The Next Big Thing (4 page)

Finding something to keep time presented a problem. I placed my alarm clock on the floor in front of me. I couldn’t set it to go off in two-minute intervals, for obvious reasons, but I figured I could keep one eye trained on it. Unfortunately, when I watched the playback of my next run-through I could plainly see my eyes kept drifting down. I looked like I was struggling to stay awake. Definitely not a good sign. I didn’t want them to think I had narcolepsy. I realized I could set the alarm on my cell phone to vibrate, so I did, and then I stuck it in the back pocket of my pants. It was the best I could do. The thing was it would come crashing to the floor as soon as I launched into my cartwheel.

I fiddled around for a few minutes but couldn’t secure it, and it was already creeping up on 5:30, so I decided not to worry about it. If my phone got broken, at least it would be for a good cause. After several more botched attempts I finally nailed a take.

I sounded smart, funny, and interesting. I didn’t screw up any of my words, and I never lost my train of thought. Unfortunately, I lost my balance midway through the cartwheel and landed in a heap on the floor, ruining the whole thing.

“Who am I kidding?” I mumbled out loud, feeling my mood
crash as hard as my cartwheel. “I am turning into a big fat joke of a person.”

A feeling of defeat was sinking in. There was no way in hell I’d get on TV, no matter how good my audition video was. It didn’t matter what the
USA Today
article said—the producers were sure to cast only beautiful people. They’d do a show about some “fat” chicks who weighed in the neighborhood of 150 pounds and hid their beauty behind bad hairdos, ridiculously thick glasses, and muumuus.

The first episode would show lots of shots of these pseudo fat girls crying their eyes out, sitting around a table and stuffing their faces with lasagna and cheesecake. By the end of the series, they’d all drop forty pounds and start dressing better. The finale would feature them falling in love with a group of Brad Pitt clones, while claiming they “always take the stairs now, and that makes all the difference.”

It would be the worst, most stereotypical show on television. I should have known it all along. No one wants to make a show about a semi-confident girl who weighs more than 200 pounds. I let out a deep sigh. Then couldn’t help giving it one last try. I positioned the camera and hit Record.

“Hi, I’m Kat Larson,” I began, “and I know firsthand what it’s like to be young and fat in
America. . . .”

Chapter Four

“So what are you going to do about the Nick situation?” Donna asked when we met for dinner the following week.

We were sitting in a booth at a Tex Mex place called
On the Border, downing drinks (lots and lots of drinks) and waiting for our food to arrive.

“The Nick situation?” I repeated.

“Yeah.” She took a sip of her margarita. “Don’t you think it’s getting a little…
weird
at this point?”

“I
don’t know.” I shrugged uncomfortably. Truth be told, I didn’t really feel like talking about Nick. I hadn’t spoken to him in nearly a week, and I wasn’t feeling too great about things.

“
Although, if we’re being honest here,” Donna said, fixing me with a look, “at what point has this not been weird?”

I really didn’t need this now. “What’s up with the interrogation? I thought we were just having dinner?”

“We are.” She gestured around the restaurant. “But, and I mean no offense, Kat, none at all….”

I braced myself. Whenever someone prefaces what they’re about to say with the words “no offense” it’s a pretty safe bet that it’s going to be offensive.

“Don’t you kind of, I don’t know, question parts of Nick’s story?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well,” she began, “based on everything you’ve told me, this guy sounds absolutely perfect, almost too good to be true. And, again, no offense, but I’m just saying – if he’s such a catch, then why is he spending all his time engaging in an online relationship with a girl who’s half a world away?”

“Because only losers do that, right?” I said hotly.

“Kat, that’s not what I meant.”

“No, I get it. Believe me, I get it.”

“I don’t think you do.” Donna sighed. “I’m just saying, why would this wealthy, attractive, highly successful man not be dating someone – ”

“ – in his own league?” I interrupted.

“No,” Donna said, shaking her head firmly. “That not what I was going to say. What I was
going
to say is why would this wealthy, attractive, highly successful man not be dating someone
in his own country
?”

I didn’t buy it. “Just admit it. You think Nick’s too good for me.”

“I don’t think that at all.”

“Then why are you saying all this?” I shoved a chip into my mouth.

Donna began folding and refolding her paper napkin, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Well, I guess it’s not just the distance that bothers me, it’s his whole attitude.”

I scooped some salsa onto another chip
and chewed angrily. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t eat any carbs tonight but, as usual, my resolve was crumbling. At least I’d stuck to the sugar free margarita, I rationalized, wishing for the millionth time that I had the metabolism and genetics of a supermodel.

“Nick’s so mysterious,” Donna continued, and I smiled. This was true.
Nick
was
mysterious. It was one of the things I liked about him. But catching my expression caused Donna to frown. “See, Kat, you act like that’s a
good
thing; it’s not. You just have to ask yourself, what’s he hiding?”

“
What makes you think he’s hiding something?” I asked, even though, deep down, the thought had crossed my mind. A lot. I usually just tried to refocus my thoughts on something more positive. Like his sexy voice. Or his amazing writing. Or my impending weight loss.

“What makes me think he’s hiding something?” Donna repeated. “Oh, I don’t know…maybe the fact that he hasn’t tried to friend you on Facebook, that he only calls at
odd hours, that he hasn’t sent you more than one photo.”

“Doesn’t have an account, time difference, doesn’t have them,” I said, ticking off the answers to all of her questions.

“Really, Kat?” Donna was incredulous. “He only has
one
photo of himself? In this day and age? I mean, if we were living in the 1800s, I might believe that, but get real.” She rolled her eyes.

“Okay, okay, I’m sure he has more
one,” I admitted. “But I am not about to ask him for more. I’m not opening that door,” I said, “for obvious reasons.”

“Oh, Kat.” Her tone softened. “I really wish you didn’t feel that way. I just think this would all be so much better if you two were honest – ”

I waved her off. “I am being honest. I’ve been honest about every single aspect of my life. Except one. But by the time I meet Nick that, too, will be true. By the time I meet him I’ll
be
the girl in the picture I sent him, I’ll be the girl I described.”
I’ll be the girl he always wanted. His dream girl. Perfect in every way.

“Yeah, and what if he’s not the guy he’s described? What if he hasn’t been honest in ‘every single way’?” Donna challenged me. Before I had a chance to answer, she continued. “For example, what’s up with these little disappearing acts he keeps pulling?”

“He’s busy.”

“Yeah, busy with
what
?”

“Work, his family – ”

“Or what if it’s something else entirely?” Donna interrupted me. “What if the reason he sometimes doesn’t call when he says he will is because he’s married?”

I laughed. “I seriously doubt that.”

“Because men never cheat on their wives….”

“No, men cheat on their wives all the time,” I said. “But if that was the case, if he was just some asshole looking to cheat on his wife, then wouldn’t he just go down to the bar and pick up some drunk girl? Or visit adultfriendfinder.com? I’m sure they have that in
England. If he’s just a cheater looking to get laid, why waste all this time talking to me?”

Donna picked up a chip and popped it in her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, and then said, “That’s a fair point.”

I thought she was going to concede, but then she added, “Okay, so he’s probably not married, but that doesn’t mean there’s still not something fishy going on.”

I knew, at the bare minimum, that Nick was at least who he said he was. A simple Google search could tell me that. But the lack of a social media presence – especially for someone so high profile – was baffling. Searching for “Nick Appleby”
pulled up dozens and dozens of articles he’d written for
Status
but, beyond that I could find little else. As much as I hated to admit it, Donna was kind of right. It didn’t really make sense.

Even still, I was certain it wasn’t any of the things she’d suggested. He had a short bio on the Status website, and it didn’t mention anything about a wife or kids. And, given how regularly he was cranking out articles, there was no way he was in prison. At worst, he was probably a
little
less perfect than he’d presented himself online. But then, weren’t we all? Yes, I rationalized, that was likely it. It had to be. Why else wouldn’t he have sent a better picture? In real life, Nick was probably a little shorter, his hair a little thinner, his teeth a little less sparkly than what I’d been led to believe. Maybe he even had a tiny gut of his own. That thought made me chuckle. I would love him either way; this much I knew. Maybe I was being a fool, but I didn’t think I had a right to judge Nick when I was hiding a big secret of my own….

Donna eyed me thoughtfully. “I mean, what if Nick’s in prison and you’re getting his one phone call a day?”

I burst out laughing. “Now you’re being ridiculous!”

She cracked up. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Excuse me for interrupting, but I couldn’t help myself. You have the most incredible laugh. It’s like music.” It was the worst pickup line I had heard in a long time. The guy delivering it was decked out in an expensive suit, yet his hair was tied in a frizzy ponytail. I got the feeling he was an artist who hadn’t yet come to terms with his corporate self. He wasn’t Donna’s type, but she seemed taken nonetheless, and flashed him a big grin.

“Thanks for the compliment,” she said. “You’re sweet.”

“I’m Jon,” he said, extending his hand. “What’s your name?”

He hadn’t so much as given me a second look. Donna introduced herself and invited Jon to sit down. He grabbed a free chair from a neighboring table and pulled it to the edge of our booth. “I won’t keep you long, I promise. I’ll let you get back to your friend.”

Your friend!
I was indignant. He couldn’t bother to ask my name?

“Like I said, I simply had to meet the woman with such a hypnotic laugh.” He smiled cockily, leaning over the table until his face was only a few inches away from Donna’s. “I was walking toward the door when I passed by your table. Your laughter
literally
stopped me in my tracks.”

I rolled my eyes so violently I thought they might get wedged into the back of my head. Donna is blessed with stunning features—an elegant face, shiny
auburn hair, flawless skin—but there is nothing about her laugh that stands out. It isn’t cute or lilting. It isn’t even loud or annoying. It’s just there. Who did Jon think he was fooling? Pretty girls hear how pretty they are all the time; the best way to score points is to try a different angle.

“Well, I’m flattered I made such an impact,” Donna said.

They kept on for a few minutes, flirting and exchanging small talk. I tuned most of it out, focusing instead on my drink. I was in a terrible mood to begin with; despite his promise to call, Nick had been avoiding me since our semi-fight nearly a week ago. Now my girls’ night out was shaping into a first date for Donna. I felt like a bad joke, the proverbial third wheel. I tried to look on the bright side. Despite his corny pickup line, Jon wasn’t turning out to be so bad. He was an architect and had attended the same college as Donna, graduating three years before she did. His passion was volunteering for Habitat for Humanity (or so he claimed) and he drove a Mercedes, which he casually worked into the conversation. It never ceases to amaze me how guys drop cars the way most people drop names.

“I’d love to take
you out sometime.”

“Sounds fun.” Donna smiled. I downed my
sugar free margarita and ordered another.

“Maybe after
you finish up here we could go out dancing,” Jon was saying. “I know a great little salsa club. They make the best margaritas in town.”

Finish up here?
He made it sound like I was some chore, like vacuuming the house. I yawned loudly, reminding them of my presence.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Donna gestured toward me. “Tonight is a girls’ thing. I’m sorry.” He stood up and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket.

“Here’s my business card,” Jon said, smiling. “Give me a call this week or drop me an e-mail. We’ll set something up.” He grasped Donna’s hand in a prolonged shake. “Enjoy your ladies’ night,” he said, backing away from the table. He kept moving backward—narrowly avoiding a collision with a busboy—until he’d reached the exit, as if he couldn’t bear to take his eyes off of Donna.

As for me, well, Jon had managed to make it through the entire exchange without ever directly acknowledging my presence. This kind of thing has happened to me numerous times. I’ve had men hold the door for the girl in front of me, only to let it slam in my face. I’ve sat staring at the wall as guys introduce themselves to every girl at the table and then skip over me altogether.

“Sorry about that,” Donna apologized, tucking Jon’s business card into her wallet. She was positively beaming. “That was kind of weird, wasn’t it?”

“Not really. It would be weird if it didn’t happen to you all the time.” I tried to keep my voice even, but it didn’t work.

“What’s wrong?” Donna asked. As if reading my mind, she added, “I didn’t mean to make you feel left out.”

“No big
deal,” I said, brushing it off. “So I noticed you didn’t tell him you have a boyfriend.”

“Nope.” She flashed me a coy smile. “Sure didn’t.”

“Donna! You’re not seriously thinking about cheating on Chip?”

She considered this. “I haven’t made up my mind. Do you think I should?”

“No! You’re terrible! Five minutes ago you were accusing Nick of cheating on his fictional wife, and how here you are thinking about cheating on your actual boyfriend.”

“
Eh, I was only kidding. Honestly, I think it’s time to pull the plug on things with Chip. We’ve been together practically forever, and our relationship has lost a lot of its spark. He’s not as much fun as he was when we first started dating.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You guys haven’t even been together six months!”

A waitress arrived at our table, her arms loaded down with food. “I’ve got a Sizzling Fajita Salad, no guac, no sour cream, no cheese.”

I raised my hand. “That’s me.”

Her face registered surprise. She didn’t say anything, but I could read her reaction. It said,
Fat girls only eat things deep fried in a vat of lard.

She set the dish down in front of me.

“Stacked Border Nachos?” she asked.

Donna nodded. The waitress placed the plate in front of her. It was overflowing with chips, ground beef, and at least three kinds of cheese. “Enjoy. Your server will be around in a minute to check on you guys.” I wanted to smack that waitress. I wouldn’t be caught dead eating something as fattening as Stacked Border Nachos in public. If they’d had a fruit plate, I’d have ordered it. She should get her facts straight: Big girls rarely pig out in public. We don’t want to give the general population any more ammo than they already have.