Big Fat Manifesto (20 page)

CHAPTER

TWENTY

Heath's lips still taste as good as they did that first kiss. He hugs me tight, and I hug him back with all I've got. I love
how his body feels against mine, I love the way he touches me, firm, but also soft and gentle, in all the right ways and places.

My dad coughs.

Oh yeah.

Real world.

Hello.

From the corner of my eye, I see Mom smack Dad's shoulder.

Beside him, NoNo taps her foot and nudges Freddie, who says, "For God's sake, hurry up. It's almost your turn."

The space around me slowly comes back into focus, from the airport shops to the polished tile floor to the long line of impatient-looking
people snaking behind us.

Dad has our photo IDs and tickets ready for the security person to examine, and he's already taking off his shoes to put them
in the little basket to be x-rayed.

Heath's blue eyes comfort me, cheer me up, calm me down.

We've had our talk, Heath and I, about the whole guts-to-love-a-fat-girl issue.

I don't know if he's got what it takes to tolerate the stares and digs and teasing over the long haul. He's been pretty honest
that he doesn't know, either—but we both think It's totally worth the risk of finding out.

For now, It's not an issue, and I'm refusing to worry about it anymore.

"You look ready," he says as he turns me loose.

I smile at him, because he always makes me smile. "I'm ready to teach some NFA judges a thing or two about promoting public
well-being."

Freddie pokes at my carry-on backpack until I let Heath go.

"You got the whole portfolio, right?" She jabs the backpack again.

"Yes, Freddie."

NoNo's turn. She taps the pack, too. "And the signed petition?"

"Got it, NoNo."

Then I almost tear up at the thought of the petition, signed by most of the students and parents from Gar­wood High School,
and a lot of people from town, too.

The petition officially protests the NFA's decision, outlines the ways
Fat Girl Manifesto
educated my community and illuminated the struggles of a
lot
of people—who strongly dislike being referred to as a
subset of our popula
lion.

Lots of people wrote their weight beside their signature.

Almost as good as all of that, I'm wearing a custom-sewn hip blue business suit commissioned by Burke's mom, who dropped by
the send-off party at the school this morning with these clothes and two other outfits.

I should have paid more attention to those columns you wrote
before Burke's surgery,
Mrs. Westin said. We
do know all the
good tailors, and none of our folks are going to the big city looking
like a ragamuffin
—
or a piece of old-lady fruit.

She even jerked me aside for half an hour and did my nails.

In bright pink.

Mr. Westin and Burke didn't come. Burke's fine, according to Mrs. Westin, but he needs more time.

A lot of time, according to M
&
M, who don't seem so carnivorous now that I'm not dating their brother.

At least Burke's speaking to Freddie and NoNo. Barely, but enough that they haven't killed me yet. They even cheered when
Principal Edmonds presented Dad and me with two big surprises right before we left for the airport.

Apparently, Principal Edmonds and Mr. Dunstein organized another petition, as well as a collection. Dad's carrying a stern
note to deliver to the airline headquarters in New York about their size policies, with over five hundred signatures—also
with weights inscribed next to names. In addition, Dad and I have two seats each, courtesy of the Garwood High Parent-Teacher
Association.

Heath gives me one more kiss before Dad jerks me through security with him.

As I'm stripping off my shoes and stuffing my carry-on into the bin for x-raying, I glance back at my cheerleaders. They're
standing by the coffee shop, just outside the roped-off security section, waving like nutjobs.

I wave back.

For once, I don't feel tired and scared. I don't feel like I've lost before I ever start the fight.

Maybe thafs honesty at work. Maybe It's good friends.

Maybe It's Heath, or being more aware of my choices.

Maybe It's all of those things.

I don't know, because believe it or not, universe, I
don't
know everything—but I'm choosing to be okay with that today.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Jen Sexton, who helped me with details to make this piece as real and accurate as possible.

I don't know what I'd do without Debbie Federici, my champion critique partner, who reads every word just after It's written
and bugs me to finish what I start. Without you, my words would fall flat. Thanks also to Christine Taylor-Butler and Tara
Donn, who gave me honest initial opinions—fast.

My agent, Erin Murphy, deserves points for patience and perseverance, especially when I suddenly write unexpected books.

Endless appreciation to my editor Victoria Wells-Arms, who tackled this piece in record time, with big fat enthusiasm that
helped every big fat minute. I appreciate her and everyone at Bloomsbury more than I can say.