Big Fat Manifesto (10 page)

Besides, I would hate myself for doing something like that. Not that leaving Burke for Heath is remotely an option. Heath
is my friend, nothing less and sure as hell nothing more. He's weird and he can be a pain, and there is so totally no way
he would ever be interested in me. Heath isn't a date-the-Fat-Girl type of guy. Not an option on his part, or on mine.

The Wire

FEATURE SPREAD

for publication Friday, September 28

Fat Girl Frothing

Fat Boy Chronicles IV

JAMIE D. CARCATERRA

Fat Boy lives.

I hope you cheered. Don't forget I'm watching. Fat Girl has spies
everywhere.

So, like I said, Fat Boy's breathing. Fat Boy sits up in bed. He can eat a handful of ice chips. He can drink a few sips of
sugar-free noncarbonated beverages (find some of those other than water, I dare you). He can suck a few tablespoons of sugarless
gelatin through a straw.

Yum.

He can stand, but a therapist has to help him walk. His wounds hurt, especially the second place the surgeon cut Fat Boy to
help him breathe again. He has to blow air in and out of this little spirometer thing and move a little blue ball in a tube
to be sure he doesn't get pneumonia.

And today, after three days in the ICU and four days in a regular room on ice chips and gelatin, Fat Boy got to try pureed
food.

Of course, nobody told me about the frothing. I'm not sure anybody told Fat Boy about it, and for damn sure nobody told NoNo,
who fainted, and Freddie, who barfed. Fat Boy's sisters and parents turned kinda green, too, though his sisters always look
a little—well, witchy.

Frothing works like this:

Normal stomachs make acid to help with digestion. Stapled guts fail to make enough acid, so the teeny pouch manufactures mucous
to help digest food like pureed pale goo. Mucus builds up in the tube between the pouch and Fat Boy's mouth, called the esophagus.
He sucks down goo, feels sick, and back the goo comes, mucus and all, bubbling up the esophagus and blowing out his mouth
and nose. No, scratch that. Frothing. Like what cappuccino machines do to milk to make that foam on top.

Only out the mouth and nose.

I thought it would come out his eyes and ears before it was done. Fat Boy yelled and said he felt like somebody turned him
into an exploding soda can.

Not fun. Not pretty.

Ruined my lunch and scarred NoNo for life. Freddie's talking about therapy.

Raise your hand if you think this surgery ought to come with a full-page, all-caps FROTH WARNING.

Well, that's unanimous.

Time Postsurgery: 10 Days

Pounds Lost: 16

CHAPTER

TEN

Burke studies me with his dark eyes, which seem wider and bigger as the days pass. He's propped on pillows in his hospital
bed, and he has one arm draped across his belly to hold everything still. Every time I see him do that, I want to yell at
him for choosing to have this procedure, but I don't because he's trying so, so hard to get better.

We're alone in his clean white hospital room with its clean white tile, because It's morning. I get before nine and after
play practice, by agreement with M
&
M and Burke's parents, even on Saturdays and Sundays. Freddie and NoNo usually come with me at night, but in the morning,
Burke's all mine.

"What time do you have to leave?" His voice sounds hoarse and weak, but at least he's been upright for my whole pre-ACT visit,
and that breathing-tube hole in his throat is closing up.

I glance at my watch and taste a backwash of the coffee and pretzels I ate for breakfast. "Ten minutes. Mom's picking me up
out front."

Burke coughs. The wet, rattling sound gives me cold chills.

"Is Freddie taking the test today, too?" He blinks those big eyes at me, chasing the chills away.

"Are you kidding?" I smile. "This is Freddie we're talking about. She's waiting until three Saturdays from now. The absolute
last moment she can get a score turned in with her applications on time."

"Yeah, should have figured." He shifts his weight and winces. "You're ready. You're gonna kick major standardized-test ass."

Is his hair getting thinner? My smile fades to nothing even though I'm trying to keep it. I mean, I understand this whole
losing-weight thing, how the pounds are falling off of him. He does have a stapled gut, and he's had complications, and he's
been sick as a dog and frothing every other time he tries to eat. With all of that, nineteen pounds in eleven days isn't completely
unreasonable.

But Burke won't lose his hair, right?

I didn't read anything about losing hair. Anorexics lose their hair and get all hypoglycemic and stuff—but I didn't think
that was such an issue for bariatric patients.

I'd go check the top of his head and make sure his dreads are still firmly attached, but that might freak him out. After all
the volcanic goo eruptions, I don't want to do anything to stress him. Stress makes mucous bubble like Evillene's cauldron.

After a few seconds, I realize we've stopped talking, and he's back to studying me. It's strange not to be eating breakfast
with him. I must have had breakfast with Burke hundreds of times, but how can I eat real food in front of him?

We probably won't share meals hardly ever now. We'll have to find other stuff to do while we talk, so we don't just stare.
Staring is weird.

"Can you tell I'm losing?" Burke asks for probably the twentieth time in the past three days.

I nod, like I always do. "More and more."

And I
can
tell.

His cheeks sink in and his neck's starting to sag, and under the sheets, his legs don't look so big. I'm not sure what I'm
imagining and what's real, and what's because he's been so sick. If I lose thirty pounds, or even forty, people don't notice.
I lost fifty once, and only Freddie and NoNo and Burke and my family had a clue.

Can I really see Burke's missing nineteen pounds?

Or am I seeing the future?

The thought makes
me
want to froth.

"Gotta go," I tell him. When I get up to give him a kiss, my hip bumps the chair and turns it over. I grab it before it clatters
on the floor, because that happens a lot. My body doesn't work well with hospital furniture. My body doesn't work well with
hospitals, period. Too big for the beds. Too big for the rooms. Definitely too big for stupid little wooden chairs.

Too
big for Burke.

I set the chair upright and lean down to kiss Burke. His lips feel moist and soft again, like they're supposed to feel. I
linger, tasting hints of cherry Jell-O. Burke always liked whipped cream with his desserts, but he can't have whipped cream
now. Too much sugar. Not enough room for extras in a thumb-sized stomach.

"Mmm," Burke says as I pull away. His gorgeous eyes are still closed. "You'll ace this. Good luck, babe."

A nurse comes in carrying a tiny bowl of pureed goo.

It's green.

I glance from the goo to Burke, imagining green froth even though I'm totally trying not to.

"Good luck to you, too."

. . .

When I climb into our old Ford, Mom smells like garlic and she's dressed in home clothes.

With a sigh, I push at the pile of mail on the seat between us.

"Checked it before I left," she says as I rifle through the letters, still thinking a little about the goo and wishing Mom
would wear better clothes to places where she might run into my friends. Or at least take a bath.

An envelope from Dad's insurance company catches my eye. When I pick it up and ask Mom, she says I can open it. I hear the
sudden strain in her voice and know we're both thinking the same thing—that this might be the letter about bariatric surgery
and whether or not we have benefits that cover it.

My back and shoulders tingle as I hold the monogrammed parchment and blink at our address on the front. The letters blur even
as I'm trying to focus.

I don't want bariatric surgery. There's no way I'd go through what Burke's going through.

But here's the letter telling me whether or not my family could afford it—for me, or for Mom or Dad.

Why does it matter? Why am I even looking?
Would / let
any
more people I know get their gut stapled?

The envelope won't give.

Finally, I just rip off the end like Dad does, tearing half the letter in the process.

"What does it say?" Mom asks as she drives slowly through the Saturday morning traffic.

"I don't know yet." When I glance up, I calculate the distance to the testing center over at West Memorial Library. About
ten minutes. We've got half an hour, but taking the ACT doesn't seem important all of a sudden.

The paper in my hand feels monumental.

I gaze at it, hold it carefully, treat it like It's fragile.

What if the procedure is covered?

Will Mom and Dad push me to get the surgery? Will they want it for themselves?

Do I want it?

My eyes drift from the folded paper downward, to my big belly, spread across my bigger knees.

For a split second, I can see myself without the fat roll. I can see my own thighs, trim and sleek and muscled, like those
underwear models on television. I'd pump a lot of iron, walk miles, go up and down stairs as fast as Freddie—and I wouldn't
even have to hold on to the railings. Maybe I'd never have chafe marks again, or a heat rash, or new stretch marks.

Maybe I'd quit worrying about whether or not I slink.

Maybe I'd shrink as fast as Burke. How small could I get, with a thumb-sized pouch instead of a stomach?

Would I be like NoNo, all sticks and bones, or like Freddie—just right, with wide girl-hips?

If I got small, I'd go back to Hotchix and buy that shirt with the
blue pattern, even if NoNo disowned me for supporting animal torturers.

Hell, I'd about have to disown myself, buying from Hotchix, but that shirt would be worth it.

Little by little, I unfold the paper.

My eyes blur at the words, hoping they won't say we can have the surgery, and at the same time, hoping that we do have the
benefit. My brain yanks in two different directions, toward thin me and back toward fat me.

The first thing I read is a salutation addressed to Mom, with a note that Dad's the insured, and the name of his employer.
Below that, in straight, clear type, the print reads:

Dear Mrs. Carcaterra:

Thank you for your recent inquiry about bariatric surgery. At this time, GetLifeRight does not cover weight-loss products,
procedures, or programs. These items are not scheduled for review during this calendar year.

We wish you good fortune in your pursuit of health, and urge you to Get Life Right!

Sincerely,

Ann Smith

Enrollee Representative Class III

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.