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"What's the big deal?"
    "I can't get to Ovens Auditorium by seven-thirty," says Cameron. "I thought it started at eight o'clock."
    "I told you seven-thirty!" I shriek.
    "You didn't!" yells Cameron. "How could I possibly get there by seven-thirty when we didn't leave until six?"
    "I don't know how long it takes to get places," I say. It's true. I think it's because I don't have my own car. I just don't pay attention when someone else is driving.
    "Seven-thirty!" says Cameron. "Oh, this is just great."
    "Well, if you had asked," I yell back at him, "then we could have -- "
    "Aggie. Cameron," says Elliot, firmly enough to shut us both up (although you can probably see the steam coming out of our ears). "Stop yelling. Aggie, you calm down. Cameron, you speed."
    And so he does. I cross my arms over my chest and sulk and Cameron drives like a madman, weaving in and out of traffic, and the atmosphere in the car is very awkward. Normally I would be yelling at Cameron to slow down and be careful if he were driving like this, but now I just sit there scowling at him and sloshing around in the back seat every time he switches lanes. If he ruins this for me I will never forgive him.
    We skid into the parking lot at exactly seven-thirty and Elliot yells that professional theatre always starts seven minutes late. We sprint across the parking lot -- even though I'm fat, my field hockey legs don't fail me and I'm the first one to get to the ticket barrier. From the empty lobby we can hear a voice in the theatre telling people to turn off their cell phones and then we're careening down the aisle and crawling over six obviously annoyed people (hey, I don't blame them, I hate people who get to the theatre late).
    The music starts the second our butts hit the seats, and I'm instantly not mad at Cameron anymore and he's not mad at me and we're all holding hands and tensed with excitement and then -- oh my god! I'm sitting between Cameron and Elliot, and we hold hands all the way through the act. Elliot grabs my hand again during Act II, which is fine with me because I really feel the need to be connected to someone. Because here's the deal -- I am Elphaba.
    I mean, I used to think I was Annie -- the rejected child who finds a man who understands her (not that Karl is anything like Daddy Warbucks, but you get the idea), but sitting in that theatre watching this epic unfold, I realize that I've grown up now, and I'm Elphaba. "Green" might as well be a code word for fat.
    In case you're one of the six people in the world who doesn't know anything about Wicked, Elphaba is the "wicked" witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz, only this story is not told from the point of view of the meddlesome little brat from Kansas.
    Elphaba is smart and talented, but she's also green, and nobody at school likes her because she looks different. And then there is this pretty girl who everybody does like -- well, you get the idea. I am Elphaba. Of course Elphaba and Galinda (the pretty one) end up being friends, which I really don't see happening with me and Cynthia. So when Elphaba sings "The Wizard and I," about her dreams for the future, I cry. When she sings "Defying Gravity," about how she's going to succeed on her own terms, I cry. And in the second act -- well, I don't want to give anything away, but let's just say that Cameron had to pass me tissues when I ran out.
    It's not just that I feel connected to Elphaba, though. The show is transporting. I don't know any other way to put it. I've had amazing nights at the theatre in the past, but nothing like this that grabbed my heart in the first scene and never let go. I call Karl from the lobby at intermission to thank him and tell him how amazing the show is. He says the delivery went well, and I think that only people with a new, healthy baby could be happier than I am right now.
    When it's over I have to stay in my seat crying for a while (I think Elliot and Cameron are crying too, they're just trying to hide