43. Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter 43
Leslie
T he last time I stood in this dressing room, I hugged a devastated Victoria Cooper Rawley, who had just been told she had a neck like a goiter. Tonight would be my chance to make a bully pay for his stinging abuse. Kaelen would likely zing insults my way off-camera, but never on. It’s partially why I tapped my friends at B’Cause for a new outfit he’d no doubt appreciate.
A snug black dress that dipped temptingly low. A gold and onyx teardrop pendant nestled at the nape of my throat, pointing to my now-fuller cleavage. Eyes smoky, lips full and red, courtesy of the show’s makeup team. It was sweet to hear they were all on my side, and it reminded me how much I missed my regular contact with the crew. Being back after so many months away revived my love of being on television.
One thing that didn’t concern me was where I’d work. After debating whether to wait until after my showdown with Kaelen, I signed an offer letter this morning with another network. Instead of hosting a weekend show, I’d headline a half-hour Thursday evening interview show that rotated a lineup of different hosts each weeknight at 9:00 p.m. Some were journalists like me, others were social media sensations. The success of my YouTube channel positioned me as a delicious mix of the two. Hopefully, tonight’s fireworks wouldn’t send them tripping over themselves to cancel my contract. Twice in the same month would be too much to bear.
I fussed with my curls, which the stylist arranged into a cascade over my shoulders. I’d been growing them out, and they looked healthier than I could remember. Luxe and shiny, my hair only added to the slew of physical changes that continued to unfurl the longer I nourished my body. If I ever needed to show up strong, tonight was the night. I secretly feared I’d get triggered, shut down, and be left blinking wordlessly into the studio’s cameras.
I blew out a cleansing breath.
I can do this. But a nugget of doubt lodged in the pit of my stomach. How would this mainstream conversation about body acceptance impact my reputation? I’d been on YouTube for weeks, but this was different. This was a prime time cable news event that was advertised ten ways till Sunday to attract viewers.
Counterarguments to the thin ideal were so easily shot down by the “experts” that I feared appearing like a crackpot. Making a fool of myself would seriously hamper my career, just as I readied to launch higher.
My diet coverage had garnered a lot of attention, but it could also be the story that buried me for good.
A bit late to lose my shit over this.
Alone in my dressing room, silence rang in my ears. Risto wasn’t allowed backstage, forced to watch from the control booth. It was an odd request from Reed’s team and one of the many terms we negotiated for this broadcast special. Given all the promotion online, on-air, and in buses and on billboards all over the country, the network had spared no expense.
My generous pay was also a surprise.
As I sat here, my reporter antennae shot up.
Why had they agreed to do it?
They hated me and canceled my contract. Why invest so much buzz in a person they no longer wanted?
Enticing me back wasn’t the answer.
Was I walking into an ambush?
An elaborate takedown, planned as revenge for embarrassing them with my protest?
My instincts never failed me, and right now they were sounding the alarm that something fishy was about to go down. I just didn’t know what and was running out of time.
Say what you wanted. Reed was still a journalist. Given his competitive nature, I wouldn’t put it past him to try underhanded tactics to get me off-kilter. Maybe he even dove into my background as much as I dug into his?
What would he find?
The eyes staring back at me in the mirror showed the one thing I least expected.
Fear.
Pounding on my dressing room door spiked my heart rate to throbbing.
“Allen! We’re ready for you on set.”
Never had I headed into a broadcast feeling so rattled. Perspiration flushed my skin as images of me getting verbally eviscerated clanged around my brain. Reed mocking me, leaning back in his chair with a smug expression, waiting for me to step in it.
That must not happen.
Too many people were counting on me to be their champion. To set the record straight and tell the world to go fuck themselves for making us hate ourselves thin. They wanted me to starve myself sick because they found round, full body shapes ugly.
My empty apartment fridge came to mind. Countless times I stood before the open door, chill washing over my skin, wanting so desperately to feel something besides hunger.
Well, I was starving now.
For justice.
For respect.
For a world where our size didn’t matter and we felt safe going to the doctor, to work, to a restaurant, or a family picnic without being harassed.
Where fat people weren’t presumed to be lazy, or stupid, or less accomplished.
This was my opportunity to strike a decisive blow for everyone forced into sickness and marginalization.
Steeled with outrage, I swung the door open, sending the stage manager jumping away. I marched past her toward the set.
“Let’s do this. Will the graphics I sent be available?”
“Yes, Ms. Allen. I saw to it myself.”
I stopped short, and she collided into my back.
“Don’t bullshit me. I’ll stop mid-show and call you all out. Is that clear?”
“I understand. No worries.” She looked too panicked to be deceitful, so I resumed the walk down the hall and entered the stage area.
The graphic from the ads splashed across the digital wall behind a circular platform. Two low-backed armchairs awaited us. My heels clacked on the floor before getting muffled on the red carpeted surface. I sat, leaning against the cream leather arms to get comfortable. The seat was deeper than I liked, so scooted forward and crossed my legs. They’d ask me to sit back, but no dice. Posture mattered, and I had no intention of falling for the rookie trick of getting swallowed whole by my chair.
As Reed stepped onto the set in a navy suit and tie, I stood to shake hands. “Kaelen.”
“Allen. Guess it’s time to clear the air.”
We both sat.
Maureen walked over, looking up at us from floor level. “Let’s make this one for the record books, shall we? Two titans having a principled debate about an important cultural issue.”
“She’s hardly a titan, Mo.” Reed snickered.
“Then you should have nothing to worry about,” Maureen said.
Concern flashed across his face and was gone in an instant.
But I hadn’t imagined it.
Good. He should be nervou s.
“One more thing, Allen,” Reed said. “Those graphics you emailed are a no-go. People aren’t tuning in to see an academic lecture on how awesome it is to be fat. We want lively interaction here.”
“You can’t do that to me three minutes before we air!”
Maureen stopped. Unsure, she arched her eyebrows for verification.
“Mo, we discussed this. Remember?” Kaelen gave her a stern glance, and she slinked away.
“What’s your game here?” I asked him.
“No game, Allen. It’s called television. I’m the best at what I do, and what I say goes.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.”
I looked toward Maureen, who had retreated into the soundproof booth. Through the window, I watched her soundlessly giving orders to the crew. Behind her stood Risto. Seeing his imposing form stare down Maureen made me chuckle. She snuck by and took her seat.
“Allen!” Reed called, tapping his wrist.
The stage manager started the countdown, so I repositioned myself in my chair and exhaled a cleansing breath.
“Live in three, two…” the stage manager gestured as the white lights of the wall-mounted “On-Air” boxes flashed on across the studio.
“Good evening, and welcome to this special episode of The Kaelen Reed Show , tonight with guest Leslie Allen Molina. Ms. Allen became an online sensation with her series of YouTube videos challenging the conventional wisdom that when it comes to weight, we’ve been told a pack of lies.”
The 15-foot digital wall behind us splashed to life with a grainy montage of my YouTube shows, complete with me crying. The video package was clipped to include the most sensational statements, out of context. Those were interspersed with clips from the rally, of me on a bullhorn, and picket signs showing slogans that were never there.
We’ll eat your babies.
Kill thin people!
Crush the thin elite.
The montage had a fake quality to it. Ours was a sunny day, and the lighting on the provocative signs was flat and gray. The trees in the background hadn’t yet sprouted leaves, though we were now rolling into autumn. Trickery like this was beneath them.
While it aired, I got Kaelen’s attention. His face wore a satisfied smirk.
What the hell was going on?
When the package ended, Kaelen resumed the interview. “Tonight, I’m pleased to welcome Leslie Allen Molina. Thank you for being here.”
Rather than speak, I sat staring at him.
The dead air made the network brass restless, so I let it linger.
“Am I really welcome?” I asked. “Because that video montage was a travesty.”
Reed looked at the pages in his lap, then feebly smiled. “Do you deny holding those opinions? It’s why you’re here tonight.”
“That people deserve respect in whatever body they have? That we can move and eat in ways that honor who we are right now? That CDC and NIH studies show that overweight and obese participants live longer than underweight and normal weight people? I very much hold those opinions. What I object to is—”
“How long have you felt this way?” Reed interrupted. “Until recently, you were a regular panelist on my show. I’d never once heard you mention concerns about weight.”
“Hard to be concerned while scraping by on a sub-starvation diet. I was undernourished, underfed, and struggled to function in my daily life. My strength only returned when I began my eating disorder recovery.”
Reed chuckled. “Looks like you got good at it.”
“I’m larger now, yes. But I feel better than I ever have. I move more, I have more energy, and my health vitals have improved versus when I was at a lower weight. Anorexia nervosa is a condition I struggled with for many years, and I’m glad I left it behind and found a healthier path.”
“Some would argue that you’re lost on that path and need help to find your way… home.”
The screen behind us filled with my mom’s face.
I clutched the armrests on my chair to keep from spiraling. What would possess her to ambush me live on television? I was her fucking daughter and she’d sided with the network?
Kaelen swiveled his chair toward the screen to stand and pace over toward Mom’s face which spanned the entire wall. “We’re pleased to welcome in Diana Allen, Ms. Allen’s mother. She reached out to us after being shut out by her famous daughter. She joins us live from her home in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Good evening and thanks for joining us.”
One camera pivoted to focus on him, while the other rotated to capture my reactions. Tonight was going far worse than my darkest mind could ever imagine. I had to figure out a way to turn the situation in my favor without looking like an ungrateful daughter.
Reed interviewed my mom, asking her questions about my “erratic” behavior, my withdrawal to rural Pennsylvania, and my refusal to seek responsible treatment. I’d become the discredited lunatic, needing mental health services, as they talked about me like I wasn’t even there. Out of the shot, the duo presented an open-and-shut case. But I’d worked too hard to let my career implode in a fiery ball.
I stood and walked over to join Kaelen by the screen, interrupting their conversation.
“I find it interesting that you’re more interested in hearing what my mother says than in speaking to me directly. May I?”
Kaelen gestured for me to proceed.
“Mom. How often did we eat when I was growing up?”
She bristled. “You ate every day. What a growing girl should.”
“Actually, I’ve calculated my caloric intake at roughly 900 calories.”
The crew gasped, earning a silencing glance from Reed.
“And when I returned each summer from Pennsylvania, having gained weight and feeling well, what did you do to drop me down to what you considered to be an acceptable size?”
She crossed her arms, pressing her lips together.
“I’ll answer so the viewers know. My mother restricted my intake to one meal a day. She chose lunch, so my school wouldn’t get suspicious and investigate. Smart, Mom. Very smart.” I addressed the screen before turning toward the camera.
“When my father attempted to feed me, she became so irate that they eventually divorced. My mother was so disordered in her eating, she was unaware that I’d developed anorexia nervosa. Yet, Kaelen, you mock me for being healthier and happier, and for eating normally. So I ask you, who between us is sick?”
A shocked Kaelen spoke to the camera. “We’ll be right back.”
I paced to my seat and sat as the show went to a commercial break. My mother’s dirty work done, the digital screen once again flashed the special’s logo.
Reed returned to his chair, saying nothing.
I leaned forward, barely able to contain my rage. “How dare you ambush me with my mother? Is this fucking Jerry Springer ? You’re resorting to shock tactics and fake videos rather than debate my statements rationally. Is that because you can’t?”
“Oh, please.” He dismissed with a wave. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You could have done this show without me. Why am I here?”
“To get a dose of your own medicine,” he snapped.
Kaelen was not only a pompous ass, he was also being grossly unprofessional. Sure, he had major body issues, but I couldn’t be concerned about that. It was him or me, and this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
He’d fucked with the wrong woman.