The Fat Lady Sings

by Lovett, Charlie

  At lunch Suzanne gives us an update on her search for a performance space, and it’s not good news. She has looked at schools, community centers, even the VFW club, and everyone is either already booked up or not interested. When I ask if we can’t just patch up the sock factory a little bit and rent some chairs, Suzanne explains that aside from that being illegal, the factory doesn’t have the right kind of electricity — I mean, who knew there was more than one kind, right?

  Three o’clock finally creeps into view and there I am, sitting in this deep, squishy armchair outside Watkins’ office and trying to figure out how I’m gonna hoist my fat ass out of it when the door opens about six inches and a nose appears and a voice says, “Miss Stockdale.”

  I’ve never actually been inside Squatty Watty’s cave before — but that’s what it feels like, a cave. The shades are drawn — permanently, I’d guess — and it’s about ten degrees colder than the rest of the school. There is a lamp on his desk, but it must have about a two-watt bulb in it because it just gives this tiny glow that underlights his face and makes him look evil, which I imagine is not far off.

  I figure my one hope to make a good impression is that I’m fat, because, hey, he’s fat, too. But how do you break that ice? “So, Dr. Watkins — sure sucks being fat, huh?” I opt for silence and sit across the landing-field-sized desk from him.

  “Miss Stockdale, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here?”

  I figured you just wanted to get to know my sparkling personality. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve had a phone call from Mrs. Estella Parsons. I believe you know her daughter Melissa.”

  Know her — I’m playing opposite her in a brilliant and witty musical penned by yours truly. “Yes, sir.”

  “Mrs. Parsons informed me that her daughter has been sneaking out of the house to rehearse some sort of — play in what I gather is a condemned factory building.” He says the word “play” like it’s some disgusting, slimy, primeval creature he found on his desk. “Mrs. Parsons was very upset. As I understand it, Melissa has been grounded for the rest of the semester.”

  I can’t believe Melissa didn’t tell her parents. It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong — we’re showing initiative. Now we’re going to have to find a new Suzy halfway through rehearsals. And another thing, why would Squatty Watty even waste his time talking to the mother of a drama geek like Melissa?

  And then I remember. Oh crap. Melissa Parsons’s brother plays football. Melissa was bragging on him the other day. Apparently he got a scholarship to be a wide something-or-other at Carolina. Just my luck — because if Tyler Parsons doesn’t play football, then Watkins doesn’t take the call from his mother, he doesn’t care what Melissa is up to, and I’m not sitting here.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Miss Stockdale, that the school cannot condone this sort of activity — an unauthorized club trespassing in a dangerous building and drawing resources and attention away from our theatre department.”

  What is he talking about? We’re not a club. And our show has nothing to do with the school. He can’t tell me what I can and can’t do on my own time and off school property. And what does he mean “drawing resources” from the theatre department? They cast their show first, we’re just the rejects. Elliot’s the only person on our team who’s in Dolly, and he hasn’t missed a single rehearsal. And Suzanne hasn’t actually “borrowed” any lighting equipment — yet.

  “But, sir — “

  “This is not a discussion, Miss Stockdale. I merely asked you here to inform you that your little group will no longer be meeting. In the absence of any other sponsor, the community will assume that Piedmont Day is behind this — production. I cannot have that — it would reflect poorly on both the school and on me personally. Your play will not take place. If it does, you and your friends will be expelled from Piedmont Day, your records will be frozen, and your educational future will be reduced to community college.”

  There are so many things I could say right now: “It’s not a play, it’s a musical, you uncultured cretin,” “How do you know it will reflect poorly! How do you know the whole town won’t be saying ‘wow, those Piedmont Day kids sure are talented,’” “Is everyone on your home planet evil, or is that why you got exiled to Earth?”

  But I just sink into my chair, crushed, and mumble, “Yes, sir.”

  “That is all,” he says, and a moment later I’m out in the harsh light of day, blinking back tears and wondering how in the world I’m going to tell everyone else that “the man” not only exists but has just destroyed us.

  I’m late for rehearsal. I mean, wouldn’t you be? I have to walk in and tell everybody it’s over. We’ll have to give Mrs. Baxter her money back — at least what Suzanne hasn’t spent. We’ll have to take this amazing self-motivated activity off our college applications. We’ll look like complete failures to everyone who knew what we were doing.

  But I don’t even care about all that. The fat kid fails again, so what. I’ve been there plenty of times before. I didn’t want this so we could get into college or make friends — I wanted this because it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  I mean, sure, we had some rocky spots and a few arguments, but putting on a show with your best friends — well, I used to think there was nothing better than that. Turns out there is — putting on a show that you wrote with your best friends.

  If you’ve never done theatre before you probably wouldn’t understand, but there’s a belonging that goes with being in a show that’s beyond normal friendship or family. It’s why I cried for three days after Godspell was over, and it’s why I still stop in the hall for hugs from my fellow Shark girls. Part of it is the shared adventure, and part of it is being someone else and not just yourself, and part of it is — well, I don’t know what it is, but we had more of it in this show than I’ve ever had, because it was our show, everything about it. And now I have to walk into a rehearsal full of excited, happy, people and not just ruin their day, but turn their senior year in high school from a celebration of their talents and energy and drive into a total defeat at the hands of an evil dictator. So you can see why I am late.

  It turns out I don’t have to tell them anything, though. The police take care of that for me.

  I pull into the church parking lot from the side (Mom actually let me borrow her car tonight — wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles) so I’m parked and walking around the end of the fellowship hall when I see the flashing blue lights. There must be a dozen cop cars parked in front of the factory — like we’re some sort of terrorist cell or something. I mean, all we want to inflict on people is a little theatre.

  Suzanne meets me coming across the parking lot and grabs me by the elbow, pulling me back towards the church. People are standing on the back steps of the church watching, their arms crossed in this holier-than-thou sort of stance. I can just imagine the tut-tutting that’s going on over there.

  “Stay on this side of the road,” whispers Suzanne.

  “Why?” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “Factory owner called the cops. They arrested Elliot and Cameron for trespassing and told the rest of us to make ourselves scarce or we would be next.”

  “Why Elliot and Cameron?” I ask, trying to pull free from Suzanne and turn back towards the factory, but that woman has a seriously strong grip.

  “They asked who was in charge, and the two of them stepped forward.”

  “But didn’t they know — “

  “Of course they knew,” says Suzanne. “That’s why they did it. They were protecting the rest of us. You, too.”

  I stop trying to pull away from Suzanne and lean against the side of the fellowship hall. “They arrested them?”

  “I’m sure they just want to scare them a little bit. They’ll be OK.”

  “Was it Dr. Watkins?” I ask. “I mean, who tipped them off.”

  “Yeah, I guess he got wind of
things and wanted to shut us down.”

  “He called me into his office this afternoon,” I say, “and told me we had to stop. But there was no reason to have people arrested.” I’m crying now, though I don’t even feel it. I don’t feel anything, to be honest — I’m completely numb. Elliot and Cameron arrested, the show finished, and the whole school talking about how that fat girl got everybody in trouble.

  “Look, I have to go,” says Suzanne. “They called everyone’s parents, so I need to get home.” She squeezes my arm and then scurries off to her car.

  One by one the police cars pull away, but I can’t seem to move. I just slide down the wall and pull my knees to my chest and wonder if I’m going to be one of those homeless people who rock back and forth on the sidewalk moaning. I can’t imagine going home. I can’t imagine going to school tomorrow. I can’t imagine facing Cameron and Elliot, assuming they get out of jail. Basically I can’t imagine, and since imagining is what makes the world a better place for me, losing that skill sucks. There is nothing now but cold hard reality, cold hard pavement, and some skinny blonde chick walking towards me with a Styrofoam cup.

  “You want some hot cocoa?” she says, holding the cup out to me.

  Is she serious? Hot cocoa? What do I look like — some sort of Girl Scout on a camping trip? Are we gonna make s’mores next? I give her my most sarcastic look, but she just slides down the wall next to me and holds the cup out, smiling, and I shiver and realize how cold I am and suddenly hot cocoa sounds really, really good.

  I take the cup from her and take a big swig. It’s the perfect temperature — not so hot that it burns my tongue, but plenty hot enough to warm me as soon as it hits my stomach. I drink the entire cup without saying anything and the girl just sits there next to me, not talking, not even looking at me.

  I’d guess she’s about my age, and I assume she must be from the church. The people who were watching the commotion have all gone back inside now, but she doesn’t seem interested in going anywhere. She just sits next to me. It’s a little weird, to be honest. When I finish the cocoa it’s even more awkward sitting there in silence doing nothing, so finally I say, “Thanks.”

  “We were making it for youth group, and you looked cold,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say, and then, because I cannot come up with anything else, again I say, “Thanks.”

  We sit there forever, it seems like, just staring into the night. There is traffic in the distance and some dry leaves are rattling across the parking lot in the breeze, but other than that it’s quiet. I know I should go, but even though it’s awkward, there’s something bizarrely comforting about this total stranger willing to keep me company without asking any questions.

  “Those were my friends,” I say, when it’s obvious neither of us is getting up anytime soon.

  “I hope they’ll be alright,” she says.

  “Me, too,” I say. And we sit some more and finally I ask, “Don’t you want to know why they were arrested?”

  “Not unless you want to tell me.”

  “It was just trespassing,” I say. “It’s not like they were doing drugs or anything.” I guess I say that about the drugs because I figure she’s some sort of big time Christian and I don’t want her to think we’re a bunch of evil sinners.

  “I used to go over there with my friends,” she says. “Especially on Halloween. That place is seriously spooky.”

  “I know, right?” I say, and I turn and look at her.

  Her hair is shoulder length and could be a lot prettier if she used a blow dryer and some product — it’s kind of out of control. She’s wearing jeans and a plain green T-shirt, and even though she’s super skinny her clothes don’t really fit right, so they don’t show off her figure. Her face looks like it could use a little makeup, too, but I guess that could just be the yellow lights in the parking lot.

  I don’t know why I’m mentally making her over — after all, she’s the skinny kid, and I’m the fat kid. If anybody needs a change in appearance, it’s me. She’s still smiling at me, and looking at her, judging her, and then forgetting all that because of her smile makes me feel the tiniest bit better.

  “We were putting on a play,” I say.

  “That sounds cool,” she says.

  And we start to talk. Her name is Taylor and she’s the vice-president of her youth group and sings soprano solos in the youth choir. “Last year we wanted to put on Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” she says, “but we didn’t have enough money for costumes and stuff, so we just did a sort of concert version with the choir.”

  “I love that show,” I say. And I tell her all about Godspell, because I figure what better way to break the ice with a Christian kid who likes theatre than to talk about Godspell. Turns out she actually saw our production.

  “I thought I’d seen you somewhere before,” she says. “You were really good.” I still think my life is over, but a pretty darn good way to start cheering up a depressed theatre kid is for a stranger to compliment her performance in something that happened almost a year ago.

  I tell Taylor all about The Fat Lady Sings and about how Dr. Watkins said we couldn’t do it because it was technically a school event since we didn’t have a sponsor and about how even if we could do it, Melissa Parsons’ mother said she couldn’t be in the show and she’s the second lead plus we don’t have any place to perform and even if we hadn’t just been chased out of the sock factory by the long arm of the law we couldn’t do it there because it has the wrong kind of electricity.

  “There’s more than one kind?” she says.

  “Who knew?” I say.

  And she starts to laugh, and for a split second I am furious that she would laugh at a girl in the depths of her misery, until it hits me too, and then we’re leaning back against the wall and laughing at two kinds of electricity, laughing at doing theatre in a haunted sock factory, laughing at Godspell and Joseph and all the good things in our past, laughing at life and forgetting the present (oh, and by the way, the future, too).

  “So don’t you need to go inside and be all Christian or something?” I say when we’re all laughed out and I’ve caught my breath.

  “You say it like we’re some weird cult,” says Taylor.

  “It was just never for me,” I say, afraid to tell her that, yeah, it does seem sort of like a weird cult to me. I mean all the love-your-neighbor stuff is nice, it’s just the bit about the invisible man in the sky with the death-defying son that I find hard to swallow. “Besides,” I say, “two of my best friends are gay.”

  “So,” says Taylor. “One of my best buds in youth group is gay.”

  In a perverse way, I love that she says “best buds.” “Seriously?” I say. “What kind of church is this, anyway?”

  “St. Timothy’s Episcopal,” she says.

  “And they let gay people in?”

  “Aggie,” she says, “you’ve been listening to too much talk radio. Not every Christian church is homophobic.”

  “But I thought the Bible says you can’t be gay?”

  “It also says you have to sacrifice oxen on a regular basis,” says Taylor, “but the closest we come to that is burgers on the grill at the annual parish picnic.”

  “So is this a Christian thing,” I say, “bringing me hot cocoa and being nice to me and everything?”

  “I don’t know,” says Taylor. “Not particularly. I brought you hot cocoa because you looked cold, and I talked to you because you seemed to need somebody to talk to, and I stayed because you seem interesting. I suppose that’s Christian, but I didn’t really think of it that way.”

  “I seem interesting?” I say.

  “I never met a playwright,” she says.

  “Anyway,” I say, standing up on legs wobbly from too much time sitting on cold pavement, “whether it was Christian or not, thanks for the cocoa and thanks for the talk. I guess I better get home and explain to my — parents what happened.”

  “Let me know how it goes,”
she says.

  “Really?” I say.

  “Sure,” says Taylor, and we exchange cell numbers.

  Who knew, on the worst night of my life, that I’d make a new friend.

  Scene 5

  Getting out of bed the next day is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I just want to lie there all day and eat ice cream. I know, I know, I said I wasn’t a fat pig (just fat), but who doesn’t feed depression, right? And this is some serious depression. On top of everything else, I only slept about an hour because I was waiting to hear from Cameron and Elliot. Finally Elliot sent me a text about four saying that they had been released into their parents’ custody and that the owner of the sock factory wasn’t going to press charges. Apparently he really did just want to scare us. Mission accomplished. I don’t feel like getting into the whole thing with Mom, so I manage to avoid her creepy cheerfulness by skipping breakfast and leaving while she’s in the shower. Funny how I can be dying to eat ice cream all day, but still have no appetite for bacon and eggs.

  I’m walking down the hall at school trying to figure out how I’m going to make myself invisible for an entire day (hey, I was invisible for most of sixth grade, so there must be a way) when I see another harbinger of joy flapping in the breeze. What is it with notes on my locker? This time it’s green and I have to unfold it to discover that green is the color of Miss O’Brien, the college counselor. She has my SAT scores, she knows my grades, she’s approved my applications (grudgingly, of course, because I’m only applying to schools with amazing theatre departments, which means I won’t grow up to be a doctor or lawyer or NASCAR driver and give millions of dollars to the school). What else could she want from me?