Read The Fat Lady Sings for Free Online Page B

it; Suzanne and I are letting it flow). It's such a fantastic feeling, to be completely emotionally overwhelmed by something that is, let's face it, make believe. All the endorphins and none of the personal anguish. I'm not going to be one of those people who sobs her way through the lobby, though, so I wait a few minutes until the wave of tears passes, give Suzanne a quick hug, and head up the aisle after the boys.
    But as we're pushing through the crowd in the lobby I see a girl about my age just standing there bawling and I happen to catch her eye and as soon as I do it hits me again and I can't do anything to stop it and the next thing I know I'm in the arms of this total stranger who isn't even fat, and we're crying and crying and holding on to each other for dear life.
    God, I love the theatre.
    I always make the move between parents (also known as the week's most awkward moment) on Saturdays, so Cameron drops me at Dad and Karl's long after they've gone to sleep. On Sunday morning several items are staring up at me from my desk: an unfinished sheet of math homework, a pile of monologues for my UNC School of the Arts audition (I still haven't decided which ones to do), and the blank paper that I brought from Mom's and left there to inspire me to write a play (oops, I mean a musical comedy). Before I can face any of them I need food and caffeine, so I follow the smell of coffee into the sunroom.
    Dad and Karl worship at the Holy Sepulcher of fresh bagels and the Sunday New York Times , and by the time I get up Dad has devoured the Sports section, Karl has finished the crossword, and the two of them are slowly leafing through Sunday Styles and Real Estate. Like he does whenever I'm there, Karl has set aside Arts & Leisure for me to read first. I give him a huge hug and thank him again for the tickets. The imprint of the show on me is still so raw it's hard to talk about, but I promise him a full report soon. Then I curl up on the couch with theatre reviews and a warm everything bagel with cream cheese and a cup of coffee, and even though we live in suburban North Carolina, I feel like I'm on the Upper West Side. I love Sunday mornings with Dad and Karl.
    It's different at Mom's house. When I was a little kid, for some reason she thought I ought to go to Sunday School (she was a non-practicing Jew, but don't ask me to figure out her logic). She would drop me off at this Methodist church and I would walk in the front door and out the back into the "Memorial Garden," where I would read a book until she came back an hour later. Eventually she caught on and stopped making me go, but still, Sundays at Mom's have always been awkward.
    With Dad and Karl, though, Sundays are about reading the paper, drinking coffee, getting help on homework, and talking to Karl about theatre while Dad watches a game on TV. Never the slightest threat of religion.
    When we did Godspell last year, Mr. Parkinson asked what everybody's religion was (we're a private school, so he can get away with that). "It doesn't matter to me," he said, "but I think if we're doing a musical about Jesus, it would help us all to know where everyone is coming from." He says things like that -- "can you dig where I'm coming from?" I think he's stuck in 1969 or something. I didn't feel like explaining that my mom is a lapsed Jew and my dad is agnostic, so I don't believe in God, but I feel guilty about it. "Lapsed Jewnostic" didn't sound quite right, so when it was my turn, I went with "apathetic." I think Melissa Parsons thought it was some sort of Buddhist sect.
    After a long, luxurious session of therapy with coffee and the Sunday Times, I decide I'd better get some work done. With Wicked still fresh in my mind, I can't face learning a monologue; the math homework is hopeless without help from Cynthia (Dad is a car salesman who says he "leaves the math to the folks in finance," and Karl claims he doesn't remember anything after Algebra 2); so I decide to take another