Martin Van Buren High is actually really beautiful, which is weird when you stop to think of how many people over the past ninety-some years of its lifetime have spent so much time dreading being here. We have a real, honest-to-God art gallery in our school, our gym seats ten thousand people, and Civic Auditorium, attached to the athletic center, is the town’s venue for concerts and shows. There’s a salad bar and a pizza bar and a sandwich bar in the cafeteria, and there’s even a small convenience store by the nurse’s office. But it might as well be Petak Island Prison, in the middle of a lake in the deepest, most remote part of Russia, where prisoners spend twenty-two hours a day in their cells and only get visitors twice a year. This is what it can feel like to be here.
Today is no exception. Everyone—and I mean everyone—knows my name now, and all of them can picture me in a bathing suit. Even the people who weren’t actually there. The YouTube video is called Fat Girl Fights Back: Libby Strout, formerly America’s Fattest Teen, tells classmates “You Are Wanted.” It was posted last night and already has 262,356 views.
Imagine it.
I can tell you from experience that it is really weird and really unsettling. That guy over there with the Game of Thrones notebook. That girl and her friends with their band instruments. The cheerleaders. The basketball team. And oh right, the teachers.
I did not think this through.
It may be my imagination, but every pair of eyes lands on me as I walk through the halls. I walk and breathe, walk and breathe. I start to strut a little. I try adding in a sashay. I remember how it felt dancing in my room to the Spice Girls, and I tell myself, That is who you really are. Some kind of superstar, just like in the song.
I only get one moo. Everyone else just stares.
In the hallway, Mr. Levine says, “Everything okay, Libby?”
Which tells me, whether he’s seen it or not, he must know about Fat Girl Fights Back.
“Just because I see you in our Conversation Circles doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me. It is kind of what I do, you know.”
“I know. Thanks, Mr. Levine. Everything’s great. Really.” I’m not sure he believes me, but I hurry off before he can ask me anything else.
I eat lunch in the art room with Bailey, Jayvee, and Iris because right now it’s more peaceful (i.e., less traumatic) than the cafeteria. They start talking, as they always do, about what they’ll do beyond school, when MVB is over and we’re free. Bailey is planning to be an artist and also a doctor, and Jayvee is going to be a writer.
At some point, Iris looks at me and says, “I wish I was like them. I wish I knew what I was going to do.”
“You could be a singer. If I had a voice like yours, Iris Engelbrecht, I would sing all day just to hear myself.”
Her ears turn bright pink. She takes a sip of her Diet Coke. “That’s not a career, that’s a hobby.” She’s quoting someone, maybe her mom.
“Tell that to Taylor Swift.” I scroll through my phone, choose a song, and hit Play. They all go quiet as I start dancing. I say, “I’m going to be a dancer. Maybe I’ll even be a Rockette.” I kick my leg. I kick it as high as the sky.
Jayvee starts clapping and whistling.
“I’m starting my own dance club. I’ll take everyone who can’t be a Damsel or anyone who doesn’t want to be a Damsel. We won’t dance in formation and we won’t dance with flags. We’ll just get out there and do whatever we want, but we’ll do it together.”
“I want to be in your dance club!” Bailey is up and shaking it, hair flying.
“Me too.” Jayvee climbs onto a desk, all jazz hands and waving arms. She tips an imaginary top hat and smiles the biggest, scariest stage smile anyone has ever seen.
Iris sets down her Diet Coke. She dabs at her mouth with her napkin. And then she starts to sing along, drowning out the Spice Girls with that big, gorgeous voice of hers. She shimmies a little in her seat, shoulders moving to the left, shoulders moving to the right. I grab a paintbrush and hand it to her, and like that, it’s not a paintbrush, it’s a microphone, and we’re not in a high school art room; we’re onstage, all of us, together, doing our own thing.
Until Mr. Grazer, art teacher, walks in and shouts, “What is going on in here?”
Bailey pipes up. “We’re just expressing our art, Mr. G.”
“Well, express it a little more quietly, Bailey.”
A ring of chairs is arranged in the middle of the basketball court. It appears that in today’s Conversation Circle—our very last one—we will be sitting in an actual circle.
I almost turn around and walk out, but it’s the final day, after all, so I make myself take a seat, say hey to the collective group, and wait for Mr. Levine to join us. I stretch my legs in front of me, cross them at the ankle, tip my head back, close my eyes. Everyone will think I’m hung over or tired or just bored out of my mind, but actually my heart is beating a little too fast, a little too loud.
Whatever this circle is about can’t be good.
I listen as everyone settles in, as their voices rise and fall. I hear Libby say something as she takes a seat, and then I hear the squeak of sneakers on the scuffed-up floor, and this is Mr. Levine.
He says, “You’re probably wondering why, in this Conversation Circle of ours, we’re sitting in a circle.”
I open my eyes, sit up a little, try to look interested and like this doesn’t scare the shit out of me. I glance over at Libby. I want to say I’m sorry. I miss you. But she’s watching Mr. Levine, who’s cradling a basketball.