The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

Genres: Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Anna Norton used to be fat. Correction: Anna Norton used to be a fat, nerdy, overeater with low self esteem. When she moves from suburban Ohio to Manhattan at age 23, her life does a total 180. With guidance from her boss, an unlikely Fairy Godmother in the form of a chic caterer and excellent cook, Anna loses all the weight and--though still not quite Kate Moss--finally drops her inferiority complex, brushes the crumbs off her skirt, and enters the world of feeling good, looking good, and...finally having sex. When Anna meets Ben, the man of her dreams (and of every other person's dreams who isn't blind) she almost can't believe she is dating the Ken Doll. Deep down, she is still the chubby nerd who wrote in a diary called Hello Fatty. But not everything is perfect; her hot boyfriend is a huge flirt, and every leggy blond who crosses his path is a threat to Anna. She just can't escape the feeling that Ben is way out of her league and that everyone thinks she is dating up and he's dating down. It gets so bad, she decides she will do anything to make these women go away. Enter the Makedown. The reverse makeover. As Anna was made up, so will Ben be made down. Where she went from shabby to chic, he will go from prince to frog. Anna will sabotage his hotness for the sake of her own sanity, and to bring this man into more of what she considers her own league. Enter Nair to induce premature balding, Sears catalogs to inspire bad dressing, and secret additions of cream to her cooking and SKOR bars in granola bar wrappers to induce weight gain. Hilarity ensues, but in the end, Anna must find out if Ben's makedown will save their relationship, or end it.

Release date: February 6, 2009

Publisher: 5 Spot

Print pages: 340

Sample

Chapter One

I was born into the sovereignty of nerds, from which few have escaped and of which even fewer have had sex. For thirteen harrowing years, nerdiness reigned supreme, leaving me unattractive and socially awkward with little more than a stellar report card to call a friend.

Life didn’t start off that badly for me. For my first decade, I enjoyed an utterly average existence: unremarkable brown eyes, brown hair, average height, and a tendency toward chubbiness, but nothing too dramatic. In these years, I was notable only for my proclivity to answer teachers’ questions with long and pedantic responses. For example, when asked the capital of Ohio, I couldn’t simply respond Columbus. No, I was compelled to explain that Chillicothe served as the capital from the state’s inception in 1803 until 1816, with a two-year sojourn in Zanesville from 1810 to 1812. This particular personality trait was irritating but tolerable to my peers. Well, at least until the age of ten, when I began the steep descent into ugly.

Puberty literally walloped the ordinariness out of me. My medium-sized lips, medium-sized brown eyes, and medium-sized nose became distorted with cystic acne and unruly eyebrows as my hormones surged. The coffee-colored locks that hung above my shoulders wilted dramatically as a result of my scalp’s excessive oil production. And as for my body, the bones, muscles, and organs were completely unprepared for the onslaught of weight, which ascended as my metabolism slowed to a crawl.

The rapid physical deterioration coincided with my classmates’ indoctrination into the art of Cruel and Unusual Punishment. They seemed hell-bent on escalating their insults, locked in a fierce competition to be the first to make me cry. Oddly, the more they antagonized me over my slovenly state, the worse I let myself become. Instead of propelling me to exercise and cozy up to the local dermatologist, the comments merely increased my sense of helplessness. The one with the longest staying power came from a fifth-grade despot, who thought it would be fun to give the entire class bear nicknames in honor of her peculiar ursine obsession. In a class of “Cute Bear,” “Smiley Bear,” and “Beauty Bear,” “Weird Fat Bear” rather stung. I prayed nightly for a coup that would overthrow the bear regime. Sadly, by middle school, I would have deemed Weird Fat Bear a compliment.

The girls’ bathroom at Paul Revere Middle School was my unhygienic haven, where I escaped prying eyes to scarf down lunch alone. Hunched over on the damp tile floor, I furtively hid behind a metallic trash can to avoid notice. When girls did happen to wander in for a smoke or to apply makeup and caught a glimpse of my Cro-Magnon eating habits, laughter and ridicule always ensued. My response never varied; I would silently stare at my bologna, mayonnaise, and Wonder Bread sandwich and wait. To pass the time while enduring the torture, I would inspect the amount of mayonnaise lathered on the bread. The importance of mayonnaise in my youth simply cannot be underestimated. I even created a litmus test for the correct amount of mayonnaise a sandwich required. The creamy substance had to squeeze out the sides of the bread while the sandwich was being heaved into my mouth or satiety did not occur. Subsequently, my shirts were littered with unsightly pea-sized oil stains. Even more distressing were the yellowing particles of white bread that decorated my braces, prompting students and teachers alike to turn away in disgust. But my eating habits were only a minor contributor to my appalling physical appearance.

My hair and clothing were the worst. The oily brown locks plastered around my face provided a stark contrast to the tangled rats’ nests occupying subprime real estate on the back of my head. My eyes watered with pain every time Mother attempted to brush out these dreadlocks. After all, some of my rats’ nests had been with me almost as long as my arms and legs. They were literally seminal parts of my childhood. Nostalgia and agony aside, hefty dandruff flakes also dislodged in the process, further deterring me from brushing. Any friction against my scalp resulted in a sprinkling of white on my fluorescent-colored T-shirts. These objectionable shirts, often with factory mistakes, were frequently paired with faded black stretch pants. In an era of flannel shirts and light denim jeans, these garments cemented my status as a fashion pariah.

My single-minded pursuit of academic success did little to alleviate my lowly status. Without pesky friends to drain my energy, I was able to concentrate solely on school, and here I did excel. Frankly, my academic aptitude was something of a genetic anomaly, having been raised by parents who reserved reading for the bathroom. My mother often commented on my father’s willingness to read anything from a shampoo bottle to a box of tampons while on the toilet. She considered her Reader’s Digest selection vastly superior. Mary Norton was a plump five feet six with short, shellacked brown hair and glasses that she considered the height of 1970s fashion. Of course, it was the 1990s then, but she cherished them nonetheless. Mother freely admitted that she didn’t need glasses but claimed them necessary to be taken seriously in “business.” Given an extra few seconds, Mother would explain that “glasses are to women what ties are to men; a standard in business, a sign of excellence.” This, of course, like most of Mother’s life lessons, made no sense, especially since she was a retired travel agent. Regardless of her ignorance, she freely offered her opinion on everything from ordering in restaurants to what “black people are really mad about.” And to emphasize a statement, she would lower the phony glasses to the tip of her nose. Mother had a limited worldview, although she would dispute that, citing her knowledge of Western Europe’s airport codes as evidence to the contrary.

My father, Fred, was a simple man and one of few words. He was a manager at Allstate Insurance, a company he had been with since graduating Ohio State. For all intents and purposes (or, as Mother would say, “intensive purposes”), he was an undiagnosed mute. My father’s quiet manner allowed us a “happy” home life, diffusing Mother’s madness through silence. While neither of my parents admitted regret over the twenty dollars spent at the justice of the peace, it was clear that the marriage was not a love connection. Or for that matter even a like connection. The fact that the marriage spawned Barney and me was rather surprising.

Two years my senior, my brother Barney was the only person in Norfolk, Ohio, further ostracized than I was, but to his credit, he never cared. He played Dungeons & Dragons, masturbated excessively, and felt generally satisfied by life. Barney was also challenged in the looks department and spent the majority of his teenage years in the hall bathroom with the school yearbook, much to Mother’s annoyance. “What are you doing in there with the yearbook, Barney?” she would ask suspiciously pulling her glasses to the tip of her nose. “Learning my classmates’ surnames,” Barney would reply. I thought she bought it, but her invariable response of “Dinner is in an hour, and don’t forget to wash your hands” leads me to believe Mother might actually have been clued in.

Luckily for my surprisingly small bladder, the Internet was invented. For Barney, it was life changing, and he literally divided his life into BI (Before Internet) and AI (After Internet). For those living in social isolation, hiding behind a screen is nothing short of a miracle. His trips to the bathroom with the yearbook petered off after he received his own computer, and so began the era of him locking his bedroom door. “Barney, why is the door locked?” Mother would demand as she cocked her ear against the hollow wood. “I’m exercising in the nude. It’s supposed to burn more calories.” “Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

But if Barney excelled behind closed doors, I was determined to shine in the classroom. In addition to my aforementioned knack for displaying my encyclopedic knowledge on any given subject, I was known for taking notes regarding everything from the school’s fire exits to class attendance, just in case the teacher needed them. Not surprisingly, this increased my peers’ interest in me as a target.

One cold November day in eighth grade social studies, I stood before the class in my favorite black stretch pants and lime green T-shirt, reading my paper on the Chumash Indians. While pleased that Mr. Van Leeuwin had chosen my paper as the best, I was uncomfortable speaking in front of my classmates. During my conclusion, a note passed from student to student, filling the room with laughter.

Naïvely, I assumed it to be about Mr. Van Leeuwin; after all, he did wear tie-dyed clothes, and surely that was enough to elicit some chuckling. I finished, carefully sucked in my fat rolls, and returned to my desk. From two seats away Kyle Mander, the most popular boy in school, passed me the note.

I had secretly harbored a crush on Kyle since I watched him make the winning shot at the state basketball finals. As the clock ticked, Kyle coolly lobbed the ball in the air. He didn’t wait to see if the ball went in; instead, he raised his hands overhead and unapologetically chanted his own name. Kyle’s confidence seduced me, producing a detailed fantasy sequence.

Fantasies provided the bulk of my adolescent entertainment. This was understandable, considering how often I was told I resembled a young Roseanne Barr, “only with acne and really bad hair.” The comparison to Roseanne Barr doggedly followed me until The Rosie O’Donnell Show debuted, and everyone decided that I looked like her “only with acne and really bad hair.” I actually sent my local congressman a letter asking for a countywide moratorium on unflattering celebrity comparisons. I am still waiting for a response.

Fantasy was my sole refuge from a life of rampant humiliation and self-loathing, and I gave myself plenty of time to construct elaborate make-believe scenarios, like one in which I resembled Alyssa Milano and hung with such high-octane acts as the Backstreet Boys and ’N Sync. The celebs had come calling after witnessing my superslick Britney Spears – inspired dance moves on a Malls Across America tour. On break from touring, I stopped by to watch Kyle score the winning shot at the state championship. He ran to me in the stands, pushing away parents, popular kids, and semipopular kids by the handful, pulling my size-six body into his arms. Gasps filled the auditorium as Kyle gave me the most romantic kiss any eighth-grader had seen outside of Cinemax. “Anna, that shot and every other shot I make is for you. You’re my girl.” “Oh Kyle, you’re more romantic than Michael Bolton.” “That’s right. I even wrote you a song. Anna, I’m your man-na,” Kyle sang as he possessively slung his arm around my shoulders.

I shivered in excitement, but hearing a loud “Hey look, fat Anna is trying to dance,” I returned reluctantly to my eighth-grade social studies reality. I unfolded Kyle’s note, allowing myself to contemplate the possibility that it held a confession of his feelings as opposed to a joke about our teacher. My heart crawled up my throat, restricting my oxygen intake and reddening my face. At first sight, the words were indecipherable, a jumbled mix of letters. The phrase I yearned to see, “Anna, I like you. Can we go steady forever?” was not there. Nor was there anything regarding Mr. Van Leeuwin’s hippy attire. No, the note read “Anna Norton has a camel toe because she masturbates with superglue.” For the record, I did not have a camel toe; it was merely a thick seam in my stretch pants. As for masturbation, I was deliberately unaware of my body and therefore centuries away from learning how to use it for my own satisfaction. In shock, I dropped the note to the floor, nearly suffocating on my own self-loathing.

To my right sat fellow nerd Sally Worthington. Clearly aware of the contents of the note, she watched me suffer. Her face didn’t offer compassion or understanding but rather disgust and repulsion. Unlike plumbers, truck drivers, or teachers, nerds had no union. “Anna, if you brushed your hair and wiped the dried food off your face, they’d stop being so mean to you,” Sally said with a level of irritation that surprised me. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why she even cared, but in retrospect I realize she saw me as bad press; I was giving nerds everywhere a bad rap. It was one thing to be socially inept and painfully out of style, but ignoring society’s grooming standards was unforgivable. Unable to respond to Sally, I ran out of the room to seek refuge in the relative privacy of the girls’ bathroom.

Middle school is cruel; I was not to be given the luxury of a quiet cry. “Hey Norton, I think I can solve your problems,” Jordan Marins, the Dense Princess of eighth grade, jeered as she passed by. “Go home, stick your face in peanut butter, and let your dog chew it off!” She and the gang of idiots trailing behind her burst into laughter. I wanted to tell Jordan that I was sorry I got 100 percent on the history exam, while she received a class record of 7 percent after confusing the Civil War with the Vietnam War. Instead of calling out her stupidity, I mumbled, “I don’t have a dog.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s because you are a dog,” Princess Jordan retorted. I consoled myself with thoughts of her working the counter at McDonald’s after failing out of cosmetology school. I loved these fantasies, and this one was so powerful that I didn’t hear Jordan bark in my ear before trotting off victoriously.

As the years passed and the insults increased, my beloved make-believe ceased to protect me with the same virility it once had. During this decline, a voice emerged within me more vile and putrescent than anything I encountered in the school hallways. Meticulous student that I was, I created a log to capture the criticism hurled my way. I named it Hello Fatty and began tracking the insults I received in addition to my own assessments. It was of the utmost importance that I remained ahead of the mudslinging curve, attempting to callus my emotions and create a protective barrier from others’ verbal attacks. “Hey Norton, you know you got a rat’s face and a pig’s body?” Kyle would yell across the crowded hall between classes. Pity was all I could offer Kyle. That was his best shot. Rat’s face? Pig’s body? I was performing on a much higher and nastier level of insults; it almost wasn’t fair.

Hello Fatty,

Cellulite curds swarm the tires of lard on your legs like bees to honey. So deep are the rolls of blubber that mold and fungus have grown, creating a rancid-egg smell. Pus-filled sacs form because of your massive thighs rubbing together. As you enter history class, the sores explode, staining your pants and making you look like a child who has soiled herself. Students barf uncontrollably at the sight of you, because you are the foulest of all beasts.

xoxo Anna

Hello Fatty was an important part of the rigid schedule I maintained throughout high school. Every day after school, I studied, ate dinner, danced with my imaginary friend, and logged insults. Due to Mother’s habit of “cleaning my room”— code for “looking for dope”— I took great care to hide Hello Fatty. Mother became convinced that I was smoking “grass” after watching a special on the local news. She settled on drugs as the only logical explanation for my abundant appetite. She confronted me the next afternoon. As I studied, Mother eyed me suspiciously, watching crumbs descend from the front of my shirt. Finally, when I could 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 number. “I’m your resident advisor, George Macadamia, but every one calls me Nut on account of the whole Macadamia thing. They’re really popular in Hawaii— macadamia nuts, that is. I haven’t been to Hawaii, but that’s what I read online,” he babbled without making eye contact. An ease fell over me; Nut surpassed me in terms of both
awkwardness and randomness. “I’m here to talk to you about Jane,” Nut said with a strained face.

“Oh no! Is she okay? Was there an accident?” I screeched dramatically, covering my mouth with my hand as soap opera actors often do.

“Uh. I think she—”

“Is she dead? Is my friend dead?” I screamed, milking the whole “friend” thing for all it was worth. I bent over, clutching my stomach as if poisoned, then straightened to beat my breast in anguish.

“Um . . . um . . . ,” Nut stuttered, visibly uncomfortable with my emotional outburst.

“I knew it! She’s dead! Oh God, why? Why did you take my friend?” I wailed, tears in my eyes. My belief that Nut was on an equally nerdy playing field freed my inner drama queen and then some.

“Actually, she deferred a year, so it looks like you’re going to have the room to yourself.”

It would have played better if she’d died, I thought ruefully.

“Um, isn’t there someone else who needs a roommate?” I managed to pull myself together enough to ask.

“Nope, but I’m across the hall if you need anything.”

Again channeling my inner actor, I regurgitated a scene from many a made-for-TV movie. I slid down the door to portray my complete and utter misery. Slumped over on the floor, visions of the girls’ bathroom at Paul Revere played through my mind, making my tears all too real. Friendship, that ever-elusive mistress, had once again duped me, leaving me with nothing but a weird resident advisor named Nut. Although there was something else to consider. Did Nut tell all the dorm residents where he lived? Or was that a play for friendship? Perhaps even more than friendship? Nut was an übernerd, but that didn’t diminish my desire to win him over with . . .