Big Fat Manifesto (18 page)

"Freddie said the same thing."

"Freddie is a good friend."

I give him a look, then can't help kissing his cheek, which makes him grin. "Freddie's been bugging me about you," I say quietly,
hoping my voice tickles his ear. "She knew something before I'd admit it, even to myself."

"Like I said, she's a good friend." He turns his head to look at me, and I could go swimming in those perfect blue eyes. "Will
you tell her about tonight?"

Reality does a slide-click and shift, and some of my actual life elbows back into my brain. "Urn, yeah. I will."

Like the second I leave here, even if it's four in the morning?

But she's mad.

But she'll go postal if I don't tell her something like this instantly.

"How many boyfriends have you had in high school?" Heath's voice intrudes on my worrying, snapping my attention back to him.

"Just Burke," I answer, only half-present. "And... and now..."

Do 1 say it?

"And now me." Heath sounds definite.

"Now you."

Why does that make my chest hurt?

"Let me guess." He toys with my fingers the way I played with his. "You and Burke, you're not officially broken up."

When I don't answer, I feel Heath sigh.

"I'm not about poaching another guy's girl, Jamie."

For the first time since I got to the cave, I go a little stiff. "I don't belong to Burke, you know. I'm not some guy's property."

"Okay, okay, claws in."

Claws?

What claws?

I'm a kitten.

Kittens have little-bitty claws.

"But you will talk to him?"

"I'll talk to him." God, that feels huge. "But Freddie first."

"Freddie first, whatever, thafs a girlfriend code or something, I know. But Burke has to be next."

When I look at Heath, he's serious. "A guy code thing," he says. "I don't want to end up having to throw down with a dude
who just had surgery."

Leave it to Heath to be all honorable. Bizarre.

"You won't have to do that. I'll take care of it."

And even as I'm kissing Heath again, I'm wondering what in the living hell I'm going to say to Burke Westin.

The Wire

FEATURE SPREAD

for publication Monday, November 19,

Pre-Thanksgiving Special Edition

Fat Girl Choosing, Again

JAMIE D. CARCATERRA

Choices.

Did I make the choice to be fat?

Is it possible for a baby, a very young child, a little girl, to choose a lifetime of obesity, and all that entails?

Do I consciously, every day of my life, choose to eat in ways that keep me fat?

A few months ago, I would have said no.

Now I'll say, I don't know.

I don't think I do, but I'm learning that making a choice can be subtle. That sometimes I decide things and don't even know
I've decided them until I'm face-to-face with the consequences.

I didn't choose to have a national media explosion centered on me and the column I write, but I
did
choose to write the column, and put it in print, and never shy away from my own opinions just because they might be controversial.

I didn't choose for Barbara Gwennet to make me look like a total buttface—some of that was her choice, to boost her own press
and ratings—but I
did
choose to talk to more reporters even though that local witch of a news anchor taught me the risks.

Are people responsible for events when they make a choice knowing that danger, pain, damage, or disaster is a
possible
outcome?

The law says yes. What do you say?

I say I don't know. I'm not sure.

Choices make ripples that never stop.

Choices make ripples that can stir up the entire ocean. The sucky part is, I don't always know when I'm choosing, and I don't
always see that tidal wave of consequences towering over me.

The only thing I can think to do is become more aware of choosing, and quit bitching and moaning when some ripple I set in
motion nearly drowns me. I need to learn to swim better. I need to learn to swim faster. I also need to learn to look back
and catch myself in the secret, subtle act of choice making.

Maybe fat is a choice.

Maybe it isn't.

Maybe if I swim long enough and hard enough, maybe if I watch the water around me closely enough, I'll figure that out.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

"Oh, no you did
not."
Freddie laughs as I fold up the column I finished just before she and NoNo got to my house this evening—putting me two ahead
and clear for the upcoming holiday—
yes.
"You're kidding, right? Last week? You're kidding. I know you are. Why didn't you tell us
sooner?
But seriously, you're kidding."

When I don't tell her I'm kidding, Freddie looks mad. Then worried. Freaked out. Then she covers her mouth and laughs again.
Then she rolls around on my bedroom floor like a crazy woman. "You really did it. You made out with Heath Montel! I knew it.
I
knew
it."

NoNo—hey, she's my friend, too, so I had to tell her... no, wait, I chose to tell her—just sits at the foot of my bed and
shakes her head and turns scarlet-purple-red. Dye free, of course.

The smell of Mom's homemade pizza drifts through the house, making my stomach roar. I shift on the bed and lean against my
headboard. I know if I eat a single bite of that pepperoni delight, I'll turn green. Too nervous. Too much to think about.

"Sorry, sorry." Freddie tries to get a grip. "God, this is going to be so complicated. Burke will flip the hell out."

"It'll be like divorce," NoNo says. "We'll have to split up holidays. Share weekends. Reconfigure family gatherings." She
sighs.

Freddie wants to be furious and all parental, but she's too busy laughing again. "What can I say?" she shrugs. "Gotta love
romance. Even straight romance."

Thank God It's only a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving break and we don't have much homework, because Freddie has a thousand
questions. She bounces all around the room and wants a thousand details, from how Heath smelled to what he said to whether
or not the word love actually got used.

That last one makes me take a deep breath, because I've told Burke I love him
so
many times. He's told me the same thing.

Am I really ready to throw that out the window? Am I ready to admit I don't love Burke? I guess It's possible to say
I love you
so many times It's automatic. Like,
Can you tell
I'm losing weight?
And,
Yes, absolutely.

Heath and I didn't use that word,
love.

Does that mean something?

I close my eyes and bang my head back against the headboard.
Oh, God, don't start doing this, obsessing over every little
detail.

But I do.

And I keep coming back to words
I've
written, about how Fat Girls don't play the lead or get the guy. About how we're not supposed to be popular, how we're supposed
to be pathetic, sad wallflowers.

I was poking fun at those myths. So, what the hell? Do I believe them myself, at least a little bit?

"You're not sharing," Freddie says, sounding grouchy. "You're doing that thing again, where you keep the real stuff to yourself."

I open my eyes. "I am not."

Hands on hips now, with a major Freddie-glare. "You are, too. You
always
do it."

Before I can argue again, NoNo puts my deepest fears into words with, "You know, Heath has more courage than I thought."

Freddie quits bouncing. She scrubs her hands against her jeans and slowly sits on my floor where she can see both of us.

My body temperature shoots up and down about three times as I try out different meanings for NoNo's comment. Finally, I give
up. "Explain, please?"

NoNo huddles in her oversized hemp sweater, then straightens as she says, "I've always seen him as a little shy. Sort of...
absent and undefined. Maybe too much of a coward to stick up for his beliefs."

Okay, that meaning's all too clear. "What—if he's going to date Fat Girl, he's got to be brave?"

NoNo gazes at me without blinking or smiling. "Yes."

Freddie tenses, like she's scared I'm about to blow, and I think about it. Think about it some more. My stomach stirs around
and turns a little flip.

Is that why Heath didn't say he loved me?

Because he doesn't know if he's got the guts to go public with Fat Girl?

But he said he was my next boyfriend... sort of. Right?

An evil, evil part of my brain urges me not to talk to Burke until I know for sure Heath will be there for me.

What is
wrong with
you?

NoNo's unwavering gaze makes me want to slap her, but I really, really want to slap myself.

"If I had a magic wand," NoNo says slowly, "and I could wave it and make you thin, who would you be, lamie? What would you
believe in?"

Now
that
slaps me.

Everything inside me jerks sideways.

I wrap my arms around my midsection and choke back a lot of fast, harsh remarks. Then I realize I have absolutely no idea
what to say to NoNo.

But I don't want to admit that.

I don't want to say out loud that I'm not sure I want to be thin, or "lose weight," or whatever trendy phrase anyone would
like to choose. Being Fat Girl
is
who I am. It's my shtick.

Right?

To take on size-ism and fat discrimination, to demand my right to be as big as I want to be.

I'm Fat Girl.

If I wasn't Fat Girl,
who would I be?

Holding myself tighter, I feel the fat, really feel it, the totality of it, the weight of it. Like a lining between me and
the rest of universe. A buffer zone where pain stops and bullshit begins?

It defines me.

Do I
let
it define me?

It must be possible for brains to fry, because mine's sizzling.

The longer I don't yell at NoNo, the more it heats and cooks, but I can't yell at her. I won't. I choose not to.

Nobody speaks for a few minutes.

Freddie breaks the silence, her nervous energy lashing the air as sharply as her words. "Okay, thafs like so too deep for
me, NoNo. It's nearly vacation, for God's sake."

NoNo swallows. She looks like she might back down, but when she catches my eye, she says, "I just want to know how much of
Fat Girl is really Jamie."

I can't answer that either. I think I get it, but I'm not totally sure. Like Freddie says, NoNo's diving deep, shooting under
all my safe places, heading into areas I so don't like to examine.

Is Fat Girl just another role, like Evillene in
The Wiz?
Another "fat part" I play with flare and drama?

Could I scrub Fat Girl off like green glitter?

NoNo's not finished. "Do you really believe the things you write about?" She leans forward and rests her chin on her knobby
knees, all the while looking straight at me. "Because if you believe in your causes, sooner or later you have to take risks
for them. You have to behave like you believe. Maybe thafs what you're doing with Heath. Finally choosing to take a real risk."

If I pull back any farther from her, I'll stuff the headboard and myself through the wall into my parents' room.

Choice.

There's that damned word again.

And what about all the times I've chosen by not choosing? All the times I've gone sliding along through my life and everyone
else's, whining about how I can't change anything—from other people's attitudes to my own body?

I bitch about things, but what do I ever
really
work to change, like NoNo does?

"NoNo... I run my big fat mouth about my big fat beliefs, then turn around and act like a coward."

Freddie's mouth moves, but no sound comes out. NoNo's look says she agrees, but she's not sure if I'm going to scream at her
or not.

"Sometimes I hate you," I whisper. "Sometimes I rag on you because I know you see
everything."

NoNo looks a little sad when she smiles. "Thafs okay. Sometimes I hate me too—but I never hate you."

Bitch.

Tears form in my eyes. "I know."

Freddie gulps air. "No hating. It's like, nearly Thanksgiving. There will be no hating in my presence."

My frying brain keeps right on popping.
Who do you
really hate, Jamie?
I glance down at myself, in all my fat, strange, different—beautiful?—glory.

Come on. Dare you to tell the truth on that one.

My door rattles.

We all jump and stare as somebody knocks.

It's Mom. I can tell by the soft taps.

"Come in," I mumble.

Mom pushes open the door, letting in a cloud of pepperoni and fresh-baked, hot pizza crust. She glances around the room. I
can tell she notices something's going on, but she doesn't ask. She just pushes forward with what she came to do.

Like me?

"This was in the mail." She holds out a brown envelope. Her expression's tense.

When I take the envelope, I see the NFA stamp in the corner.

Maybe It's the heavy conversation, or the fried brain, or holiday fog, but I can't make sense out of getting an envelope from
the NFA now. It's too early for the announcement. Still two or three weeks until we're supposed to know anything.

"Maybe they picked you already!" Freddie jumps up, breathless.

NoNo looks like Mom, nervous and concerned.

Numb, cool dread spreads through me as I hold the envelope. It's heavy. Like It's stuffed with papers.

Or a portfolio.

Whatever this is, It's not good.

"It's early," I manage to say before I read, with everyone in a half-circle behind me, looking over my shoulder:

Dear Ms. Carcaterra:

Thank you for your entry into the National Feature Award scholarship competition.

As our guidelines state, the NFA targets outstanding journalism promoting the public well-being. While your column is both
educational and enlightening about the beliefs and experiences of a subset of our population, and your writing is certainly
fresh and engaging, our committee does not believe the content fulfills the primary criteria of promoting public well-being.
As such, your entry is disqualified.

We're returning your materials herewith enclosed, and wish you good fortune in pursuing your collegiate career.

Sincerely,

Thomas Sanderson,
PhD

Chairman

NFA Search Committee

"Oh." Mom puts a hand on my arm. "Honey."

NoNo turns away and shakes her head. "Unbelievable. Talk about cowards. I bet they can't handle all this national PR heat."

"It's Barbara Gwennefs fault!" Freddie's voice booms, and her face flares bloodred. She snatches the letter out of my hands
and shakes it about a foot away from my face. "No way we let this stand. You're on the phone in two seconds with this Sanderson
bastard, and you're on a plane to meet with this committee tomorrow!"

"I can get a lawyer," Mom offers. She gives my arm a squeeze. That suddenly hopeful look she can get tears at my insides.
"Dad's employee assistance program offers legal advice."

"There's the ACLU," NoNo adds.

My head swims. I should be crying. Gasping. Hollering louder than Freddie, or getting civil liberties phone numbers from NoNo.

I should do something. Feel something. But I just feel tired.

Whaf
the hell? Strap on the big guns. Get ready for the big battle.

Because this would be a battle worth fighting—if I believe in it. And I believe in it.

Right?

Out loud, I say, "I don't know."

"What?" Freddie, Mom, and NoNo answer at the same time.

"You always want the truth. The real stuff. Well, thafs it." I meet Freddie's eyes and make myself not look away.
"I don't know."

Freddie thinks I'm kidding. She's still red. She's still furious. "Oh, no way. Fat Girl always knows the best way to stick
it to this kind of asshole." She makes stabbing, twisting motions in the air. "Fat Girl always knows what to say."

Still no anger. Still just tired. Thafs the truth.

"Fat Girl always knows what to say, but I don't. I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want to fight other people. NoNo's
right. I don't know if I'm a coward or an activist or something in between. I
don't know."

Maybe I need time to think. Maybe I need time to rest.

Maybe I need to figure out if fighting scholarship people is a risk
I want to take.

But I do know one thing for sure, one risk I do need to take. One I
must
take, if I believe in this whole honesty thing, if I have any beliefs of my very own to be true to.

And I have to take this risk right now, no more delays, no more putting it off, no matter how I feel.

I turn away from all the stares and scramble to find a piece of paper and pen, knowing I'm about to get three columns ahead—and
scared to death of what I'm planning to write... and do.

When I'm ready, I turn back to hopeful Mom and furious Freddie and stunned, quiet NoNo and say, "I need to go to Burke's."