The Next Big Thing

  “You’ve got me. But the entire application is like that. I figured the questions would be personal—we are talking about weight after all—but I had no idea they’d be this bad.”

  “Sounds intrusive.”

  “It’s an interrogation, that’s what it is,” I told her. “Have I ever made a sex tape? Do I masturbate often? How many men have a slept with? How many women! What the hell does any of this stuff have to do with weight loss?”

  “Beats me.”

  “By the way, I do have some good news,” I said, switching subjects. “Nick finally wrote me back.” It was more than good news. Words couldn’t describe how deeply relieved I felt. I’d spent the past three days in a state of total anxiety over why he’d been out of touch.

  “Did he say why he’s been MIA?”

  I groaned. “That’s actually why I’m calling. He told me he was too busy with work to write. What do you think that means?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Come on, Donna, give it to me straight. I can take it.”

  She hesitated. “It’s tough to say. He could be telling the truth. From what you’ve told me, his job sounds pretty intense. He probably keeps pretty busy going to all those fashion shows, all that manly stuff he does.” She burst into giggles. I knew what she was hinting at.

  “Nick’s not gay,” I said defensively. “I know, you’ve told me he’s not. But you’ve got to admit, his job . . .” I knew I shouldn’t get angry, but I was. “Did you forget what I told you? Sexually . . .” I emphasized, letting my voice trail off. “

  Yeah, yeah, Nick’s into giving oral sex. Trust me, I didn’t forget,” she said. “You mention it every five minutes—you’re awfully proud of that, aren’t you?”

  “I am, actually,” I said sheepishly. It seemed an important conquest. It wasn’t often that I “got some,” and I was pretty excited about the prospect. The guys I’d been with in the past subscribed to the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sexual philosophy. It would be nice to be with a man who was concerned about my pleasure for a change.

  “Well, I’d better go,” I told her. “I just wanted to update you on everything. Now, I’ve got to get this finished before I go to bed.”

  “Have fun.”

  I got to work as soon as we hung up. The first couple of questions were a breeze.

  Name: Katrina Lynne Larson

  Age: 27

  Height: 5’6”

  Weight: 227 (Painful as it was, I put down my real weight without bothering to knock off the usual thirty pounds.)

  Hair color: Blonde

  List all previous boyfriends: That was easy enough. There were only three: Bryce, Josh, and Nathan. I thought briefly of including Nick, but opted against it. There was no telling how many people might ultimately see my application. And we hadn’t actually met, so I reasoned it was okay to leave him off.

  Favorite Book: I thought about this one for a minute. My real favorite book is To the Nines, by Janet Evanovich, but I couldn’t very well write that down. I needed something literary, something that would show the producers I was intelligent. I racked my brain, trying to remember the last important novel I’d read. After much deliberation, I settled on The Great Gatsby. It was one of the few books I’d been required to study in a college English lit course that really held my interest.

  I kept on for a while, jotting down everything from my favorite movie (Pretty Woman) to my favorite type of ice cream (chocolate chocolate chip). I told them I was an Aquarius, that I loved roller coasters, and that my secret dream was to be a novelist. Then things got uncomfortable.

  How long have you had a weight problem? Since age ten.

  Have you ever been given a cruel nickname because of your weight? If so, what was it, when was it given to you, and by whom? I’ve been called Fat Kat, Kat Lardson, Kat Largeson.

  When? Grades five through twelve.

  By whom? There’s too many people to list.

  Is anyone else in your family overweight? Nope, I’m a lone wolf.

  Are you jealous of skinny people? Every minute of the day.

  If you could change one feature on your body, what would it be? My hips. I’m as pear-shaped as they come: 38-34-46. If you stretched my hips out, they’d be almost four feet tall! Predictably, the questions about weight spanned several pages. Then the unpredictable stuff began. In addition to asking whether I came during intercourse, the people at From Fat to Fabulous wanted, inexplicably, to know every sordid detail of my sex life. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I actually had anything to tell. The sad truth of it was, I hadn’t slept with anyone in fourteen months, ever since breaking up with my last boyfriend, Josh. Or, if you want to get technical about it, being dumped by Josh. I answered them to the best of my ability.

  At what age did you lose your virginity? 19

  Describe your first sexual experience: Describe it? It happened so fast I can barely remember it! Suffice to say, it was NOT good.

  How many sexual partners have you had? 3

  Have you ever had a one-night stand? No, I’m too scared of diseases.

  Have you ever engaged in sexual activities with another woman? That would be a great big NO.

  When was the last time you masturbated? I plead the fifth!

  By the time I was finished, the show’s producers knew me better than my dearest friends. They knew I stole a bottle of nail polish when I was seven, two of my three boyfriends cheated on me, I never attended the prom because I couldn’t find a dress that fit, the only medication I took was Ortho Tri-Cyclen, and I’d tried pot a few times in college but that, otherwise, I’d always steered clear of drugs.

  I debated the last question—what would my autobiography be titled—for almost fifteen minutes before putting down, Height/ Weight Disportionate. I was especially proud of that answer. It seemed pretty clever; when I finally launched my writing career, they wouldn’t have to hire someone to market my book. I could easily take that on myself. By far, the hardest part of the entire application was the essay. We were supposed to write three to five hundred words, finishing the sentence “When I’m thin . . .”

  It was deceptively difficult. I had already spent so much time listing things that I longed to do when I lost weight: sky-diving, wearing a bikini on the beach, going on a blind date, shopping for lingerie. In fact, question number twenty-nine had asked: What would you do if you could snap your fingers and become a size six? I thought about that essay for hours. I got up and fed my fish, flipped on the TV and watched Letterman, visited a few websites. I was stalling, I knew, but I was also stumped. Finally I decided it was better to put something down and not worry about how it was received. I picked up my pen and wrote:

  When I’m thin I want to be a tall skinny blonde. This is probably because I’m a short fat blonde. (Hey, give me credit for at least liking something about my appearance.) Although, for a while, I longed to be Kate Winslet, when Titanic was all the rage. She was so pale (like me) and lithe-some, even though she wasn’t all that tall or thin. I mean, she was certainly thin enough, but by Hollywood’s standards she was big. Of course, we all know how messed up Hollywood’s idea of women is.

  Turn on any TV or go to any movie and there it will be, staring you in the face, like one giant advertisement for anorexia. Magazines are atrocious on our self-esteem, and books aren’t much better. Any way you slice it, fat people are the butt of every joke. The scary part is how readily we accept it. Fat people are easy to pick on. What can we say? We can’t deny we’re overweight. It’s written all over our bodies.

  But what I want to know is, how fat is fat? Howard Stern slams girls who weigh 105 pounds but have a tiny bit of cellulite, and everyone tunes in to egg him on. Pencil-thin actresses like Gwyneth Paltrow and Courteney Cox slap on fat suits and America howls with laughter. Am I the only one who finds this offensive? I know a lot of tubby guys who just adored Shallow Hal. I couldn’t even bring myself to watch it. The trailers made me feel violated and sick. Gwyneth Paltrow has no clue w
hat it’s like to be an overweight woman. For her to claim otherwise is a gigantic slap in the face.

  And Monica’s fat phase on Friends is a bad joke. A before and after picture would never look like that! I could starve myself every day for the next fifty years and I wouldn’t be as slender as Courteney Cox. My right arm undoubtedly weighs more than her entire body. Which is why I think it would be funny, in an ironic way, if I end up a TV star. Big old me, next to all those little actresses. Okay, so I’d be a reality TV star. But that’s close enough for me!

  Finishing the essay seemed to clear a mental block; I breezed through the rest of the application. Even the other free-form section—a blank space on the last page that encouraged us to “tell the producers something you’d like them to know” came easily. Inspired by Letterman, I drafted a Top Ten list of the annoying things people tell fat girls.

  1. You have such a pretty face.

  2. There’s this great new diet you should try.

  3. You’re only overweight because you’re lazy.

  4. Have you ever heard of exercise?

  5. Fat people are really unhealthy.

  6. It’s okay for someone like me to eat fatty foods because I’m so thin. It’s too bad you have to watch what you eat.

  7. I’ve heard great things about gastric bypass surgery.

  8. So-and-so lost fifty pounds practically overnight with Tae Bo-Slimfast-Atkins-Jenny Craig-Weight Watchers-Hollywood Diet.

  9. Skip dessert.

  10. Just eat less and exercise more.

  I was proud of myself for being so honest. When all was said and done, I’d only lied about one thing; I omitted any mention of Nick. I felt a momentary pang of guilt, but knew that it was for the best. When it came time to divulge my current relationship status, I checked the box marked “single,” and moved on without a second thought.

  Chapter Three

  “From the looks of this, Kat, you haven’t made any progress at all. And frankly, I’m surprised. It’s completely out of character for you to blow off an assignment.”

  My job at Hood & Geddlefinger consists of one thing: researching prospective clients—individuals as well as corporations—and then preparing a dossier of information about them. It involves combing through tedious company reports, news clippings, and Internet resources.

  After Monday’s meeting, which I fantasized through, Richard gave the research team a list of seven businesses. He requested info packets on all of them by Wednesday afternoon. William and Donna each took two companies, and I took three. To an outsider, it may sound like I got the short end of the stick, but the opposite was true. Preparing a dossier on my three small companies would have required very little effort on my part. I say “would have,” because I never did it. I worked on my From Fat to Fabulous application instead.

  Suddenly, it was Thursday morning, and I was seated in Richard Geddlefinger’s office. He had accosted me the second I walked through the door and dragged me off for a one-on-one meeting.

  I don’t like Richard’s office. It’s a striking mix of high-brow and white trash. Between the rigid green and brown furnishings, the tan walls with their stucco finish, and the swimsuit model calendar, it feels like a gentleman’s study run amok. All that’s missing is a painting of dogs playing poker. But what really bugs me are his chairs. I can’t fit into them. The sides cut into my thighs, scrunching my legs together like two giant sausages. Sitting there, I felt enormous.

  “Richard, I’ve tried my best. Really, I have.” I fidgeted, trying to make myself comfortable, while feebly defending my lack of productivity. “I went to the websites—their servers were down. I searched The Commercial Appeal for articles and turned up nothing. I left messages at every company and no one called me back. I’m not sure what else you want me to do.” Even to my ears, the excuses sounded ridiculous.

  Richard fixed me with a pointed gaze. “How many times did you try to call?”

  “Once, maybe twice—I tried everyone at least twice,” I quickly amended.

  “You called twice!” he exclaimed. “Come on, kiddo, you know you can’t leave one message and then throw in the towel. You call, you fax, you e-mail!”

  I shifted awkwardly in my too-small seat. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

  “Do better by the end of today. I want that info before you leave.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that. I’m leaving early today. I’ve got three hours of comp time left over from last week, remember?”

  Richard raised his eyebrows. “Not anymore.”

  Seeing the look of shock on my face he added, “I’ll let you go early tomorrow. You can get a jump start on the weekend.”

  Under any other circumstances I would have been thrilled. Richard rarely lets anyone out early on a Friday. But I had been counting on leaving early today so I could film my audition video and get it to FedEx in time to make the cutoff for overnight delivery.

  “That’s no good,” I said miserably. “I really can’t stay late today, Richard. I . . . I have a dentist appointment this afternoon?” I tried.

  He snorted. “You sound like Donna. Now, seriously, I need that information by the end of today. Got it?” He waved me away, and I headed off down the hall.

  Donna knew something was wrong as soon as she saw me. “Oh, shit, Kat, what did Richard say?” she asked, nervously, as I made my way to my cubicle. “He didn’t fire you, did he?”

  I sighed. “No, but he said I’ve got to finish those three dossiers before I leave today.” I sat down at my desk, burying my head in my hands.

  Donna leaned over and patted me on the shoulder. “Maybe it won’t take as long as you think. How far into it are you?”

  “Donna, I haven’t even started.” I looked up just in time to see her eyes bulge. I had hoped she’d cheer me up with a well-timed wisecrack. But she looked alarmed.

  “What do you mean, you haven’t started? What on earth have you been doing since Monday?”

  “Daydreaming.” I gave her a crooked smile. “About the show, about Nick. Shopping for my audition video. Filling out the application. Now I’m royally screwed. I’m going to miss the deadline!”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’ll tell you what, give me half your to-do list, and I’ll see if I can help you out.”

  She couldn’t be serious.

  “What about all of your work?” I asked. “Don’t you need to get that done first?”

  “I got it finished yesterday. Richard’s already okayed most of it.”

  Sensing my hesitation, she added, “I don’t mind helping you out. Just promise me one thing, okay?”

  “Sure, anything!” I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was so lucky to have her as a friend.

  “Don’t forget me when you’re rich and famous!”

  With Donna’s help, I made it out of the office by 3:15 P.M. I got home in record time, walking in the door as the clock struck 3:30. That gave me several hours to film something that could only be two minutes in length, max. Once I got the tape made, my application could be signed, sealed, and delivered.

  Simple, right?

  Wrong.

  I ran into trouble right away. I only had two minutes to impress From Fat to Fabulous’s producers, so it was crucial to make every second count. I needed a killer opening line to hook them.

  I picked up my spiral notebook and scrawled, Are you ready to let the Kat out of the bag? Pick me and I’ll show you the true definition of Kat Scratch Fever! I quickly crossed it out. It was beyond cheesy, even for a reality show.

  Hello! I’m Kat Larson. Welcome to my new and improved thinner life! Too upbeat. Besides, I didn’t have a new and improved thinner life yet. That’s why I needed to go on the show.

  I’m Kat, and I am desperate. I can’t live one more day as a fat person. Too depressing.

  They’d think I have suicidal tendencies. I went on like this for almost thirty minutes before the phone rang. Grateful for the interruption, I dashed into the living room and picked up the
cordless, glancing down at the Caller ID. It was Nick.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. I didn’t want to slip up and tell him about the video. I wasn’t planning on ever telling him about the reality show. He’d learn about it once it was over, but if all went according to plan I’d be thin by that point and it wouldn’t matter.

  “I didn’t expect you to answer,” he said, taken aback.

  “Why’d you call, then?” I teased.

  “I felt bad. I know haven’t been available much lately. I wanted to leave you a sweet little message. Tell you how much I miss you and all,” he said.

  “Aw, that is sweet.” I glanced at the clock. It was 4:03 P.M. Time was running short, but I figured I could spare five minutes.

  “How are things going at Status?”

  “State-us,” he corrected. “You Americans never pronounce anything right.” I knew something was wrong. It wasn’t like him to get snippy.

  “Are they keeping you very busy?”

  “Not anymore,” he told me, sighing. “They shorted my section for next month. In fact, it was really quite absurd. I lost four pages, which means I’m going to have to toss out a number of articles.”

  “Why’d they do that?” I asked.

  “Some twat in entertainment landed a last-minute interview with that prat Johnny Depp. Apparently, Johnny is more important than the new Gucci line. What a load of cack!”

  I’d take Johnny Depp over Gucci any day, but I didn’t tell him that.

  “A load of cack,” I repeated, smiling. I love Britspeak.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, go on, guess. It’s not that difficult.” I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “It means a load of shit. You say it when something is out of order.”