Fat Cat (5 page)

"Oh. Well, how about banana bread? Bananas are real."

"Yeah," I said, "but there's still sugar in it. And butter."

"You can't use butter?"

"They didn't have cows back then--there weren't any kind of domestic animals. So no milk or cheese or butter."

"Well, this has the potential to suck," Amanda said. "I want the cafe to start back up. I'm telling you, Cat, that was possibly the best food I've ever had in my life. I would quit my job at the restaurant right now if you tell me you're starting back up--except we have to charge more this time so I can actually afford gas. Come on--let's do it!"

Our cafe. It was how I consoled myself the summer between seventh and eighth. I burned through my library card checking out piles
of cookbooks, and every week I'd have a new theme: Italian, Asian, Tropical, Greek, French--I used ingredients I'd never even heard of before.

Amanda came over three or four times a week to help me run the cafe. She'd bring supplies from home or make do with whatever she could find around my house, and decorate the dining room to match what I was cooking that night. She'd download pictures of Rome or Paris or the Parthenon, then tape those all over the place to help set the mood. She'd go through all our CDs to find the right music to play in the background. She made these great centerpieces out of fruits and flowers and candles--the whole thing was just beautiful. Then she'd hand-letter these fancy menus, and we'd relax and wait for the guests.

Which were just my parents and little brother. Everyone got into the act and took it very seriously. I was really a chef, Amanda was really a hostess and server, and my family were the paying customers. It cracks me up to think that I actually charged my parents for dinner, even though they had obviously paid for all the groceries.

Then after Amanda and I cleaned up for the night, we split the proceeds--not bad for a summer job. Especially since it was one of the funnest things I've ever done--which is saying a lot considering how brokenhearted I was at the time.

"When do you start cooking?" Amanda asked. "When can I show up for my first meal?"

"Probably not till this weekend. I have to get ingredients and figure out what I can actually make."

"What are you going to eat until then?"

"What do you think? Nuts and berries."

10

M
y last bag of Cheetos
.

My last ice cream sandwich.

My last snack pack of Oreos.

All washed down with a Diet Coke.

My mother looked sort of horrified when I laid it all out on my desk, but then I handed her the permission form. "He said yes." I hoisted my Diet Coke. "Cheers."

Nancy chuckled and shook her head. "You're a brave girl, Cat."

"I can do it," I said. "I'm motivated." I tore open the wrapper to the ice cream sandwich. "And it's just seven months."

"I could have three litters of puppies in seven months," Nancy said. "It's longer than you think."

"I don't care, I'm excited," I told her. "It's going to be great."

I decided to give my body a good send-off tonight. I talked my mom into ordering deep-dish sausage and onion pizza. I'm not proud to say I ate five slices--I was like a condemned girl savoring her last
meal. And then I followed it up with my last bowl of ice cream and hot fudge topping. I was so incredibly overstuffed afterward I could barely move or breathe. But I kind of felt content, too--like I'd given my stomach a little party.

One last thing to do before I went to bed. I unplugged everything in my room but my computer and printer. I stowed most of the electronics in my closet, then wheeled my TV and DVD cart into my little brother's room.

"Want these for a few months?"

Peter looked at me like he was afraid to seem too excited. For an eleven-year-old, he can be awfully suspicious. "Why?"

"It's an experiment. Want to borrow my iPod and CD player, too?" I could see he was skeptical.

"It's okay," I assured him. "No trick. I just want to focus on homework this year."

That sounded more like me. "Okay," he said, "I guess, if you want." Like he was doing me a big favor.

I also unplugged my alarm clock, which is going to make it hard to get up tomorrow morning--especially since I have to make sure I'm up early enough to walk to school. But I figure I'll gain the time I normally spend straightening my hair. This is a time for serious sacrifices, and I'm afraid decent-looking hair is going to have to be the first thing to go. But that's what ponytails are for.

I just realized I can ask my mom to wake me up--there's no reason she can't use an alarm clock. And tonight both my parents seemed surprisingly supportive of the whole project--especially once I emphasized all the health benefits of giving up junk food for seven months. My dad even said he might try that. I'll believe it when I see him eating fruit after work instead of barbecue chips and a beer.

The one thing my mom did say is that she's making an appointment for me next week with a registered dietician friend of hers from the hospital. She wants to make sure I'm still going to get all my calcium and everything, even without all the ice cream. Ha.

The one favor I asked them is that they not tell Peter what I'm doing. The last thing I need is him blabbing to any of his little friends who have older siblings that go to my school. People probably already think I'm weird enough--I don't need to give them another reason to think so.

Time to do some homework and get to sleep. Then tomorrow is it. Clean slate. Start over and keep it real and keep it pure.

And watch the transformation unfold.

11

RESEARCH NOTEBOOK, CATHERINE LOCKE

Day 1, Thursday, August 21

Breakfast:
Glass of water, apple, banana.

Technology avoided:
Opened curtains instead of turning on bedroom lights. Had to use bathroom light--no windows. Cell phone and computer off since last night. No music. No TV. No blow-dryer. No wristwatch. Walked to school.

We're supposed to record everything in our research notebooks so Mr. Fizer can take a look at them every week and make sure we stay
on track. We also have to bring our notebooks to the science fair in case any of the judges want to check our work. But I figure not everything is everyone's business. Some facts are just for me.

Like the fact that I looked so ugly when it was time to leave the house this morning, I almost backed out of the whole deal.

I never really thought I was vain, but now I understand that's a huge lie. Because looking at my face in the mirror this morning--my unadorned face with its squinty eyes and big red zits and fat cheeks and nothing lips--and knowing I'm not going to be able to wear makeup to fix any of that for the next seven months--well, it sort of threw me into despair.

And my hair--what an unbelievable fright. It's one thing to have to occasionally pile it up with a scrunchy just to get by, but the fact that it's going to look like this giant bird's nest for the next seven months? Somehow that seems almost too much to sacrifice for science. It's bad enough that my fatness is out there for anyone to see. Now I can't even try to distract people with a little eyeliner and hair gel.

All I kept thinking about was Matt. And how he was going to take one look at me and think I was even uglier than I used to be in junior high. I really almost called off the whole thing right there.

And then there was this second moment I almost faltered, when my dad asked, "Are you sure you don't want a ride?" And I thought, Who's going to know? I could have had him just drop me off a few blocks from school and walked the rest of the way. But I would know. I want to do this whole thing honestly. And I really do want to lose weight--which means exercise is part of it.

So even though I looked the way I did and wished I could put a bag over my head, I forced myself to leave the house. I gave myself a whole hour to get to school, but as I got closer, I saw about six empty buses go
past and knew I'd miscalculated. I had to sprint the last block and a half. I came skidding into the building, all sweaty and heaving for breath, just as the first bell rang. Great way to start the day.

And the worst thing? I couldn't grab a Diet Coke.

Which meant enduring AP American History with Mr. Zombie Man without a drop of caffeine in my system. TORTURE.

And then I had the humiliation of walking into English the next period and letting Amanda and Jordan and Matt see me that way. Amanda was too nice to say anything, of course, and Jordan was busy talking to Matt and didn't even see me, but Matt looked up as I moved to my chair and I could tell he was shocked by what he saw. I kept my head down the rest of the class and just wished I were out there in the wilderness with my hominin pals, fighting off a pack of hyenas. At least that would have been easy.

Lunch:
Orange, another apple, another banana, bag of sunflower seeds, box of raisins, water. That's all I could find in the cafeteria that qualified as prehistoric food. I'll need to start figuring it out the night before and pack something. NO DIET COKE. DYING FOR DIET COKE. And a cookie. How I would love a cookie.

Walked to work. Took a lot longer than I thought. Exhausted. And late.

Afternoon snack at work:
Another apple (already hate apples), water, bag of salt-free almonds. NO DIET COKE. No chocolate. Torture.

I could barely concentrate at work. I had to call around to a bunch of hospitals in the state to make sure they have enough antivenin to last for the next few months. A lot of places in Arizona stay hot until the end of October, which means rattlesnakes have a longer season here. But after about three of those calls, all I wanted to do was put my head down on my desk and go to sleep.

"Honey, do you want a ride home?"

I nodded. I'd told my mom earlier that I was going to walk home, but forget it. I had no strength. And it's possible I was seriously depressed. A big fat Snickers and a slice of pizza would have made everything so much better.

So much for feeling strong and powerful and cave-woman-like. Today I would have just let the hyenas eat me.

But tomorrow will be better. It has to be. Today it was all new. I'll get used to it. I'll learn how to feed myself, how to avoid mirrors, how to survive this project for the next seven months. I can make it work. I just have to try harder.

Tomorrow will definitely be better.

12

Day 2, Friday, August 22

OH.
MY.
EXPLODING.
HEAD.

When I woke up this morning, I thought maybe I had died. Or maybe I just wished I had died. Because the pain was like nothing I've ever felt.

It started at the base of my neck, and then swept forward and crushed my entire skull like someone had parked a car on top of my face, and then swirled down through my stomach so I felt like maybe I'd like to vomit if only heaving like that wouldn't make my head hurt even worse.

Couldn't eat a thing for breakfast. Part of me felt like I was starving, but the thought of food made me sick.

As did the light coming in through the windows. And the sound of my feet hitting the carpeting. And my parents' and little brother's shrill voices--I'm sure they were just talking normally, but to my oversensitive nervous system, it felt like they were screaming.

I knew it would take me even longer to walk to school in that condition, so I just started out and got it over with. An hour and a half later, I shuffled into the loud, bright, overstimulating zoo that is my high school and commenced suffering on a whole new level.

I kept my eyes squinted for most of the day. In part to keep the light down to a minimum, and in part because somehow it seemed to protect me from the noise.

With block scheduling, on Fridays we have every one of our classes, but for a shorter time. Which means not only did I have to start the day with American History--which, I realized, wasn't so bad since Mr. Zombie's monotone can actually be kind of soothing--but I also had to go to Piano, and even though they're all electric and we listen through headphones and I had mine on mute, I could still hear everyone else pounding their keys. It was like listening to an army tap-dance on top of a quilt.

The only bright spot of the day was having lunch with Amanda and Jordan. My stomach was still too iffy for me to risk eating anything, but Amanda made me at least sip some water.

"Here," she whispered, looking around warily before she slipped something into my hand. "Ibu."

I understood why she was being so secretive. Even giving someone ibuprofen can constitute a violation of our school's anti-drug policy.

"Can't," I said, giving them back.

"Why?"

"Homo erectus
didn't have it."

"You did not just say that."

"I'll be okay," I said, hoping to convince us both.

"You're not okay. You look like even your hair hurts." Amanda put the pills back in my hand.
"Take
them."

I shook my head and immediately wished I hadn't. "Owwww ..."

Jordan whispered something to Amanda, she whispered back, and the next thing I knew there were two massive hands gripping the back of my neck and pushing deep into where the pain was. I nearly screamed with relief.

I closed my eyes while Jordan gave me one of the harshest, meanest, most necessary neck massages I've ever had. His thumbs felt strong enough to push straight through a wall. He dug them into the base of my skull and down the tight, throbbing nerves of my neck, finishing with the knots on top of my shoulders.

It was better than chocolate, better than Cheetos, better than anything I could ever imagine. I didn't want him to stop.