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Authors: Susan Vaught
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Freddie gestures for me to help, but I ignore her eyeball crossing and think about going back to the kitchen and
smashing the loud television.
Instead, we listen to background noise from an appliance commercial.
I hand Freddie the half-finished application packets for Vanderbilt and the University of Ohio that I've been keeping on my
desk so she wouldn't lose them. "Do you think that would make a good essay topic? Plant-pain research starving vegans to death?"
Freddie and NoNo blink at me without speaking. NoNo crunches on her lettuce and raisins. Freddie gulps a mouthful of stew.
I eat my cornbread in a hurry, grab a few sheets of paper and a pen and settle myself on the floor where I can prop my tired
back against the desk. "Seriously. I keep coming up empty on my Northwestern essay ideas."
"Aren't you going to do something from Fat Girl?" Freddie shrugs. "What about that column on pornography? It's great."
After a bite of warm, rich stew, I say, "That's going in my portfolio. All of Fat Girl is. I've got to write something fresh,
something new."
The stew swirls inside my mouth, all the way down to my belly. So good. I eat it in quick spoonfuls, loving the meaty taste,
wondering how NoNo survives without animal products or by-products. Outside my door, the game show revs to life again with
clapping and yelling and bells ringing, and lots of bouncy music.
NoNo gobbles another leaf of lettuce, then fishes her crayons out of a box she keeps under my bed. She'll use crayons because
all art supplies for children have had to be toxin free since 1990, so long as they aren't imported from China, which doesn't
have those safety regulations. "But you could still do a Fat Girl piece, just one you aren't using in the paper."
"I don't know. It doesn't show much range." I suck in more stew.
NoNo gives me a stern look, if that's possible with crew-cut red hair and a mouthful of beans, raisins, and dry lettuce. She
swallows hard. "It shows dedication to a cause. That's important, you know."
She has a point. And she has a 33 on her ACT and straight As, and she'll probably have acceptances to every college she's
considering. Why would I argue with her?
My stew's gone in a minute or two, but so is Freddie's.
NoNo will be eating her dinner all night. She takes a while with food.
Screaming from the game show, a moment of silence, then a loud, bellowing used-car ad. I know it's probably killing Dad's
hearing. He'll be deaf by the time he's sixty.
"I think you should write something about Burke and his gastric bypass." Freddie doesn't look up, and I see her muscles get
tense in case I start yelling like those used-car sales guys. I sort of have every time she's brought up the subject.
I've talked to Burke about his surgery, but that's a little like talking to a zealot about religion. It bothers me, that wild
sparkle in his eyes, when he talks about being "normal" soon, but what can I say to him? It would be nice to magically be
normal. I can't deny that.
"The stuff with Burke, it's private," I grumble, trying not to think about Heath and his warning that I need to put my feelings
about Burke's surgery in The Wire before people start writing in to ask about it.
"Nothing's gonna be private for long," Freddie shoots back. Her olive cheeks tinge red, and for once, her black hair isn't
hanging frizz free around her face. It looks a little messy, like she's picked at it. "He'll be out for weeks, and when he
comes back, he'll be shrinking like crazy."
My jaw clenches, and I have to force myself to stop gritting my teeth. Whenever the subject comes up, I just want to cry.
"It's private for now, okay?"
Freddie gets a stern expression that's much worse than NoNo's. "He goes under the knife in a little over two weeks, Jamie.
You can't pretend it's not happening."
"I can until they roll him away. He could always change his mind."
We all go quiet.
The television in the kitchen doesn't. Somebody won
smashing the loud television.
Instead, we listen to background noise from an appliance commercial.
I hand Freddie the half-finished application packets for Vanderbilt and the University of Ohio that I've been keeping on my
desk so she wouldn't lose them. "Do you think that would make a good essay topic? Plant-pain research starving vegans to death?"
Freddie and NoNo blink at me without speaking. NoNo crunches on her lettuce and raisins. Freddie gulps a mouthful of stew.
I eat my cornbread in a hurry, grab a few sheets of paper and a pen and settle myself on the floor where I can prop my tired
back against the desk. "Seriously. I keep coming up empty on my Northwestern essay ideas."
"Aren't you going to do something from Fat Girl?" Freddie shrugs. "What about that column on pornography? It's great."
After a bite of warm, rich stew, I say, "That's going in my portfolio. All of Fat Girl is. I've got to write something fresh,
something new."
The stew swirls inside my mouth, all the way down to my belly. So good. I eat it in quick spoonfuls, loving the meaty taste,
wondering how NoNo survives without animal products or by-products. Outside my door, the game show revs to life again with
clapping and yelling and bells ringing, and lots of bouncy music.
NoNo gobbles another leaf of lettuce, then fishes her crayons out of a box she keeps under my bed. She'll use crayons because
all art supplies for children have had to be toxin free since 1990, so long as they aren't imported from China, which doesn't
have those safety regulations. "But you could still do a Fat Girl piece, just one you aren't using in the paper."
"I don't know. It doesn't show much range." I suck in more stew.
NoNo gives me a stern look, if that's possible with crew-cut red hair and a mouthful of beans, raisins, and dry lettuce. She
swallows hard. "It shows dedication to a cause. That's important, you know."
She has a point. And she has a 33 on her ACT and straight As, and she'll probably have acceptances to every college she's
considering. Why would I argue with her?
My stew's gone in a minute or two, but so is Freddie's.
NoNo will be eating her dinner all night. She takes a while with food.
Screaming from the game show, a moment of silence, then a loud, bellowing used-car ad. I know it's probably killing Dad's
hearing. He'll be deaf by the time he's sixty.
"I think you should write something about Burke and his gastric bypass." Freddie doesn't look up, and I see her muscles get
tense in case I start yelling like those used-car sales guys. I sort of have every time she's brought up the subject.
I've talked to Burke about his surgery, but that's a little like talking to a zealot about religion. It bothers me, that wild
sparkle in his eyes, when he talks about being "normal" soon, but what can I say to him? It would be nice to magically be
normal. I can't deny that.
"The stuff with Burke, it's private," I grumble, trying not to think about Heath and his warning that I need to put my feelings
about Burke's surgery in The Wire before people start writing in to ask about it.
"Nothing's gonna be private for long," Freddie shoots back. Her olive cheeks tinge red, and for once, her black hair isn't
hanging frizz free around her face. It looks a little messy, like she's picked at it. "He'll be out for weeks, and when he
comes back, he'll be shrinking like crazy."
My jaw clenches, and I have to force myself to stop gritting my teeth. Whenever the subject comes up, I just want to cry.
"It's private for now, okay?"
Freddie gets a stern expression that's much worse than NoNo's. "He goes under the knife in a little over two weeks, Jamie.
You can't pretend it's not happening."
"I can until they roll him away. He could always change his mind."
We all go quiet.
The television in the kitchen doesn't. Somebody won
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