The Fat Lady Sings

by Lovett, Charlie

  “I was just checking,” says Cynthia. “What’s the second thing?”

  “Well,” I say, “it’s just that you’re a really good singer. I mean, it’s why you’ll make such a good Dolly.” OK, maybe I’m laying it on a little thick here and going beyond what I actually believe, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. “The thing is, I’m doing this other show.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” says Cynthia. And of course I wonder exactly what she’s heard. “Something about a fat kid and a skinny kid being friends.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Kind of like us.”

  “Let’s not push it,” says Cynthia.

  “Anyway,” I say, “the thing is, I kind of need a vocal coach — and I thought maybe if we were going to be working together anyway — “

  “You want me to help you with your singing?” she says.

  “Right,” I say.

  “And you’re going to help me with my acting?” she says.

  “Right.”

  “And you don’t see any irony in that?”

  “Believe me, I see steaming piles of irony,” I say, “but I still want to do it.”

  Cynthia looks down at the sheet of my math homework lying on the table. I already know I got them all right because we went over them in class. I’m holding my breath now, and I don’t think I could be more nervous if I had just asked Roger Morton to the prom (like that would ever happen). Finally she takes out her pen, makes a giant check mark on the paper and looks back up at me.

  “When do we start?” she says.

  Later, in the props shed, Elliot says, “So how’s the tutoring going — still as awful as ever?” and for some reason I can’t bring myself to say, “No, actually Cynthia and I are helping each other out and we’re getting along pretty well now.”

  “It’s an hour a day with Cynthia Pirelli,” I say, “so what do you think?”

  I guess I didn’t technically betray her behind her back, but let’s be honest — I did. It’s just that hatred for Cynthia seems like such an integral part of what we’re doing that I don’t know what would happen if I took it away. Isn’t that horrible? Sometimes I just hate myself, so I can’t imagine what you think.

  Scene 3

  And then. Well, there can’t possibly be karma or justice in the universe, because even though I’ve been a hypocrite and a traitor when it comes to Cynthia, I receive the most glorious reward. I’m walking down the hall after seventh period, heading to my locker, and I turn the corner by the theatre and almost run smack into Roger Morton. At first, of course, I’m mortified, so I almost don’t realize he’s actually talking to me. “Hey Aggie, I was looking for you.”

  Looking for me? Roger Morton was looking for me? Does he need someone heavy to break down a door or something? I want to say, “Why hello, Roger, I’m so glad you found me. Is there something you’d like to discuss over a cup of coffee or perhaps a leisurely dinner or maybe an intense make-out session in your car?” I’d at least like to say “Hi, Roger,” but I’m completely tongue-tied. I know, right, who would think Aggie Stockdale would ever be at a loss for words?

  “I heard you wrote a play,” says Roger, and I finally manage a response.

  “Yeah.” I know, brilliant, urbane and witty. You might think I stole it out of No��l Coward, but I came up with it all on my own.

  “That’s pretty cool,” says Roger. “And you guys are putting it on?”

  “Yeah,” I say, because, hey, when you’ve got a good line, stick with it.

  “That’s awesome. When is it?”

  “Uhm, the week after yours,” I say. Hey, there was a two-syllable word in that brilliant sentence.

  “Cool. I’ll have to come see it.”

  “Yeah,” I say. Never afraid to return to the classics.

  “Anyhow, I just wanted to thank you for agreeing to coach Cynthia a little with her acting.”

  “Sure,” I say, for variety.

  “You’re an awesome actress, Aggie, everybody knows it. I mean, when we had that audition together — that was so cool. I never really felt like that on stage before.”

  I’m dying for him to say “or since,” but you can’t have everything.

  “Anyhow, it’s just really nice of you to help her out. I know it will help out our show and all. I just wanted to say thanks.”

  I guess I’m supposed to say something at this point, but all I can manage is a smile that I suspect looks more like a demented clown than a lovesick actress, and we just stand there in silence for a few seconds. It’s long enough for me to notice something, though. Roger is looking at me in this totally relaxed, normal way.

  You see, there’s a certain way that guys, especially good looking guys, usually look at fat girls. You might not notice it unless you are used to it, but they put this coldness in their eyes that just says “you are not really part of the human race; you are fat; you disgust me.” It’s subtle, but it’s almost always there. Only with Roger, right now, it’s not. He’s looking at me like I’m an actual human being — not the love of his life or anything, but at least a human being.

  “Well,” says Roger at last, “I gotta get to rehearsal. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I mean, it’s nice to have symmetry in your dialogue.

  Then he turns and goes into the theatre and I go completely limp. I mean, I actually do that thing where you lean your back against the wall and just slide down to the floor holding your books to your chest — total clich��, I know.

  Roger Morton sought me out. Roger Morton talked to me. Roger Morton thinks I’m a great actress. Roger Morton has never felt on stage the way he felt with me. Roger Morton didn’t look at me the way guys look at fat girls. And above all, Roger Morton anticipates the possibility of seeing me “around.”

  I’m sitting there in this sea of bliss when it suddenly occurs to me that if Cynthia told Roger about our acting lessons, she may have told other people, too, and I really don’t want it getting around that I’m coaching Cynthia Pirelli in what was supposed to be my role. And since Elliot is in Dolly, it could get back to my friends in a second. And just as I’m imagining this calamity, Cynthia comes around the corner and I pop up from the floor and grab her by the arm.

  “Can we talk for a second?” I say, pulling her through the back doors of the theatre and into the darkness at the back of the house.

  “Sure,” says Cynthia.

  “It’s just that I was thinking,” I say. “Maybe it would be better if we didn’t tell anybody about our little arrangement.”

  “You mean the lessons,” says Cynthia.

  “Yeah,” I say. I’m trying to gauge if she’s mad at me for yanking on her or for wanting to keep the coaching a secret. I can’t read her face because it’s too dark (which was the idea, of course, because I don’t want anyone to see us talking), but her voice seems perfectly normal.

  “It’s just that I thought maybe it would be better if it were our secret,” I say.

  “Absolutely, I won’t breathe a word of it,” says Cynthia, and just as I’m about to say, “But you already told Roger,” she adds, “Of course I told Roger, but that’s because he’s the one who suggested I ask you.”

  “He did?” I say, suddenly feeling limp again.

  “Sure,” says Cynthia. “He thinks you’re, like, the best actress in the school, you know.”

  “Yeah?” I say — and here I go again, unable to utter actually words.

  “Seriously,” says Cynthia. “But I already told him not to mention the coaching to anyone else. I mean, look at it from my point of view — if people find out I asked you to coach me, it’s kind of like admitting that you should have been cast in the part.”

  When she puts it that way, maybe we should tell.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You’re — ” and I’m just on the verge of saying “a real friend,” but I’m just not sure we’re there yet, especially if I’m still pretending to hate her in public. “You’re OK,”
I say, which, considering my past feelings, is a fairly ringing endorsement.

  “I gotta go,” says Cynthia, and she runs down the aisle and I get out of there fast, because I can’t bear the thought of seeing her up on that stage.

  Elliot gives me a ride home, which he’s been doing on afternoons when he doesn’t have rehearsal. Today they’re working problems, and naturally none of Elliot’s scenes have problems, so he has the afternoon off. Of course I can’t tell him why Roger Morton found me and talked to me and changed my life forever, but I have to say something. I mean, you can probably see me glowing on satellite pictures, so I’m sure he’s wondering.

  “You’ll never believe who talked to me in the hall today,” I say, trying without success to sound casual (even I’m not that good an actress).

  “Nathan Lane,” says Elliot.

  I forgot — he hates the “you’ll never guess” game.

  “No, silly,” I say. “Roger Morton.”

  “‘Roger Morton,’ that’s who I meant to say,” says Elliot, and I have to say he doesn’t sound all that excited, considering that he knows I’ve had a crush on Roger since third grade.

  “And it’s not like I just bumped into him — I mean, I did bump into him — but he was actually looking for me.”

  “What did he want?” says Elliot.

  I’ve already figured out my answer to this, which is kind of the truth. “He wanted to wish me good luck with the play,” I say. “And not only that, he said how great it was auditioning with me. He said he’d never felt that way on stage before, and he called me an awesome actress.”

  “You’re sounding pretty smug,” says Elliot, and of course I am, but still I wish he would celebrate with me a little. He always wants me to “be realistic” about Roger, but I’m sick of realistic — I prefer to be in love.

  “There was something else,” I say, because this really is something I’d like to try to explain to Elliot. “There’s this certain way that guys look at fat girls — like we’re some sort of aliens or something — and Roger didn’t look at me like that. He looked at me just like I was any other person. That was nice.”

  “Guys don’t look at you differently just because you’re — fat,” says Elliot. After years, I’ve finally convinced him it’s OK to use the ‘F’ word, but he still doesn’t like it.

  “Oh yes, they do,” I say, “on the rare occasions when they look at me at all.”

  “Seriously?” says Elliot.

  It’s sweet that he is so perplexed by other people’s cruelty.

  “Yep,” I say. “They look at me like I’m something vile — like a half rotten squirrel they almost stepped on in the middle of the sidewalk. But Roger didn’t do that.”

  “Do I do that?” says Elliot.

  “Of course you don’t,” I say, “and that’s why I love you.”

  “Really?” he says.

  “But you’re not a guy,” I say. “You’re Elliot. You’re different. And besides, we’re friends.”

  “Right,” says Elliot.

  “Now,” I say, “does Roger ever mention me at rehearsals?”

  “Actually,” says Elliot, “he was the one who told Cynthia she should ask you for help with her acting.”

  “Really?” I say, pretending this is the first I’ve heard of it. “So he really does think I’m a good actress?”

  “Say, whatever happened with that?” says Elliot. “Is she still bugging you about it?”

  “No,” I say, which is technically true.

  “You’ve got to admit, that was pretty hilarious — I mean, can you imagine you as Cynthia Pirelli’s acting coach?”

  And we burst out laughing, Elliot for real and me — well, even my own sober mother wouldn’t know I’m faking it.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say as we pull up in front of Dad’s house. “Let me know if Roger says anything else about me.” I give Elliot a quick kiss on the cheek and grab my books.

  “Of course I will,” he says.

  And I can tell he thinks my infatuation is silly and pointless, but also that he’ll play along because that’s what friends do.

  Acting lessons and singing lessons actually go pretty well. We alternate days — one day I’ll go over Cynthia’s scenes with her and talk about emotional recall and finding ways to externalize subtext, the next day she’ll go over songs with me and we’re talking about breathing and vowel sounds and the difference between my head voice and my chest voice. And we both get better. Personally I think Cynthia is making quicker progress than I am, but she says that isn’t true. Some days I wonder if I’ll be ready in time for the performances. There’s just so much to sing.

  We meet in one of the music practice rooms, where there is a piano and the walls are soundproof. Cynthia tapes a piece of paper over the little window in the door so no one will know what we’re up to. It’s fun having a secret, and, oddly, it’s fun spending time with Cynthia. It’s like having an imaginary friend — I have this hour each day where I can escape into a world nobody else knows about.

  One day, a music day, we’ve just finished going over “Hello, Fatty” (sung to the tune of “Hello, Dolly!” of course) when Cynthia shakes her head and says, “Aren’t you offended by this?”

  “By what?” I say.

  “By these lyrics,” she says.

  “I think they’re pretty hilarious,” I say.

  “Sure, if you like to make fun of — bigger people,” says Cynthia.

  “It’s OK to call me fat,” I say.

  “See, that’s just what I mean. Aren’t you offended that this whole song is just different ways of calling you fat?” And I can see in her face that’s she’s really concerned for me, like she’s trying to rescue me from the playground bullies or something. And, OK, I can understand how people would think that the last thing a fat girl like me would want to do is get up in front of a group of people and sing a comic song about being fat. So how can I explain this to Cynthia?

  “It’s like this,” I say. “I’ve pretty much always been fat. I don’t know if it’s genes or what, but I went from baby fat to toddler fat to little kid fat to teenager fat and I’m well on my way to adult fat. And for most of those years being fat made me miserable, and it still does some of the time. People would tease me and laugh at me, and they would call me fatty. I hated that. And then I came here to Piedmont and started doing theatre and made some friends who didn’t seem to care what I looked like. And this one guy, Elliot — you probably know him, he’s in your show.”

  “Sure,” says Cynthia, “He’s Barnaby. He’s really funny.”

  “Right, well, Elliot said to me one day, and I’ll never forget this because we were in seventh grade and it just seemed so wise for a thirteen-year-old. He said, ‘The best way to disarm someone is to use the weapon yourself.’”

  “What does that mean?” says Cynthia.

  “It took him a while to explain it, but basically it means, if it bothers me that people call me fat, I should just call myself fat. I should turn fat from an insult into a compliment. When someone calls me fat I should just say, ‘you bet I am, and proud of it.’”

  “And did you do that?”

  “It didn’t happen right away, but yeah, gradually I just started to look at fat as part of my identity, part of what makes me special. And I embraced it — not just my size, but the word: ‘fat.’ And I did feel better. I mean, I’d be lying if I told you it doesn’t hurt when I walk down the hall and some football jock says ‘Make way for the wide load,’ but it hurts less than it used to, and when I blow him a kiss and say ‘Thanks for noticing,’ and people start laughing at him instead of me, it hurts a lot less.”

  “So getting up on the stage and singing about being fat is just, what, empowering yourself?”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “I don’t think I could do that,” says Cynthia.

  “You’re skinny,” I say, “You don’t have to.”

  “Do you honestly think that fat people are t
he only ones with body image problems?” says Cynthia.

  I want to say something about her purchased boobs, but I can tell by this intensely sad look on her face that this is not the time. “But you have a really nice figure,” I say, hoping that’s tactful enough.

  “Do you even remember last year?” she says, “or the year before? Believe me, I know what it’s like to be afraid to walk down the hall past the jocks and the cool kids. I mean, sure, I was skinny, but I was so self-conscious about my chest. Remember? I had nothing. Everybody else grew up except for flat-chested little Cynthia Pirelli. And it wasn’t just the guys in the hall who teased me, it was the girls, too, especially in the locker room.”

  “Yeah, I know about the locker room,” I say. “Although I didn’t have that much trouble after about eighth grade because I think they all knew I could beat them up. Or at least sit on them til they stopped breathing.”

  “That would have been nice,” said Cynthia. “In ninth grade, one of the girls stole my bra out of my locker while I was in the shower and they started tossing it around playing keepaway and saying that I didn’t need a bra anyway because I had nothing to hold up and saying they were gonna show the padding to all the boys because they believed in truth in advertising.” A single tear rolls down Cynthia’s cheek, and I suddenly want to hug her, but I don’t.

  “That’s horrible,” I say.

  “That’s when I stopped doing sports,” says Cynthia. “Not that that helped. They still called me Little Miss A-Cup all the way through tenth grade.”

  “Not very imaginative,” I say. And I ache — because, even though I never did it to her face, I called her that.

  “No kidding,” says Cynthia. “And then the next year — last year — I was in the same English class as you, remember?”

  “Who could forget first period with Dr. Allen?” I say. “That’s when I learned how to drink coffee.”

  “I had never met you before and I remember just staring at you in class because I was so jealous of your figure.”

  “You were jealous of me?” I say. I have to say, of all the chicken feathers that have ever threatened to knock my ass over, Cynthia Pirelli saying that she envied me my body was the biggest. I mean holy crap!