Free Big Fat Manifesto by Susan Vaught Page A

Boy.
    Dead and buried from surgical complications.
    But he's had enough, and he'd rather be dead than fat.
    So, here's the thing. I have to support him, because he's mine, and he needs me to be there.
    If he makes it through this and comes to graduation all buff and healthy, every damned one of you better stand up and cheer
     like crazy monkeys, because Fat Girl can find out where every last one of you lives. If you don't cheer, I'll know, and I'll
     find you.
    For now, instead of looking up your addresses (yet), Fat Girl will just freak out about Fat Boy and worry. I want you to worry
     with me, and think good thoughts.
    Don't make me hunt you down.

CHAPTER
    SIX
    Two teacher-chaperones, about a dozen junior class "hosts," and the entire senior class minus a few cowards who didn't show
     up, stumble onto the football bleachers at daylight.
    Senior Shoot. Woohoo.
    Burke, Freddie, NoNo, and I rub sleep-grunge out of our eyes and squint at the finished versions of seven different "fantasies"
     the guys from set design constructed for the event. Then we stare down at the selection form and try to focus. We can choose
     who we take fantasy shots with, and three of the fantasy sets. I check off "Sultan and Sultana," the set with the big tent
     and red velvet cushions, my first choice out of the whole bunch. Second, I mark Burke's pick, "Rah-Rah" (the football-player-and-cheerleader
     set, of course). Third, I scratch the little eraserless pencil lead on Freddie and NoNo's choice, "Wild West Shootout." We'll
     leave "Dungeons, Dragons, and Wizards" and "Otherworldly" to the fantasty/sci-fi nerds, "Wall Street" to the math geeks, and
     "Victorian Afternoon" to anyone stupid enough to try to lace up a corset so early in the morning.
    Besides, thanks to my years in the drama department, I have decent costumes for the three we agreed to choose. Always an important
     point, where my luscious, curvy body is concerned. The costumes are in my garment bag, which Burke carries for me, along with
     his own, Freddie's, and NoNo's, too. We girls have our makeup kits to worry about.
    The four of us will dress up, pose together, and hope we make weird enough shots to get picked for the yearbook spread. But
     even if we don't, we'll have copies for our own memories. Then come senior class photos in various states of insanity and
     goofball posing and, finally, the serious class shot. Last of all, we do group shots, which for me will be drama and newspaper,
     and individual portraits, which will get sorted for use if we win some honor or other.
    One long friggin' day ahead, but hey, at least we don't have classes. Not a bad deal for a Wednesday, if you think about it.
    It takes the junior class hosts about an hour to collect the forms, put the groups in order, and hand out donuts and orange
     juice, the traditional ceremonial breakfast for Senior Shoot. Burke and I lean against each other until the food shows up,
     while on the metal bleacher step below us, NoNo whips out some kind of vegan bar with soy nuts to eat instead. She gives her
     sugar-coated donut to Freddie, who breaks it in half, pops a piece in her mouth, and hands the other piece to me. Because
     of the absurd hour, and how nobody's really that close around us, I do eat it. In fact, I kill Freddie's offering before my
     donut and juice even make it down the row, hoping the sugar will prop my eyes open another centimeter and make me feel like
     putting on a harem costume.
    Burke takes our food off the tray when it arrives, then passes the tray to me, and I stand up and walk it on down the row.
     The guy who takes it from me, one of the math geeks, stares at me for a few seconds, then smiles and says, "Thanks, Fat Girl."
    People have started that since the newspaper articles.
    Some kids seem to mean it in a nice way, like Math Geek, so I don't knock him backward off the bleachers. I just give him
     a blazing Fat Girl glare, which makes him smile bigger.
    When I get back to Burke, he