by Susan Vaught
"Where are you guys?" Burke asks, sounding deep and strong and enough like his old self to make butterflies bounce in my belly. When I close my eyes, I see Burke, my Burke, big and beefy and grinning, ready to wrap me in a bear hug. On the phone at least, the truth can be what I want it to be.
"NoNo's at a dye-banning rally, and Freddie and I just rolled up outside HeartBeat Photos for our senior portraits."
I keep my voice light even though I'm wearing out that note from Heath. He left it in my box in the journalism suite after I dodged him all week, worked on the paper when he wasn't around, and dropped Fat Girl in his mailbox.
The note says, "This feature is weak. Get back to the hard stuff ASAP if you want the scholarship."
Beneath that in clear, bold printing, he added, "We need to talk. Soon."
He signed it "H."
Typical Heath. He's been "H" since the first note he ever sent me.
"Jamie?" Burke's mellow voice floats through the ether, poking into my consciousness. "You there?"
"Yeah, sorry."
"I was asking if you'd come by after the portraits."
"Sure."
In a low whisper, he asks, "Will you bring me a couple of candy bars? lust two—nothing major. They've got me in food jail here."
"Are you out of your friggin' mind? Your sisters would slaughter me." I shift the phone to my other hand. "I've got no desire to have my heart torn out and my brains eaten for dinner."
He lets out a breath, and I imagine him stretched out on the overstuffed leather recliner in his bedroom at home, where we've cuddled hundreds of times. "Please, baby? Just a little taste. I'm ready for a more solid food."
"You want contraband, you hunt it down yourself." I make kissing sounds into the phone. "If you need sweet, you'll have to settle for me."
Burke laughs. "5weet. Yeah. Just give me a taste of you when you get here."
I'm smiling when I hang up, but the note in my hand seems to get heavier and heavier, until I ball it up and toss it on Freddie's floorboard.
When I look at her, she seems to have chilled out a little, but not much. At least the bitch lines in her face have softened. "This whole Burke thing, It's hard, isn't it?"
"That's an understatement." I hope I don't have bitch lines in my face now.
We're parked in front of the portrait studio, sitting in the Toyota, letting the sun beat in on our faces and arms. I'd rather just sit in the sun and not talk, but Freddie likes to pry and poke.
"You hardly talk about Burke." Freddie pulls her keys out of the ignition and drops them into her bag. "You don't talk about the crap that really bothers you—like home and your parents, or worrying about college. Mostly, It's right-now things, like grades and the play. Did you know that?"
My hand's on the door handle, and I want to jump out and run, but I don't. "I guess, yeah. I'm not a whiner. Is that a bad thing?"
Freddie shrugs. "Don't know. Sometimes I think you keep so busy, you run so hard, so none of the other shit can catch up to you. That might be a bad thing, 'cause one day you'll get tired."
Damn her.
Not what I want to hear. Not what I need to hear.
No making Jamie turn red and blubber before senior portraits. I'm tired of wanting to stomp and sob all the time.
"I'm not just running to run." I know I sound irritable, but I can't help it. "Being a senior keeps me busy,"
"Yeah, but you do a lot extra, with drama and the paper and Heath and stuff." She leans toward me, like she's about to whisper a secret. "Urn, how is it with you and Heath?"
I lean back and think about running again. "Like always. We get the work done."
Freddie says nothing. She just stares at me, waiting, waiting, until I do open the door.
Before I get out, I say, "He's my friend, Freddie. Well, not my friend, really—that's you and NoNo. He's like a business partner or an associate or something."
"You look funny when you talk about him," she says quietly, holding one hand over mine so I don't get out. "Just so you know. I wouldn't bring him up around Burke."
"There's nothing to bring up." I slip my hand from under hers.
"If there was, you could tell me. I wouldn't go nuclear or spill or anything. I mean, Burke's my best bud from way back, but you and me, we're... we're the girls. It's different."
"Thanks." That's genuine, even though my gut clenches when I say it.
Do I believe her?
Do I believe anyone anywhere is really on my side?
We both get out of the Toyota.
Freddie closes her door and leans over the top for a second. "Just do two things for me."
My turn to shrug and wait. I face her, keeping my back to the studio, and try not to turn red and get majorly ugly before this stupid picture.
"Quit trashing NoNo when you're freaked." Freddie holds up one finger. "And take some time to apologize to her for the last time. You know how she is—but she's loyal, and she really cares about you, and she won't get over it unless you tell her you didn't mean it."
Now I'm red. Shit. Oh, well. But It's not mad red. It's head-hanging red. "Yeah, all right. I'll do that first chance, I promise."
Freddie looks pleased, then changes back to way-far serious. Up comes the second finger. "If you fall for Heath or anybody else, keep things clean with Burke. Do it right. Up front. Break up with him honorably and stuff. Okay?"
My head droops. I can't stop it. She actually made me hang my head.
What can I say?
Except, "Yes. Okay."
My head keeps drooping all the way inside, through all the paperwork and while portrait-lady escorts Freddie back toward the dressing room. Then portrait-lady pops back to the counter holding a body drape that will never in a million years fit around me.
Damn.
That's why I called ahead and verified that they had large body drapes so I could match everyone else in my class and not have to do the pictures in my street clothes. Only portrait-lady's definition of large and mine must be different. I should have said supersized, or megasized, or big enough to fit a damned mastodon.
She smiles and holds out the drape. "One size fits all."
This is so gonna be fun, I can tell.
Kind of like dental surgery. Without the gas.
. . .
By the time I meet up with Freddie outside the portrait studio, I'm tired like I've run a marathon. Not that I'd ever be able to run a marathon even with vampires chasing me—but my imagination supplies the details.
"Sometimes it gets old," I tell Freddie as we drive toward Burke's big house on the hill.
Freddie gives me a look like she's got stomach cramps, which is Freddie for, I'm totally sorry it sucks so much.
Yeah. Me too.
So much for talking more about what bothers me.
My life turns into a nontopic, except for Fat Girl. Once a week, I pour it all out and hope somebody gets a clue.
Does anyone get a clue?
Freddie and I don't talk much the rest of the way to Burke's. It's hard not to think about the portrait studio and how my picture will turn out. I hate seeing myself in pictures, kind of like I hate seeing myself in mirrors. I wish I could be all Fat Girl about it and love my big body, find it beautiful like Burke does... or did.
And Heath.
You look great in that costume...
God! I try to chase Heath's image and voice out of my mind. The way he looked at me, the way his voice sounded, It's hard not to replay the scene over and over again. 1 shouldn't, but I do.
How much was real?
What did I make up?
Heath probably hates me now for avoiding him like he's got some disease. I've pretty much stranded him with the paper, except for writing my column. His crumpled note rolls around on Freddie's floorboard as she parks the Toyota.
Decision time's coming up. We need to talk. Soon.
I can hear Heath's voice saying those words, see the serious look in his blue eyes.
&n
bsp; Why can't I get him out of my head?
We're at Burke's front door now, heading inside, and f'm thinking about Heath.
M & M gather in the foyer, apparently on their way out. Thank God. They're both wearing sleek stylish blue dresses. They look like college women, graduates, on their way up the ladder and, of course, they are.
Me, I couldn't fit in a business suit with a crowbar and plunger to assist, and I'd probably break a ladder if I dared set my foot on a rung. Don't most ladders have weight restrictions? Hammocks do. Trust me. Burke and I found that out the hard way at the lake last year.
Freddie exchanges hellos with the vampire sisters as I ease past them and make my way to the kitchen. Sunlight streams through the big windows, making the mosaic design in the tiled floor sparkle. Everything's dusted and polished. Everything in Burke's world is always so clean and fresh.
Burke's dad is standing by the table gazing at a bunch of clothes laid out across its polished surface—three or four shirts, some shorts, some sweats, and a couple of pairs of jeans with the price tags still on them.
Burke's standing beside his dad, only at first my brain doesn't register Burke at all.
It's some other guy, thirty-five days after surgery, and almost fifty pounds lighter. A leaner, taller version of Burke in stylish, cut basketball shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. More muscles, or more muscle definition. I get so cold my teeth try to chatter, but I clench my jaw and refuse to surrender.
It's Burke. Not Burke, but it is. It's him.
I'm still not used to seeing him standing up. I can so see the missing pounds when he's upright.
And he's shaved his head.
Like, bald.
This makes me blink. A gnawing ache chews at my stomach. He had to chop his dreads because his hair really did start falling out, a perfectly normal situation per his surgeon.
But... bald?
Not that he doesn't have a handsome head. It's adorable. It's just not my Burke.
He scoots his palm over his shiny black dome and gives me a wide, goofy grin. "I'm smooo-ooothe, baby."
"You're a god," I say, and try to mean it.
"Check these out." He tugs at his shirt and shorts. "Double-X. I've dropped like three sizes already. And they're big on me."
Ice is forming on my skin.
Smile. Have to, because he's so thrilled. I have to be happy for him, but tears blur my vision.
Burke's wearing smaller clothes than I do.
I can't wear his shirts anymore. I can't fit into his sweats or his shorts and parade around to make him laugh.
No more hanging out in my guy's clothes.
That's lost, like his dreads, and the cute roundness in his cheeks, and all the things we used to talk about and do together. Everything's about weight loss now. I hate that phrase, "weight loss," like Burke misplaced half of himself somewhere.
It's falling off. He's melting, like Evillene.
My brain registers a coffee cup on the table beside him, with a spoon sticking out of it. I realize that was probably Burke's lunch, or maybe his dinner. His food fits in a coffee cup.
Burke's dad, who looks even leaner than Burke, slips past me with a pat on the shoulder and a "Glad to see you, Jamie." I watch as he settles into his armchair in the living room and picks up the television remote.
Back to Burke, since I can't focus on anything else.
"What do you think?" Burke, still standing in his new clothes that won't fit me, poses like a magazine muscle-hunk. "Can you tell I'm losing?"
"Absolutely." My answer's as automatic as his question. So is my smile.
Burke walks stiffly toward me—he's still sore, "working out the kinks" as his dad says—and hugs me.
"Don't worry," he says. "You'll lose, too, if you want to. Get small like me." He grins. "Bring those curves down to a manageable level, Jamie. It's doable."
My smile stays stuck on my face even though I feel flat and cold all over and almost sick.
Manageable level?
Burke never found my curves unmanageable before.
All of a sudden, I feel twice as huge. And out of place.
I'm hating it here right now, hating it really bad.
Manageable level?
Me losing weight was never part of this deal, was it? When did that happen? I missed that part of the contract completely.
But Burke's hugging me.
I hug him back gently, afraid I'll hurt his healing incisions, and God help me, I think about Heath and how he smells like spice, and the way he kissed the top of my head outside the journalism suite.
Guilt twists like snakes in my gut.
I let go of Burke too fast, and realize he's talking. Well, whispering.
"... in food jail." Burke shakes his head. "They don't understand. I know I'm ready."
More snakes, twisting, writhing, making me half-sick, but I'm supposed to keep smiling. I'm here for Burke, like I promised. Got to keep it together.
"My sisters," Burke says. "You know how they are."
I glance over my shoulder, through the living room and back toward the foyer. "Yeah. They can be major pains in the ass."
"I keep telling them I just want a little bit." Burke makes an inch sign with his thumb and forefinger. "Chocolate. But they're blowing me off. You gotta hook me up with a Hershey bar."
"Food jail." I'm putting the pieces together now. "You're still wanting me to bring you candy. No way!"
Burke opens his arms, pleading. "Come on, baby. I'm counting on you."
I jerk a thumb toward the foyer. "They'll bite my neck and bleed me dry if I bring you contraband. Not happening."
"Please?" He gives me the puppy eyes.
Damn him.
Those eyes are still way wide and big, and totally pathetic when he wants them to be. "I'll think about it," I say to shut him up and make him quit with the puppy gaze.
"lamie," Mr. Westin calls from the living room. "I think you should come here."
The snakes in my belly multiply.
5hif. Did he hear that about the chocolate bars? I'm so dead.
Burke looks as startled as I feel.
Busted.
"Sorry," he whispers, but I hush him with a wave of my hand.
Together, we walk slowly into the living room to face our doom. I can tell Burke's expecting the worst. And it gets better, because here come Freddie and M & M, who obviously haven't left yet.
Greeeaaaaaaat.
"... big controversy brewing at tiny Garwood High," the television news blares, "where senior Jamie Carcaterra defends her right to superobesity in her tart, irreverent 'Fat Girl Manifesto.'"
"Whoa," Freddie says, sitting down on Burke's giant leather sofa. "Fat Girl goes big-time. This is national news, right?"
Mr. Westin nods. "It's a segment called Food for Thought. The network features local reporters from all over the country with interesting pieces."
Burke whistles and makes whoop-whoop sounds, then whacks me on the back.
M & M gape at the set, eyes wide.
Barbara Gwennet, the reporter who interviewed me after opening night, fills the screen—with a backdrop of big bellies and butts marching by.
For a few seconds, she looks sweet and sympathetic and earnest. Then her eyes narrow and she lifts a copy of The Wire and reads, "I'm not chubby. I'm not chunky. I'm not hormonally challenged or endocrine-disordered. I do not prefer platitudes like large or plus-sized or clinical words like obese... I'm fat... Get used to it. Get over it."
The bellies and butts keep passing by behind her. Sometimes the camera zooms in on the largest specimens.
Barbara pauses, gazes into the camera, eyebrows raised, and reads more. "Fat Girl, in all her fatness, may have fewer body-image issues than people who wear 'normal' sizes."
Another deep stare into the camera, then more outof-context quotes from my manifesto. "... compulsive overeating is not officially recognized in any diagnostic manual... the same diet industry that makes billions for doing
nothing to help and usually making things worse... funded some, maybe a lot, of the studies 'raising the alarm.'"
Oh, I can so see where this is going, and I hate it already. My hands clench. All the cold is gone, and I'm hot instead. Burning up.
Burke's still making celebration noises. Freddie and Mr. Westin sit, obviously stunned. M & M look like a strong breeze would blow them both to the floor.
"The voice of our youth." Barbara shakes her head as the belly-butt parade continues. "Free speech, or the malicious opinions of one misguided girl who chooses to disregard a serious national public health crisis?"
As I stare, dumbfounded like everybody else, Barbara snips quotes from Fat Girl and splices in brief out-of-order sound bites from my interview until I sound like a screaming, rampaging fat activist who despises medical science, skinny women, and bariatric surgery. According to her I "mercilessly dig" at my "young male friend" who made the "incredibly brave decision" to have a weight-loss procedure.
"You digging at me?" Burke cracks up. "She's smoking something. I'd like to know what it is. Can I have some?"
"Be quiet," M & M order at the same time.
"Mmmm," Freddie agrees, leaning forward.
Mr. Westin rubs his hand over his chin.
Barbara misrepresents a little more, stating I "closed down" the local Hotchix in a "brazen sneak attack" with a few of my "radical friends."
Freddie swears softly, then covers her mouth.
On the television, Barbara again lifts the copy of The Wire. "Competing opinions and health columns are conspicuously absent. Will thin, healthy students be forced to picket this 'fat rag' to be heard?"
Long, dramatic pause as the fat bellies and butts fade slowly to a black screen.
"This is Barbara Gwennet, and Garwood High's 'Fat Girl Manifesto' is truly food for thought. Until next week, good night."
Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Nobody speaks. Commercials flare and flash by, but I'm not processing any of them.
The news show goes off. A crime show comes on.
My cell rings. I grab it, glance down at the number, and see that It's my house.
I answer, feeling numb, like I'm hearing sounds ping against my ears from far, far away.