Big Fat Manifesto

by Susan Vaught

  "Do you think children ought to be allowed to have bariatric surgery?"

  Behind Newspaper Guy Todd in the corner, Barbara shakes her head as if to say, I would so never make that mis­take.

  Be positive, be upbeat. Be positive, be upbeat.

  "We aren't children," I say without yelling as loud as I'd like to. My voice carries off the stage, through the empty auditorium like I used a megaphone. "We're a few months from adulthood, and our bodies are our bodies. I don't know if anyone should have bariatric surgery, but if It's legal, teens should be able to make their own choices about it."

  This time, while Newspaper Guy Todd writes down my answer, Barbara walks forward, microphone up, cameraman gliding behind her, and takes over. The light over the camera blazes, and I feel the heat from the bulb even though they're several rows away from the stage.

  When Barbara speaks, her voice sounds warm and flowing, almost comforting, and something about her reminds me of my mother.

  "Miss Carcaterra, I'm Barbara Gwennet from CSC affiliate WKPX—Channel 3 News. I find your column brave and refreshing. Congratulations on such a bold step."

  "Thank you." God, her name really is Barbara. How funny is that? 1 find myself relaxing despite the Lois Lane trauma.

  Barbara brushes a wisp of ash blond hair out of her eyes, then asks her question as she looks directly into my eyes. "Where do you get your inspiration for 'Fat Girl'?"

  "My life. Every hour, every day." Another easy question. Thank God. "When you're as large as I am, you have two choices. You can be a supersized, invisible mouse, or you can be Fat Girl. I think It's time for the Fat Girls to speak—and never shut up again."

  Newspaper Guy Todd sits down so he can write faster.

  Barbara nods, seeming more like Mom than ever, if you don't count the black silk suit. Freddie would kill for that suit. "Do you feel like the positive female empowerment messages in your column outweigh the negative health messages?"

  "I don't think I'm giving any negative health messages. If you read all of the literature, and take out the research funded by pharmaceutical companies or the diet industry, the health risks of obesity, even the definition of obesity, are not that clear-cut." My legs start to ache, and I think about sitting down on the edge of the stage. No way to pull that off in a hoopskirt, though. "There are risks, yes. But how those risks tie directly into fatness just isn't clear. Besides, 'Fat Girl' isn't a health beat or a weight-loss column. It's more about mind and thought and attitude."

  I glance at the clock at the back of the auditorium. "Two more questions and I have to go."

  Again, a gentle smile from Barbara before she asks, "How is Burke Westin really doing? In your opinion."

  The words sock me in the gut like an elbow-punch. My face gets hot in a heartbeat, and more heat rushes across my skin. A hollow pit opens down inside me, like when I saw Burke's empty seat in the audience. "He's—he's changing."

  My throat starts to close. I'm blinking too fast because I know I need to say something else. Barbara doesn't interrupt me or try to stop me, but I'm trying like hell to stop myself before the camera gets pictures of me standing all alone on the stage, blubbering and stuttering. I should have made a rule about hard questions. No make-Jamie-cry questions, but I don't even know which questions will hit me like that anymore.

  I manage to talk about Burke's complications and his pain, about how calm he is, how focused and determined, and how much I admire him.

  "He's already smaller," I whisper to the reporters, rubbing my throat as I talk. "It's like he's a different guy."

  Barbara gears up to ask me something else, but the kind look in her eyes makes me want to scream or call my mother, probably both, and not in that order.

  While my attention's focused completely on her, Newspaper Guy Todd slams me right in the face with, "Miss Car­caterra, are you worried more about Burke Westin's health or about him becoming thin and no longer wanting to be with you?"

  In real life, if my throat wasn't too tight to swallow and my arms didn't feel completely weak, I would have slapped somebody for asking me that.

  But I don't have the punch.

  I don't even have words to punch.

  Instead, I back away from Newspaper Guy Todd, and Barbara Gwennet, and the cameraman, too.

  Before they can react, I shove through the curtains, bumble across the dark backstage, grab the column I wrote off the top of a speaker, and get my big, wide ass down the hall and out of that building.

  I need to get to Heath and the cave and the paper and the stupid music he plays. I'll feel better when I hear the music, or when he says something inane and totally Heath. My heart will stop hammering, and I'll breathe and I won't sweat or stink.

  Half-walking, half-running, I cling to the column and head across sidewalks and around corners. It's dark, dark outside, no moon, clouds blotting out the stars. The fall air's cold enough to make my eyes water. My teeth chatter as I imagine telling Heath about the Fat Girl interview.

  He'll be flat-out freaked that we're getting television coverage. He'll be stoked.

  I hope he hugs me.

  What would that be like, Heath's arms around me? My face against his shoulder. I'd find out what he smells like up close. Really close. I'd find out how strong and solid he feels. What his voice sounds like in my ear. Chills course up and down my back, spreading out to my shoulders and arms. Total head rush.

  I'm in the right building now, in the hall, heading toward the closed journalism suite door. Light spills from underneath it, into the dark hallway like a candle in some mysterious, faraway window, drawing me home.

  "Oh my God." I stop walking so fast I almost trip myself. My fingers tighten on the folded pages of my column, and the paper crinkles.

  "Oh... my God."

  What the hell am I doing?

  What the hell am I thinking?

  I've gone bat-shit crazy. Worse. Ape-shit crazy.

  I press my fingers against my fat, glitter-crusted cheeks and run them down my thick neck, to my big chest, and farther, to the mammoth belly holding up Evil­lene's hoopskirts. I'm Jamie. I'm still me. Still the biggest girl in school. I'm one hundred percent Fat Girl.

  And I'm thinking Heath wants to see me? Wants to touch me? To hug me and gaze longingly into my eyes?

  This is no movie. This is life as a Fat Girl, and in real life, guys like Heath don't fall in love with Fat Girls like me. I get to play the fat part, which is best friend, confidante, sidekick, whatever you want to call it. I can be "the lesbian" like Freddie, or the "activist freak" like NoNo. I can be the wicked witch, the wicked stepsister, the fortune teller, the crone, or even the whorehouse madam—but I can never be the beautiful princess, the delicate flower, that girl, the girl everyone wants.

  In this drama, Jamie Carcaterra never gets to play the lead.

  Except with Burke. I'm in love with Burke.

  So why was I just thinking about sniffing Heath's neck?

  Ape-shit crazy.

  I rub my eyes and try to see Burke but instead I see stars and colors and I can't make anything coalesce into Burke's face. I catch the image for a second, but his cheeks sink in farther and farther, and I can't imagine what he looks like right this second. He really is different. He really is changing.

  He really is leaving me.

  And Freddie and NoNo will probably leave with him because I'm such a bitch, and then there's Heath.

  My... what?

  Friend?

  Editor?

  Bud?

  Crush...

  I'd slap myself if I thought it would do any good.

  The door opens, and there's Heath in his dress-up jeans and blue polo. He's got his hair pushed back. I can't see his eyes in the shadows, but his grin is obvious.

  My heartbeat speeds up, and I'm breathing too fast.

  Is he glad to see me?

  Friend. Sidekick. That's what you are. Get a total grip, and fast.

  From the angle of Heath's head, I think his
gaze is pinned on my cleavage again. He gestures to my corset top and hoopskirt. "You'll never fit in the cave wearing that skirt."

  No words. I'm speechless. I'm an idiot.

  "I'll, uh, change," I say, sounding breathless and completely asinine. "My clothes are back in the dressing area, but I wanted to give you this first." I hold out the crumpled column.

  Heath takes it from me as I blurt, "Channel 3 and a guy from the Huntville Harper just interviewed me about Fat Girl."

  "No way!" Heath's closer now, and his blue eyes bore straight into my brain. "That's amazing."

  His grin just keeps coming. I grin back like I'm ape-shit crazy, because I am.

  Heath takes two more steps forward, puts his arms around me, and hugs me tight.

  Oh, God.

  The hoopskirt shoves backward and tips into the air.

  Heath's taller than I am, and my face really does press against his shoulder.

  More muscular than I thought, in a firm, lean way. Hard. Tough. His arms feel light, but strong and comforting. He smells spicy and clean up close, even though he's been working all day and night on the paper.

  The tang of glue and the eye-watering punch of processor fluid hangs in the air around us, but doesn't seem to touch Heath. I feel like I've stepped into a bubble of perfect smells and sensations.

  And he doesn't let me go.

  I raise my arms, which feel like they weigh a half-ton each, and hug him back, and he still doesn't let me go.

  Heath shifts a little.

  His lips press against the top of my head, soft and warm and firm. I shiver. Can't help it. A good shiver. A shocked shiver.

  What's happening?

  Who is this insane boy?

  Who am I?

  This can't be happening, but It's happening, and I'm frozen like my feet got glued to the hallway tiles.

  When Heath pulls back from our embrace, he leaves his hands on my shoulders. I blink at the green glitter and makeup I left on his polo shirt.

  This time when he looks at my cleavage, he's not discreet, and I don't care. I feel that stare like a touch.

  Would I stop him if he tried to put his hands where his eyes are wandering?

  "You look great in that costume," he murmurs, his voice low and quiet.

  The sound of it wrecks me completely.

  I don't speak at all. Can't even imagine trying to talk. I need to go. Change clothes. Get to work. I need Heath to kiss me. I need him to look at me this way forever and ever. I need a damned clue, and a brain transplant on top of that. And a fan while I'm at it, because It's sweatshop hot in the hallway.

  "Should I walk you back to the theater?" he asks, giving me more shivers with that rumbly voice.

  "I'm, uh—walk—what?"

  "To change." He brushes my hair behind my ear. "So you can come back and work on the paper."

  Forget speaking again.

  Heath pulls me closer to him. My whole body tingles everywhere he's touching me. He gazes into my eyes so sweet and soft, like he might be thinking about kissing me.

  Please kiss me.

  Please.

  But he doesn't.

  My mouth throbs from wanting it so badly.

  "You're coming back, right, Jamie?"

  "Yes," I say automatically, talking like a movie-woman in a dream, all whispers and sighs. If I lean forward, we'll be kissing. I'll be kissing Heath, and tasting him, and I'll know for sure I'm not imagining this.

  Freddie's voice chooses that moment to yell inside my head.

  Who cares what Heath does? Wliat about you, damn it?

  She asked me about this in the hospital, and I lied to her. I didn't know I was lying, but 1 did. To my best friend. I told her I was in love with Burke.

  B...u...r...k...e...

  All the chills and whispers and sighs flow out of me, and I go stiff in Heath's grip.

  Images of Burke pound on my awareness. Him holding me. Gazing at me just before he kisses me. The way he looks all dopey and perfect and happy when we're cuddled up together.

  Burke's smile.

  Burke's eyes.

  He needs me now more than ever, and I will not let him down. I'm his. He's mine. That's the way it is, the way It's supposed to be, the way it has to be.

  Right?

  "I'll walk you," Heath says, turning me loose.

  "No, that's okay," I shake my head. "I'll be fine."

  Heath's grin fades to a frown. He shrugs. "Guess I'll be here waiting for you, then."

  I can tell he knows I won't be coming back.

  We need to talk.

  We need to kiss. Jeez. Stop it.

  Heath and I need to talk but obviously not now. I'm shaking again, this time from wanting to run to the theater, get into my real clothes, and run straight back to Heath. But I can't. I just cannot do something that wrong, even when I want to so much.

  Heath doesn't wait for me to leave. He heads back into the cave and closes the door behind him.

  My heart's still beating, beating, beating. My skin feels hot where his hands were pressed against my arms. I'm something past crazy now. Worse. Lots worse.

  When I finally get myself out of that building, I feel like I'm shredding something inside me.

  Is this how it feels to do the right thing?

  Because it sucks.

  Night air hits me in the face, cold and mean.

  I don't have any answers. I'm not even sure what the right questions are, or what I'm supposed to do now.

  Maybe playing the lead isn't such a great thing after all.

  You can't win,

  You can't break even,

  And you can't get out of the game.

  "You Can't Win"

  from The Wiz

  The Wire

  FEATURE SPREAD

  for publication Friday, October 19

  Fat Girl Dancing

  JAMIE D. CARCATERRA

  Fat Girl has lots of reasons to dance, other than our annual Halloween bash—and I'm not telling you all of them!

  First and best, Fat Boy arrived home at 3:22 PM yesterday, a few weeks later than scheduled, but he's home, home, home!

  That doesn't let you off the hook, though.

  You still have to send positive thoughts, and cheer and pray for Fat Boy. Get busy. More chronicles coming soon, with photos! Days postsurgery: thirty-one. Weight loss: forty-five pounds.

  Second, The Wiz is a hit. Sellouts last weekend and this weekend, too.

  Third, I never have to take the ACT again. (Yeah, okay, I'm banned, but I'm DONE.)

  Fourth, my college applications and scholarship portfolios are in, with special thanks to Freddie, who mailed the first ones even though I was a PB from H.

  Fifth, The Huntville Harper ran a spread on Fat Girl early this week, and Newspaper Guy Todd got all my quotes right. Print media. Yeah!

  Sixth and second-best, the taped Fat Girl interview is scheduled to run on CSC affiliate stations during their Body Image Awareness campaign.

  Now, consider this. What if Fat Girl decides to dance in front of you, without Fat Boy to pound you into the dirt if you get too close?

  Would you laugh?

  Apparently, laughing at fat people dancing is becoming an international sport. If you go online and look up "fat people dancing," you get over 150,000 sites with video clips and brilliant remarks such as, "Reminds me of watching a lava lamp."

  And it doesn't stop there. We've found sites featuring fat people kissing, fat people with piercings, fat people with tattoos, fat people doing other stuff I can't mention—it's endless. As are the comments, with words like disgusting, pig, gross, revolting, and ridiculous.

  Remember my piece on pornography? Yeah. File these Web sites under that heading, with a cross-reference to idiots with too much time on their hands.

  Anything goes since fat is now the national health crisis of the new millennium. Eighty percent or more of people under the age of twenty-one believe obesity is the result of laziness, and all fat peopl
e have to do to get skinny is choose to live better.

  Tell you a little secret.

  I'm dancing anyway.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  The minute we get back on the road after dropping NoNo at her protest rally, Freddie taps the steering wheel of her old Toyota.

  "What's wrong with you, Jamie?"

  "Nothing." I stare out the passenger window and try to look carefree or bored or anything other than freaked out. The note from Heath that I'm holding gets crumpled and uncrumpled, crumpled and uncrumpled. I've already read it five or six times, but I'm not finished with it yet.

  Freddie lets out a sigh that says bullshit.

  I still don't look at her with her perfect hair and makeup. She's dressed like a runway model, blue silk dress and matching shoes, even though the people at HeartBeat have drapes for us to wear over our clothes for our formal senior portraits. All us girls will look like we're wearing gorgeous evening gowns, and all the guys have to tolerate a tux jacket and tie. As for me, I've got on my usual, a flowing skirt and shirt, but I did at least pick something blue to get close to Garwood colors. I don't think anything shows under the drape, but better safe than sorry.

  Another sigh from Freddie digs at my guilt.

  Okay, okay, I know I'm lying or not telling or violating two thousand friend-rules, but what am I supposed to say?

  I know you're still half-mad at me for biting off NoNo's head but I almost kissed Heath the Hunk two weeks ago, I've been dodging him like a dog since that moment, I'm exhausted from The Wiz performances, I'm blowing my math grade all to hell because I'm too busy daydreaming to do my homework, and oh yeah, I keep having to spend hours hanging out with the incredible shrinking boyfriend who can't talk about anything but losing weight. How's your day, chica?

  Not.

  So I crumple and uncrumple the note, look out the window, and listen to her sigh more intensely all the way to HeartBeat Photos. As she's parking, her phone buzzes. She glances at it, frowns, then hands it to me.

  "Hey," I say to Burke.

  We have to use Freddie's phone, since I'm out of minutes again. She has an unlimited plan, so It's all good. Wish I could afford that. Life would be lots easier with endless minutes or endless money. . . .