The Makedown Read Free

take no more, I yelled, “What?”
    “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