The Fat Lady Sings by Charlie Lovett Page A

Dr. Watkins, our headmaster. So when I spy blue flapping on the front of my locker on Monday morning, I'm not exactly skipping down the hall to find out the good news. Still, blue notes are like band-aids -- it's best just to rip them off and get it over with. I yank it off and unfold the paper and all it says is "Please see me in my office immediately after school -- Dr. Watkins."
    Great. Now not only do I have to see the headmaster for some unknown reason, but I have to dread it for the entire day. There's something about that word "immediately" that doesn't sound good. I can't imagine he wants to see me "immediately" so he can tell me how marvelous my grades are or what a great actress I am. But my grades are pretty good right now, and I certainly haven't been causing any trouble on campus. I haven't even been actively mean to Cynthia.
    Finally I decide it must be the props shed. He probably found out we were using it as a lounge and wants to shut us down. But why summon me? I've hardly been out there since I started my math tutoring. And it was Cameron's idea. I shove the blue note -- which is now causing all my locker neighbors to stare at me -- into my purse and try to put it out of my mind as I head to first period. But I have a sinking feeling that this is going to be a very long day.
    Cynthia seems distracted during tutoring, and I get the feeling she wants to tell me something but is afraid to. That suits me fine -- "afraid of me" is the perfect emotional state for Cynthia Pirelli. Of course I'm distracted, too, because all I can think about is the perpetually closed door of Squatty Watty's office and how I am soon to be on the other side.
    That's what we call Dr. Watkins -- Squatty Watty -- because he's about four feet tall and almost as wide. I have no idea what he's a doctor of -- probably he bought one of those degrees off late night TV or from some internet pop-up ad. He basically only appears for varsity football games and graduation. In four years I've never seen him at a play. We only have a theatre because the last headmaster was into the arts. Squatty Watty has built nothing but gyms and fields since he got here. That guy loves to knock down trees if he can replace them with something that will smell like sweaty socks. Apparently he hangs out with the NASCAR parents (our student body has several progeny of people who drive around in circles for a living), and that's where all the money for the gyms came from. And this afternoon I get to have alone time with him. Oh joy!
    At lunch Suzanne gives us an update on her search for a performance space, and it's not good news. She has looked at schools, community centers, even the VFW club, and everyone is either already booked up or not interested. When I ask if we can't just patch up the sock factory a little bit and rent some chairs, Suzanne explains that aside from that being illegal, the factory doesn't have the right kind of electricity -- I mean, who knew there was more than one kind, right?
    Three o'clock finally creeps into view and there I am, sitting in this deep, squishy armchair outside Watkins' office and trying to figure out how I'm gonna hoist my fat ass out of it when the door opens about six inches and a nose appears and a voice says, "Miss Stockdale."
    I've never actually been inside Squatty Watty's cave before -- but that's what it feels like, a cave. The shades are drawn -- permanently, I'd guess -- and it's about ten degrees colder than the rest of the school. There is a lamp on his desk, but it must have about a two-watt bulb in it because it just gives this tiny glow that underlights his face and makes him look evil, which I imagine is not far off.
    I figure my one hope to make a good impression is that I'm fat, because, hey, he's fat, too. But how do you break that ice? "So, Dr. Watkins -- sure sucks being fat, huh?" I opt for silence and sit across the landing-field-sized desk from him.
    "Miss Stockdale, I suppose you're wondering why I've