the right half of my essence wants to slide out a side door and call Burke. Or forget that and go directly to Heath to show him my column and get his opinion. The thought of seeing Heath, of finally getting to relax and talk awhile, even listen to stupid music, seems like rapture. At least Heath and The Wire and my column are still right. Maybe after a little chill-out time, I could face another call from or visit with Burke, or think of the right words to apologize to Freddie and NoNo for being a psychotic bitch in the hall before the performance. Maybe I could even go get Mom some flowers, or something to cheer her up, since she's still all flat and sad over not being able to afford a life-threatening surgery to make me skinny.

  Dunstein's dog-eyes and my need for that scholarship finally win out.

  After a few minutes of makeup repair (no sweaty streaks), a teeth check (no half-chewed glitter), and a pits check (no skanky fog), I head backstage, through the set and stacked props, to the curtain. When I peek out, the auditorium is mostly empty. There's only one news crew left, with a reporter and a camera man and another guy who probably works for a newspaper, since he d
oesn't have a camera crew handy. Nobody looks like Lois Lane.

  Deep breath.

  I push my way through the divide in the curtain and step onto the stage.

  Both reporters in the far right corner of the auditorium perk up, but I raise one hand in a stop gesture. "Let me tell you the rules."

  The television woman, who looks a lot like Barbara Walters, nods and lowers her microphone. Newspaper guy, a redhead with a mustache, raises his eyebrows, shrugs one shoulder, and waits.

  When I take another deep breath, it smells like sawdust and makeup. "First, no quoting me without my permission, including these rules." I fold my arms and survey them like Evillene getting ready to go ballistic on some Winkies.

  Nobody objects to the first rule, so I push ahead. "Second, no snark-ass nasty questions. Third, my name is Jamie Carcaterra. My column is 'Fat Girl.' Please don't get that confused."

  This gets me a look of sympathy from Barbara. Newspaper guy writes it down.

  "Fourth, you both have five minutes, because I have to go turn in my column."

  Newspaper guy immediately says he's Todd Sanders from the Huntville Harper, which surprises me. Huntville is "big city" compared to Garwood.

  Barbara gestures to both of us like, go ahead, you start, I'll wait, and she sits down beside her camera guy.

  He scratches the edges of his red crew cut and asks, "Have you been overweight your whole life, Miss Car­caterra?"

  Okay, that's easy. I ease to the center spot on the stage, a few yards away from him. "Yes, I have."

  Newspaper Guy Todd writes that down, too, and moves on with, "Have you considered having bariatric surgery like your boyfriend, Burke Westin?"

  I hesitate, but not long. "Yes, I have."

  When Newspaper Guy Todd gazes at me like give me a teeny break, please, I remember Dunstein's be positive, be upbeat mandate. So I smile and add, "It's not an option financially, and after watching what Burke's gone through, I don't know if I could stand the pain."

  It takes Newspaper Guy Todd a second or two to write all that down. He looks triumphant when he finishes, like maybe he's proud of the idea for his next question.