The Fat Lady Sings Read online

  Cameron was the one who got the idea about the props shed. “It’s full of furniture, nobody ever goes there, and Suzanne has the key,” he said. So the prefab aluminum shed behind the gym became the theatre lounge — by invitation only, of course.

  Suzanne got keys made for us at Home Depot during one of her regular Saturday afternoon excursions (that place is like Mecca to her). She rigged up some lighting (don’t ask me how), and Cameron and I spent a weekend rearranging everything that was crammed in there and opened up a corner where we put a sofa and two armchairs some parent had donated. I can’t imagine the taste of the person who bought this furniture, much less kept it in such shabby condition, and I’m sure we’ll never use it on stage unless we’re doing Pathetic Loser: The Musical, but for crashing between classes (or for skipping classes) it works fine.

  By the time break rolls around I’m all cried out and feeling a little better. I still feel like my life is over, but now instead of wanting to kill myself I just want to kill Cynthia, which is an improvement. Of course Cameron, Elliot, and Suzanne know where to find me, and pretty soon everybody has given me long hugs (you’ve got to admire the effort that a short, skinny waif like Suzanne puts in to get her arms all the way around me) and we’re waiting for someone to break the silence.

  “I talked to Parkinson,” says Suzanne at last.

  “You did what!” I say. Suzanne never talks to anybody voluntarily.

  “I talked to Parkinson. I asked him why you didn’t get the role.”

  “Why would you do that?” I say, crossing my arms across my chest.

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t,” says Suzanne. “And I knew you would lie awake wondering and torture yourself trying to think of things you could have done differently. I figured it would be better if you just knew.”

  She has a point. “So what did he say?” I ask, pressing my back as far into the corner of the shed as I can, feeling the cold aluminum through my shirt and hoping no one can see that I’m trembling with dread.

  “He said he needed someone who was physically right for the role.”

  “Oh, I am so sick of hearing ‘physically right for the role,’” I say. “Where in the script does it say what Dolly looks like? What role am I physically right for? Not even Tracy Turnblad — I’m too tall. But I could play her, and I could play Dolly. I’m an actress! I’m a fat actress.”

  “He also said Cynthia gave a really good singing audition.”

  And here it is — I have a choice. I can be righteously indignant that the role I’ve earned over the past four years of paying my dues in the theatre department was stolen from me because of blatant sizeism, or I can admit that I’m not the strongest singer in the world and allow for the possibility that Cynthia won Dolly fair and square. I opt for righteous indignation.

  “Oh please,” I say, dropping onto the couch, because it’s the only thing I can think of to say, and I’m hoping I slather on enough sarcasm to make myself feel better and put an end to the conversation.

  “Cynthia Pirelli is a gummy bear,” says Cameron, plopping down next to me.

  “A total gummy bear,” says Elliot. “You know Cameron didn’t get cast at all,” he says, after an awkward silence.

  “Oh, crap, Cameron,” I say, “I didn’t even look at the rest of the cast list. I’m so sorry.” I reach across the sofa and fold him up a hug, which probably half suffocates him, but now I feel totally guilty about how self-centered I’ve been. Like I’m the only person who didn’t get a part she wanted (although, inside, it still feels that way).

  “It’s OK,” says Cameron when I finally let him go. “There’s really not a good part for me. Elliot’s playing Barnaby.”

  “But don’t feel like you have to come see it,” says Elliot. “I mean I know the last thing you want is to see — well, you know.”

  “Her,” says Suzanne.

  “Right,” says Elliot.

  “Of course I’ll come to see you, Elliot,” I say, squeezing his bony hand in my fleshy one. “And congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” says Elliot, smiling at me and squeezing back.

  “Parkinson asked me if I would stage manage, but I’m not sure,” says Suzanne.

  “Look,” I say, “I didn’t get the part. It’s not the end of the world” (this is what I say, and I’m trying to talk myself into believing it, but it’s not working so far). “Sure I’m sad and angry and I certainly don’t feel like chatting with Cynthia Pirelli right now, but that’s no reason for you to boycott the show.”

  “It’s not that,” says Suzanne meekly, “It’s just that — “

  And then there is a knock at the door. At our door. No one has ever knocked on our door before. Who even knows we are in here? Cameron opens the door, and I swear if I were standing up you could knock my fat ass over with a chicken feather. Standing there in the door, in our door, is Cynthia Pirelli.

  Have you ever wanted to cry, scream, run, and punch somebody all at once? And at the same time have you wanted to ask that person to explain the second problem in tonight’s math homework?

  “Cynthia,” says Cameron calmly, blocking the door with his body so she can’t see me, “this is really not a good time.”

  “I just wanted to talk to Aggie for a minute,” says Cynthia in this pathetic, “it wasn’t my fault” voice.

  “Aggie’s not available right now,” says Elliot, joining Cameron in the doorway.

  “Look,” says Cynthia, into a solid wall of theatrical unity — because Suzanne has now crossed her arms and taken up a place between Cameron and Elliot — “Will you just tell her I’m sorry. I had no idea this would happen. I just thought doing the play would look good on my application.”

  “It’s not a play,” says Cameron, his voice dripping with disdain. “It’s a musical.”

  “Just tell her I’m sorry, OK,” says Cynthia, and it actually sounds like she’s starting to cry. Can you imagine? Of all the nerve; like she should be allowed to cry!

  Elliot closes the door and leans back against it. “That was weird,” he says.

  There is a long silence while we all stare at each other. I want to say thank you to all three of them for protecting me from Cynthia, but that sounds really lame — I shouldn’t need protecting. She’s just a person, and it really isn’t her fault, and I shouldn’t hate her. But, oh, I do. I hate her with a blinding white-hot passion. I hate her so much I can taste it in my mouth like blood or cold steel. But I try to act like it was no big deal.

  “Very weird,” I say.

  Suddenly Cameron cracks a sly smile and starts singing, “Goodbye, Dolly, well goodbye, Dolly. We all wish that you’d go back where you came from.” And the next second we’re all falling onto the sofa laughing and it’s the second huge release of emotional tension I’ve had in half an hour. Cameron can do that — make everyone in the room laugh just when they need to. He’s forever making up new lyrics to old songs to fit the situation at hand.

  “To hell with them,” says Elliot. “Cameron’s a lyricist. Aggie, you’re a writer. You should put on your own show.”

  “That’d be sticking it to the man,” says Cameron, laughing.

  “Is Parkinson ‘the man’?” says Elliot. “I always thought it was corporate America or the military-industrial complex.”

  “It would be nice to actually design a set for a change instead of just hanging those rented drops that Parkinson gets,” says Suzanne.

  “I’d like to see the look on Parkinson’s face,” says Cameron.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you,” I say.

  “Hell yes, we’re serious,” says Cameron, and even though I’m not sure he was at first, I can tell by the look on his face that he is now.

  “I’ll quit Dolly,” says Elliot.

  “No, don’t do that Elliot,” I say, because even though I’d love it if he quit the show, and it would serve Parkinson right because there’s nobody else who could come close to him as Barnaby, I also know how much fun he’ll have d
oing it.

  “Aggie’s right,” says Cameron. “We need a spy in their production, if for no other reason than to keep us posted on the debacle that is the Cynthia Pirelli show.”

  “I’m also gonna need their rehearsal schedules and the light plot so I know what instruments I can sneak out of the theatre without Parkinson noticing,” says Suzanne. She’s in full-phase planning mode. I can see her doing a mental inventory of lighting instruments and calculating what Parkinson will need for Dolly and what might be left for us.

  “Are we really going to do this?” I say, because I still think this is just my friends trying to cheer me up.

  “I’m in,” says Cameron.

  “Me, too,” says Suzanne. “And there are at least a dozen decent actors who weren’t on that cast list.”

  “Well, OK, then,” I say. “I guess I’m in, too. Let’s put on a show.”

  “Great,” says Cameron. “First production meeting Saturday afternoon in my car.”

  “Why in your car?” I ask.

  “Have you forgotten,” says Elliot. “Saturday is January sixteenth.”

  I stare at him befuddled.

  “Your Christmas present.”

  “Oh my god, I totally forgot,” I squeal.

  Karl, bless his gay gynecological heart, knows me better than either of my biological parents and gave me the perfect Christmas present — four orchestra seats to the Broadway tour of Wicked, which is coming to Charlotte this weekend. Even though it’s still technically the worst day of my life, things are looking up.

  It’s a long night. I try to focus on being excited about Wicked and about putting on our own show, but Cynthia’s face keeps swimming into view. Sometimes she’s peering into the door of the props shed and sometimes she’s trying to catch my eye in math class and sometimes she’s gazing into Roger’s eyes, but she will not go away. So I decide to write her away.

  I’ve never written a play before, and as I’m staring at that empty paper I start to wonder if I can do it. Then I think about that line from Sunday in the Park with George: “White, a blank page or canvas. His favorite. So many possibilities.” And I begin to write.

  Time disappears for me when I’m writing. I’m just submerged in that world of words, and when I finally come up for air it could be ten minutes later or five hours. I start writing at eleven, after I’ve finished all my homework except the math I don’t understand. When I look at the clock again it’s six, and I’ve written the first act of a play.

  I realize the original idea was a musical comedy with lyrics written by Cameron, but what I have is a little more serious. I’d call it a social drama, I guess. It’s about the conflict between a fat high school girl and the skinny prom queen — I know, I know, it sounds like it’s all about me, and of course it was inspired by this whole mess with Cynthia, but it’s so much more. I think I’ve really delved into the whole issue of high school insecurities. I can’t wait to show it to everybody.

  Friday morning requires a three-hour nap, a forged note about a doctor’s appointment (no problem, since Mom is still asleep when I leave at 10:30) and major Starbucks medication, but I get to school in time for fifth period English and slide a printout of last night’s work to Cameron while Mr. Hart is diagramming a sentence on the board. Five minutes later I hear him snickering behind me. I’m not sure what he’s laughing at, because what I wrote is not funny.

  “What is so amusing, Mr. Davies?” says Mr. Hart.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” says Cameron, sitting bolt upright and slipping the sheaf of papers under his workbook. “It’s just the phrase ‘predicate nominative.’ It cracks me up every time.”

  “So what do you think,” I say as the four of us sit at a picnic table over lunch. It’s warm enough to eat outside, but cold enough that no one does except us. Cameron and Elliot have been hunched over my script for the past twenty minutes, stifling giggles, which worries me a bit. Meanwhile, Suzanne has been explaining to me how boring the set is going to be for Hello, Dolly! — I think because they told her to distract me. “It’s a first draft, you know,” I say. “So I’ll have to polish a little.”

  “I’d say you’re flexing your playwriting muscles,” says Cameron.

  “I hope I’m doing a little more than that,” I say, trying not to sound huffy, even though that’s exactly how I feel. I mean this took me all night.

  “There’s not really a story yet,” says Cameron.

  “But the characters.” says Elliot. “These two characters are hilarious.”

  “It’s not actually supposed to be funny,” I say in my steeliest voice.

  “If Tennessee Williams had been a fat woman with a sense of humor,” says Elliot, “this is what he would have written.”

  “Are we sure Tennessee Williams wasn’t a fat woman?” says Cameron.

  “I’m sure he didn’t have a sense of humor,” says Elliot.

  “I love the scene where the fat girl wraps the prom queen in throw pillows and duct tape and shoves her into the middle of the lunch room,” says Cameron.

  “That’ll be fun to stage,” says Suzanne, but before she can elaborate Cameron has taken the script, jumped up on the picnic table and begun to emote in his best Blanche Dubois impression.

  “Look at you now. What are you without your surgically enhanced figure? You’re nobody. Nobody, do you hear? Why am I fat? Why are you stupid? You can’t help it, right? Well, neither can I. And I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

  “Hey, that last part isn’t in there,” I say, grabbing the script from Cameron.

  “Sorry,” says Cameron, “Blanche just took over.”

  Elliot and Suzanne are now doubled over with laughter, and my face is burning and I’m telling myself I will not cry in front of my friends, but I’m really mad because these are the last people in the world I expected to laugh at me — to laugh at my work.

  “It’s not funny,” I say, more loudly and sharply than I intended, but with much less anger than I actually feel.

  “Oh, come on,” says Cameron. “The prom queen staggering around the lunch room like the Michelin Man while the theatre girl is standing on a table giving this long melodramatic speech. How can you say that’s not funny?”

  “Well, it’s not supposed to be funny,” I say, slumping over onto the table, now totally deflated. “And you all are my friends. You’re supposed to say it’s perfect and wonderful and then I’m supposed to say, ‘But it’s only a first draft, I can make it even better.’”

  “But it is only a first draft,” says Elliot.

  “And there’s a lot of great stuff in here,” says Cameron.

  “Yeah, but you think it’s funny. It’s not funny to me.”

  “Listen,” says Elliot, sitting next to me and resting his hand on my back. “You have a sense of humor. You can’t help it. It’s one of the things we all love about you. And maybe last night you weren’t trying to write a comedy, but let’s face it, that was the original plan.”

  “So I should, what, just think of this as a writing exercise?” I say, brushing the pages off the table.

  “What’s so bad about that?” says Suzanne, as she retrieves the pages from the ground. “You’re exploring your characters. That’s a good start.”

  Of course she is right — they all are — but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. I thought I was creating this inspired piece of writing in a single night of creative fury. Now I realize that I am actually going to have to work at this.

  When I look at the script again that night, calmer and the tiniest bit less depressed, I realize it’s not a play at all. I mean, I do want some raw emotion in the script, but this is way too raw — it’s mostly a two-person show where the pretty girl gets insulted by the fat girl. I guess you could say I was working out some issues.

  I put the script in my bottom drawer, lay out a blank sheet of paper on my desk, and, since I’ve only slept for three hours during the past two emotionally intense days, I go to bed at nine o’
clock. Depression, which always gives me insomnia, is either slowly passing or being beaten down by exhaustion. Either way, I’m sound asleep in five minutes.

  Scene 4

  Getting ready for Wicked on Saturday, I’m overcome by a strange emotion. I miss Karl. I mean, he’s only three miles away and I’ll see him tomorrow and it’s only been a week and I’ve been bouncing back and forth between households every week of my life, so why should I suddenly be staring in the mirror at my shoddy make-up job and swallowing hard to keep from crying? He’s not even my real dad. And then it hits me — of course. Karl has always been the one to take me to the theatre. My mom thinks it’s a total waste of time and my dad would honestly rather stay home and watch sports on TV (go figure). So, ever since that first time at Annie, Karl has been my date for the theatre. It’s been our special thing. We’ve been to community theatre, college theatre, traveling shows, outdoor dramas, you name it. We go out for ice cream after the show and dish — laughing over our ever so sarcastic assessment of bad community theatre or swooning together on those rare nights when everything clicks perfectly and you remember why it’s worth sitting through all the dreck. We talk about our lives, too. It turns out growing up gay for Karl was kind of like growing up fat for me. I guess you could say we’ve bonded.

  For my sixteenth birthday Karl took me to New York for a long weekend, and we saw four shows on Broadway. It was amazing. We saw Twelve Angry Men and Spamalot and Light in the Piazza and The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. We ate at Sardi’s and walked through Times Square and stood at the stage door to get Tim Curry’s autograph for Cameron, who is a huge Rocky Horror fan. And we talked and talked and talked. The only thing we didn’t do that we wanted to do was see Wicked. We couldn’t get tickets. So when he heard that the tour was coming to Charlotte, Karl got me tickets for Christmas, and I didn’t invite him. But who could I have left behind? So now he’s not coming, and I miss him.