The Makedown Read online

  “Anna, I need to ask you a serious question.”

  “Mmmhmm?” I grunted, licking my fingers clean of remnants from my afternoon snack.

  “Are you partaking in the illegal narcotic known as grass, dope, or marijuana?”

  “What?” I asked with outrage. “No. Why would you ask me that?” I said with all the defensiveness one expects from an overweight teenager.

  “Look at yourself, covered in Doritos dust and Pringles crumbs! It’s called the munchies!”

  “Mother, how dare you! You know damn well I’m just fat!”

  Fat. The word had haunted me most of my life. I didn’t want to be fat anymore. Actually, I didn’t even want to be me anymore. All my fantasies and Hello Fatty one-upmanship proved insufficient protection. I needed more. I needed a Fairy Godmother. While my advanced age led me to reject the possibility of a real Santa Claus, Tooth Fairy, or Easter Bunny, I accepted Fairy Godmothers (FGs for short) as incontrovertible truth. The FG job description was simple: intervene when parents were unable to see that their children’s clothes and general demeanor were causing them to be exiled to nerd-dom. Admittedly, the aforementioned definition of FG was not directly lifted from a fairy tale. After reading countless fairytales, I took it upon myself to create a modern translation. Then, while perusing People magazine’s weight-loss issue, I happened upon a high school student’s transformation. Her before looked like . . . well, me. Her after was a stunning, slim, and desirable teenager. How could she have pulled it off? The young woman had morphed into an entirely new person through an extensive makeover, the likes of which could only have been accomplished by a devoted FG. Soon, everywhere I turned, FGs’ exertions grabbed my attention, bolstering my belief.

  While scientifically unsound, my theory held enormous emotional protection. This devout belief in FG shielded me from an everyday regimen of spitballs, loneliness, and mockery. Technically, all those horrid afflictions still plagued me daily, but I wasn’t bothered by them. It was impossible to be leveled by the horrors of my life while simultaneously believing that FG could transform my exterior, endowing me with self-confidence. Obviously, FG didn’t have time to intervene on just anyone’s behalf. Lightweights crying over being stood up at prom or having fat ankles need not apply. Long-term catastrophic social and emotional annihilation were prerequisites for an FG intervention, so I welcomed them. What didn’t kill me made me a better candidate for FG’s limitless transformative powers.

  As high school waned, I dared to believe that everything would change in the next year. College. That was where FG would make her long-awaited appearance, guiding me through a makeover to average looks and modest happiness. For clarification’s sake, I didn’t actually think an old lady with a wand was going to show up, a gaggle of mice in tow. FG could come in many forms; hell, she could even come as a rabid hyena with a taste for virgin blood, for all I cared. She simply needed to come, and as quickly as possible.

  Chapter Two

  I wish I could say FG found me at the University of Pennsylvania, but try as I might, I couldn’t seem to find her anywhere. She did not arrive in the form of a roommate, excited as I had been to meet the oft-imagined Jane Zelisky. I had spent days dreaming up our interactions— at last, I’d have a friend who would look beyond my off-putting exterior and adore hanging out with the real me, and I envisioned us together in every possible scenario— late-night pizza parties, midmorning chocolate bar hunts, afternoon sugar cereal binges— the full gamut of interpersonal adventures. My dream was shattered mere hours after arriving on campus by a geeky RA who bore an eerie resemblance to Howdy Doody. “Anna Norton?” the lanky redheaded boy asked cautiously, eyeing a clipboard and my room number. “I’m your resident advisor, George Macadamia, but every one calls me Nut on account of the whole Macadamia thing. They’re really popular in Hawaii— macadamia nuts, that is. I haven’t been to Hawaii, but that’s what I read online,” he babbled without making eye contact. An ease fell over me; Nut surpassed me in terms of both awkwardness and randomness. “I’m here to talk to you about Jane,” Nut said with a strained face.

  “Oh no! Is she okay? Was there an accident?” I screeched dramatically, covering my mouth with my hand as soap opera actors often do.

  “Uh. I think she—”

  “Is she dead? Is my friend dead?” I screamed, milking the whole “friend” thing for all it was worth. I bent over, clutching my stomach as if poisoned, then straightened to beat my breast in anguish.

  “Um . . . um . . . ,” Nut stuttered, visibly uncomfortable with my emotional outburst.

  “I knew it! She’s dead! Oh God, why? Why did you take my friend?” I wailed, tears in my eyes. My belief that Nut was on an equally nerdy playing field freed my inner drama queen and then some.

  “Actually, she deferred a year, so it looks like you’re going to have the room to yourself.”

  It would have played better if she’d died, I thought ruefully.

  “Um, isn’t there someone else who needs a roommate?” I managed to pull myself together enough to ask.

  “Nope, but I’m across the hall if you need anything.”

  Again channeling my inner actor, I regurgitated a scene from many a made-for-TV movie. I slid down the door to portray my complete and utter misery. Slumped over on the floor, visions of the girls’ bathroom at Paul Revere played through my mind, making my tears all too real. Friendship, that ever-elusive mistress, had once again duped me, leaving me with nothing but a weird resident advisor named Nut. Although there was something else to consider. Did Nut tell all the dorm residents where he lived? Or was that a play for friendship? Perhaps even more than friendship? Nut was an übernerd, but that didn’t diminish my desire to win him over with my feminine wiles. No one had ever liked me. In twelve years of formal education, not one boy ever engaged in a crush on me. Girls missing limbs, girls with moustaches, girls with halitosis, and girls with chronic nosebleeds all experienced the sensation of being liked, yet I never made the cut. I yearned to believe that my past was no longer relevant at Penn. Nut would be my white knight! Was he the first sign of FG’s intervention? While devastated by the loss of my friend Jane, my focus had already shifted to my boyfriend Nut.

  Hello Fatty,

  I’ve met the man who will take my virginity, starting FG’s long-awaited makeover. His name is Nut, and, well, all I can say is I’m NUTS for him. One nerd to another, this is love.

  — Anna

  The following day I entered the dining hall at 7:30 a.m. for the express purpose of launching my relationship with Nut. I deemed a breathy voice necessary to aid in the seduction. “Um, hello Nut,” I offered in my best Melanie Griffith imitation. Of course, he had already heard my awkward real voice. Visibly affected by my new voice— or so I hoped— Nut could barely respond.

  “What?” he said without making eye contact.

  “I said hello, Nut,” I whispered.

  “Um, okay. Hi, I guess,” Nut said while chewing.

  “You guess?” I squawked indignantly before remembering my stage directions and seductively moving my tongue back and forth across my lips.

  “Okay, hi.”

  I sat down across from Nut and continued my journey to humiliation. “You know I’ve always loved macadamia nuts.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they’re my favorite nut.”

  “Mine, too,” Nut said, finally making eye contact. “I used to be allergic to nuts as a child, but around the time my peeps in high school started calling me Nut, the allergy disappeared.”

  “Wow, you’re a medical miracle,” I exclaimed, not even bothering to use my sex kitten voice.

  “Kind of. Well actually, not at all. People can develop and lose allergies at any time,” Nut responded with his mouth full of food. “I got to go; I’m rushing. I’m a senior, so this is my last shot; I really want to get in— be with the boys— you know, have brothers for life—”

  “Um, yeah, completely. I’m rushing, too. I only have a b
rother. I thought it would be good balance to get some sisters. Go girls! Hey sisters! Anna’s in the house!”

  Sororities evoked images of girls with Sharpies circling fat pockets on my body while laughing maliciously. I doubted those “sisters” would even let me buy their sweatshirt. However, I desperately wanted something to share with Nut, and my freshman orientation packet— a seventy-page document I’d immediately highlighted and taken notes on, as well as committed to memory— recommended rushing as an excellent way to meet people. I figured there had to be a nerdy sorority, this was the Ivy League, after all. Penn was filled with nerds; surely there was an appropriate group for me.

  I opened the packet to the section on student life and surveyed my options. Why did I have to be born a godless white chick? Hadn’t I suffered enough? My lack of religion and ethnicity barred me from some very nerdy groups, which listed studying and watching television as activities. After contemplating some very unethical alternatives, I decided to try Delta Beta, a dry sorority that prided itself on academic standards, conservative politics, and the protection of women’s virtues. As an intelligent virgin, Delta Beta was a good fit, barring the conservative politics. I had always considered myself a nonpracticing liberal due to my prochoice stance. However, I was far more desper ate than I was liberal, so I registered for Republican groups online. Rocking Repubs, Teens Against Terror, and My Elephant Is an Honor Student But Your Donkey’s Not all listed Anna Norton as a member. I picked the most cutting-edge of the Republican youth groups in an effort to diminish my feeling of selling out.

  A mere twelve girls showed up at Delta Beta’s orientation; apparently, its no-alcohol policy hadn’t done much to help boost its appeal. I rejoiced in its unpopularity, since it exponentially increased my odds of acceptance. The evening began with Maureen, the Delta Beta leader, asking us about our personal heroes. As luck would have it, I went first, naming Jesus Christ as my personal hero. The candidates that followed responded with Ronald Reagan, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, and George Bush. It quickly became clear that my choice of Jesus Christ was a bit unusual in the context of this politically obsessed group. After hearing everyone’s responses, Maureen decided to dig a little deeper, starting once again with me.

  “Anna Norton?”

  “Yes,” I responded cautiously.

  “You chose Jesus Christ as your hero.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Christ,” I intoned, attempting to sound pious.

  “What are some of Jesus’s teachings that have influenced you?”

  “Um . . . um . . . ,” I stuttered nervously before spitting out the first thing that came to mind, “Thou shall not vote Democrat . . . or smoke cigarettes?”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Maureen asked.

  “Um,” I said, racking my brain for some Jesus-ism. Damn Mother. Why hadn’t she taken me to Sunday school?

  “Well?” Maureen prodded me.

  “Thou shall not covet my neighbor’s wife.”

  “What does that mean to you?”

  “Um, no lusting after ladies . . . who belong to . . . ,” I stammered desperately.

  “Moving on.” Maureen sounded irritated. I sounded like a lesbian, or at the very least a phony Jesus lover, especially once the rest of the group described their heroes with terms such as family values, patriotism, liberty, and freedom.

  My opportunity for sisterhood was evaporating, so I decided to convey both my regret over my inappropriate answers and my longing to be included to Maureen by staring at her with expressions that alternated between sorrow and enthusiasm. This was an ill-advised plan; Maureen watched me with a perturbed expression before asking if I needed medical assistance. When I assured her that I was perfectly fine, she snorted, “That’s a matter of opinion,” and turned on her heel to confer with her “sisters” on first-round cuts. I crossed my fingers, arms, and legs and prayed to FG. Even if I wasn’t ultimately accepted into the Sisterhood of the Traveling Twin Sets, I yearned to make it to the second round. If I made it to the second round, I would break my lifelong streak of exclusion.

  After about thirty seconds, Maureen reentered the room with her sisters and a smug look of power. My stomach clenched painfully as I fought to stay positive. “First, I want to thank you all very much for applying to Delta Beta. Unfortunately, it’s impossible for us to accept everyone because”— Maureen paused to think of the best explanation— “Well, we didn’t like one of you . . . at all. Now, the following girls are advancing to the second round: Jennifer Fantini, Laurel Harrison, Theodora Marshall, Jane Murray, Harriet Nielsen, Judith Green, Bree Wallis, Marie Gordon, Alexa Hardin, Susie Coplan, and Stephanie Benedict.” Maureen had accepted everyone except me. Once again, I was rejected. I didn’t bother thanking her; instead, I stood and walked out. Screw you, Maureen, I thought as rage tempered my crashing self-esteem. Why had I even tried to be part of a sorority? They represent everything I despise about girls and society. I headed straight back to my dorm, hoping an evening of fantasizing about Nut would eradicate any memory of Republican fascist sisterhoods.

  As I approached my dorm room, I spotted Nut knocking on my door. Was this a blessing from the god of nerds? The first sign of FG? “Nut, are you looking for me?” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the amazement out of my voice.

  “Hey, can I watch Felicity in your room? My TV’s busted, and no one else will let me in.”

  “Yes, I would love to have you over.”

  “I brought Doritos,” Nut added. He sat next to me on the bed, acting as the official Doritos holder.

  “How great is Ben?” Nut sighed happily as Felicity’s theme music filled my cramped little abode.

  “I love him almost as much as I love Doritos,” I shot back with what I hoped was a flirtatious giggle.

  “Definitely,” was Nut’s clever reply. We both sat contentedly pushing Doritos into our mouths.

  Television was the foundation on which we would build a friendship. The two of us enjoyed weekly dates to watch Felicity and Dawson’s Creek while gorging on a variety of junk food from the local minimart. As episodes progressed, I squeezed closer and closer to Nut. One night, deep into the Felicity-hairgate, I decided it was time to take our relationship to the next level. Nut was a fan of OP corduroy shorts, which exposed his long and freckled legs. Under the influence of hormones and pent-up sexual aggression, I yanked up the hem of my maternity denim jean skirt, revealing my pale and flaccid thigh. A shiver ran up my spine, and not in a good way. Still I persevered. I raised my left leg onto Nut’s, washing over it like a tsunami swallowing a dingy. Spectacularly monstrous, I found it hard to look away as I brushed my leg back and forth over his. Nut stared at the screen, eyes locked on Ben Covington. My lack of exercise soon slowed my leg thrusts to a crawl. On the verge of a muscle spasm, I was greatly relieved when Nut leapt off the bed. “I think I should let you know something.” Nut paused as if waiting for a drum roll. “It’s really important. I am . . . a big fan of Ben’s. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I cooed seductively.

  “No, I don’t think you do. I mean . . . I mean . . . this is harder than telling my parents . . . I’m gay.”

  “Gay? But, but that’s impossible,” I cried out, wounded.

  “You must have known,” Nut said.

  “No, I didn’t,” I muttered. How could my boyfriend— okay, pretend boyfriend— be gay?

  “Anna, I spend my nights watching TV with you. Don’t you think if I was straight I would be out chasing hotties like other guys?”

  He was right— I was the Liza Minnelli of the dormitory, only less attractive. It was too painful to process.

  “Dawson’s is starting. Wanna watch?” I offered, bringing the summit of humiliation and sexuality to an end.

  For the duration of my freshman year, Nut and I watched a minimum of eight hours of television together a week. He was my social life, and I was incredibly grateful for him. For the first time since its creation, I didn’t w
rite anything in Hello Fatty. In June, I attended Nut’s graduation, to which he wore his small OP corduroy shorts under his graduation gown. He waved to his parents as he got his diploma. I beamed back from my place a few rows behind them, imagining he was waving to me. Nut’s only postcollege plan was to move to California to live in San Francisco.

  “Nut, we’re two hours from New York. Why do you have to go all the way across the country?”

  “Anna, look at me,” he said dramatically. I gazed into his eyes, wondering if he would have even liked me if he were straight. “If I am ever going to get laid”— Nut paused, prompting me to salivate— “by a man, I need to be with my own people.”

  I sighed and honestly wished I were gay. It would be such fun to be part of a “people.”

  The following fall, with Nut in San Francisco, I fell into a deep depression. He had been my only friend at Penn (technically, anywhere in the world). Unkindly stationed in a single dorm room again, my loneliness soared, engulfing my every thought and causing me to fill whole volumes of Hello Fatty. I missed companionship as I watched show after show on my tiny TV. Short of hiring an escort, I only had one option: Barney. It was actually an ingenious idea, since Barney had an active fantasy about university life. He had dropped out of community college for a variety of reasons, most of which originated from his laziness, but still clung to the idea of being the big man on campus. Dressed in the Penn sweatshirt and cap he bought online, Barney hit the quad while I was in class. He sat alone on the lush grass and waited patiently for someone to talk to him, but no one did. Frustrated, he took matters into his own hands. “What are you studying?” Barney asked a mousy brunette seated alone on the quad.