Andy Malone 
In sixth grade, I started middle school. All the adults in my life told me not to worry about it. They said:
“You’ll enjoy the classes and the extracurriculars!”
“You’ll have more independence!”
“You’ll make new friends!”
To me, none of that sounded all too great. I loved my elementary classes. I wasn’t feeling a particular lack of independence in my life. And I was very happy with my old friends. Still, I kept an open mind, mostly because I had to. Middle school began in sixth grade, regardless of how I felt towards it.
Like a lot of things in life, I thought middle school was neither as wonderful nor as terrible as it could have been. My teachers were warm and welcoming. My classes felt mostly like they did in elementary school, except Latin, where our Magistra gave us a pop quiz on the second day of class (can you believe it!?!). I did not do well, which freaked me out, because I was supposed to be a smart kid and a strong student. As for independence, I was not so impressed by the alleged thrill of having a locker and changing classes. I still felt like the same autonomous person, with my own thoughts and feelings, navigating this world as best I could. When it came to friends, I focused on keeping the ones I had. I sought out my elementary and daycare buddies before school and during lunch. Whenever possible, I sat next to them in the classes we shared. Middle school was rightly named, I thought. As an experience, it was not fantastic, but it was not awful. It was just … in the middle.
Middle schoolers were rightly named, too. We were also just in the middle, which was maybe the weirdest part of this new life. We weren’t little kids anymore, and we knew that. But what were we? And what were we supposed to be? That was a little less clear. We used to sit in warm, colorful classrooms where we knew everyone’s name. Now, we bumbled around big hallways where most everyone was a stranger. Some of those strangers were short and sweet, like the children were used to being. But some of those strangers seemed a different breed. They were impossibly tall, or they were expertly dressed, or, scariest of all, they held hands and kissed, right there, right in the hallway, during our five-minute passing windows.
That’s what I remember most about the first few weeks of middle school: the sensation of watching everybody as they moved around the hallways. I was trying to figure out how big or how little I was meant to be among the swarm of big and little kids around me. And I was trying to stay invisible until I figured all that out.
Invisibility was a fine game plan until October 1st. That afternoon, my friend Ashley arrived at our lunch table, holding her tray with a huge grin on her face. She stood there, feet planted, until all of us noticed that she wasn’t taking her seat. Once she had our attention, she spoke:
“You guys…”
She paused. We waited.
She kept smiling. The drama!
Ali took the bait. “Yes?”
Ashley pounced: “It’s October First!”
She slid into her seat and we eyed one another, trying to remember why this day mattered. Birthday, quiz, field trip?
Ashley did not tolerate our ignorance for long.
“It’s Halloween month!”
Ah, yes. Ashley was very serious about Halloween. She had been since we first met, way back in elementary school, which already felt a lifetime away. One of the first things I knew about Ashley was that she loved Halloween, even more than Christmas.
“We only have thirty days,” she continued. “So I hope you are each planning out your costumes. And they better be good.” She surveyed the table. “Nothing cutesy. No… Hello Kitty! or anything,” she said with disdain, eyeing Shauna.
“Hey!” Shauna shot back. “There is nothing wrong with Hello, Kitty!”
Ashley rolled her eyes. “Oh my GOD, Shauna. We’re not little kids anymore. Please do not show up for Halloween dressed like that prissy cat.”
Whatever each of us thought of Hello, Kitty!, we could all appreciate Ashley’s point. We had to pick costumes that worked for the middle-ness of middle school. We needed costumes that were clever, but not too different; trendy, but not too predictable; cool, but not trying too hard. I wondered if it might be easier to sit this year out; to watch how other kids navigated middle-school Halloween, the way I watched the hallways. Maybe we should take notes and then regroup for seventh grade, when we might have stronger footing.
“Are we sure that we even want to do costumes this year?” I asked.
Everyone at the table knew what I meant. Still, Ashley shot me a searing look, aghast at my betrayal. “Of course we are doing costumes. It’s Halloween.”
I tried to recover. “I mean, of course, for trick-or-treating and stuff. But at school, too?”
“Yes, of course. At school too.” She was firm. Her loyalty to Halloween eclipsed her fears. Turns out, our loyalty to Ashley eclipsed our fears, too. So, we began to plan our costumes, puzzling what middle schoolers wore for Halloween.
For me, that question was a bit more complicated. For me, the question was: What do fat middle schoolers wear for Halloween?
This was a tough question. I had been heavy for many years, but I had never factored that into my Halloween costumes. Throughout elementary school, I chose costumes based on my interests of the moment. In fifth grade, for example, I had dressed as Danny Zucko, having recently discovered the movie Grease. It did not occur to me that Danny was thin, nor that his white-tee and skinny jeans were not meant for heavy frames. I wanted to be Danny, so I wore what Danny wore. I didn’t think twice about being fat.
But that was elementary school. My fatness felt so different back then, though only a year had passed. In elementary school, my fatness lacked novelty and significance. My fatness was old news, all the time. I almost never thought about it. Except maybe when competing in Coach Y’s god-awful Winter Gymnastics Event.
Now, in these middle school hallways, my fatness was news. To these strangers, I was the fat kid, passing by; the same way that, to me, they were the tall kids, or the mustached kids, or the kids holding hands. And given how this middle school thing worked – the hundreds of kids, the shifting classes – most of these strangers would never get to know me. Not really. It wasn’t like in elementary school, where everyone could know that I was fat and smart and nice and an artist. In middle school, my classmates were strangers, and when they looked at me, I knew their first and only thought was: fat. Due to these conditions, sixth grade was the year that I really became fat, though I had been overweight for so long.
But – and this is key – contrary to myths and stereotypes, being fat was not a really sad or hard thing for me. At least not at first. It did not bother me that these strangers knew me only as a fat kid. Their limited perspective wasn’t their fault. It made sense, really. People first noticed the way that you looked. I understood that. It wasn’t personal.
Plus, fat aside, I had a lot going for me. I was still smart, aside from that Latin quiz. I was still nice, still an artist. I still had friends. Middle school hadn’t changed any of that. And I didn’t have many ambitions where my fat got in the way. I hated sports, because I was terrible at them. And while I had a few schoolboy crushes, I wasn’t anywhere close to actually wanting to date a girl, let alone kiss one. When you’re not worried about sports and romance, being fat is really not so bad.
So, when it came time for my first middle-school Halloween costume, my fat planning was strategic, not sorrowful. My goal was to dress up without drawing massive attention to myself. I wanted to stick to the game plan: stay invisible. I could not survive tight white shirts and skinny jeans in these hallways.
Over the next few days, I thought about costumes when I could, like when I stared at the clock in boring classes, or while I stared at falling leaves on my bus rides home. Ashley had already decided to continue her witch tradition, which sounds simple, but wasn’t, because every year she labored over a fresh interpretation of the classic character. Meanwhile, Shauna dug her heels in at Hello, Kitty!, much to Ashley’s dismay.
I considered some classic characters myself. Ghost and Vampire seemed fat-workable, but left me uninspired. I also entertained some figures from Greek mythology, because Hercules had come out that summer, and I had loved it. But I figured it was better not to disclose any Disney affinity. Star Trek was out for the same reason.
Ashley and I had chosen the middle Saturday of the month to go costume shopping together. As that weekend approached, I was no closer to a great idea. At lunch one day, Ashley confronted me. “You have to decide,” she said. “We have to go this weekend, before the good stuff runs out.”
“I did decide,” I lied.
“And?”
Well, now or never. “Vampire,” I said, on the spot.
“Weren’t you a vampire in fourth grade?” she countered.
“Weren’t you a witch in fourth grade?”
“I’m always a witch!”
“Well, I’m twice a vampire.”
Couldn’t argue with that. She nodded and began to review the details of our upcoming trip. I was a little disappointed, but I was relieved that I could stop thinking about costumes for a while. Vampire would be fine. I’d wear my suit, which I knew fit. I’d add a cape, some fangs, and fake blood for good measure. I wouldn’t win any costume contests, but I wouldn’t be a spectacle, either. Not bad for a fat boy just starting middle school.
***
Though I had made peace with my generic Vampire, the idea turned out to be short-lived. That night, real inspiration struck at last.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over my Latin homework, when I heard the TV, which was just a few feet away in the living room.
Woo-hoo!
I perked up.
Again: Woo-hoo!
I turned over my right shoulder. There he was, standing on a piping hot tray of cinnamon buns.
The Pillsbury Doughboy.
That’s it!, I thought. That’s my costume. So much better than Vampire. A classic character, but creative in the context of Halloween. Funny. Easy to execute. And great for a fat kid.
I called Ashley immediately. “Forget Vampire,” I said. “New plan.”
“Well?”
“The Pillsbury Doughboy.”
“Oh my GOD,” she exclaimed. “That is hilarious. Do it.”
I hung up and smiled. My costume plan was finally great. Now, back to Latin. Marcus was heading out to the Forum again. What would he buy this time?
***
That Saturday, Ashley and I met at the shopping center between our houses. Every October, some titan of the Halloween industry took over one of the dollar stores and transformed it into a “spook-tacular” shopping experience. This was Ashley’s stomping ground. She tore through the aisles, confidently nabbing the accessories that supported her vision for this year’s witch. I was relieved to find a chef’s hat. At the register, I picked up a package of white face paint. Afterwards, Ashley accompanied me to the department store, where we found a white Champion sweatshirt with sweatpants to match. We picked up a set of white handkerchiefs on the way out.
That night, feeling inspired, I got to work on the costume’s finishing touches. I grabbed my mother’s wooden rolling pin from the kitchen and dropped it in one of the shopping bags. I did not want to forget this clutch accessory on the big day. Then, I took a water glass from the cupboard. I brought it up to my room, placed it upside down on a piece of white construction paper, and traced the circumference with a blue marker. I penciled out “Pillsbury” in the center, then carefully colored the circle blue, leaving only the letters in white. I stapled the homemade label to the chef’s hat, and, Woo-hoo! My costume was done.
On to other matters. I took out my audition monologue for Our Town and began to practice it in front of my Star Trek action figures.
***
On Halloween morning, I woke up excited. I pulled out the costume bag and put on the white sweatpants and sweatshirt. I checked that the rest of the pieces were in there. All set. I would assemble everything at school.
Ashley had agreed to do my face. We met up early in the cafeteria, and I handed her the disc of white paint. It felt gooey and cold on my forehead, but Ashley was smiling, so I could tell it would be worth it. When she was done, we broke to our respective bathrooms. Facing the mirror, I smiled at the thick, white foundation. Ashley had not missed a spot. I reached into the costume bag, pulled out one of the handkerchiefs, and tied it around my neck, shimmying the knot toward the front. Outside, I began to hear chattering voices. The buses were arriving. I had to speed this up. I pulled out the chef’s hat and set it on my head, blue Pillsbury label facing forward. I took one last look in the mirror and smiled. What a great costume. Rolling pin in hand, I set out for the hallway.
***
Are you nervous for me? Fat sixth grader, dressed as the Pillsbury Doughboy, about to walk into a crowd of middle schoolers?
I would be too. A part of me still marvels that I wasn’t.
***
The instant I emerged from the boys’ bathroom, the Pillsbury Doughboy turned heads. It was cinematic. The strangers eyed me, then stopped in their tracks, then elbowed their friends. They said things like:
“Yo, check out that kid’s costume!”
“Pillsbury Doughboy? Hilarious!”
“He’s even got the rolling pin!”
Their eyes followed me as I walked over to Ashley. She was a very cool witch this year, with green and purple hair extensions to boot. But, clearly, this moment was all about me.
“Wow, Andy. It’s really fantastic,” she said, with a twinge of jealousy.
“Thank you for doing the face paint,” I offered. We started to walk toward our homerooms. As we walked, I felt more and more eyes. I heard more and more Doughboy-related comments. It was surreal. I had not anticipated such a huge response. I thought I would maybe get a few approving nods. But nothing like this.
As we neared our homerooms, a tall eighth grader stopped us.
“Hey, Doughboy! Awesome costume,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied, startled. I was about to return the compliment, but he wasn’t even dressed up.
Then he asked: “Can I poke your belly?”
Oh, wow. I had definitely not anticipated this. I knew, of course, that the belly-poke was iconic to the Doughboy. Preparing the costume, I thought maybe I’d entertain my friends with a few Woo-hoos! But strangers? I wasn’t sure what to do. It seemed weird to say yes, rude to say no.
Better weird than rude, I concluded.
“Sure,” I said.
He poked me. I went: Woo-hoo!
He laughed. “You are awesome,” he said, then turned back to his friends. “Did you guys hear that? This kid is awesome. Nailed it.” They nodded in approval, then went on their way.
The whole day was like that. Every passing period, I walked down the hallways, chef’s hat on, rolling pin out, turning heads and earning praise and gifting a merry Woo-hoo! to the strangers who poked my belly.
I know what you’re thinking: this is bad. They’re making fun of him. They’re taking advantage of him. Poking a fat boy’s belly for kicks. Shameful! And he’s too naive to even recognize it (still?).
But it wasn’t bad, and I wasn’t naive. Trust me. Remember, I had years of experience as a fat kid. I knew all too well what it was to be laughed at. This was not that. I could hear it in the tones of their voices. This was not mockery, nor derision, nor condescension. This was something different.
This was respect.
These strangers, my schoolmates, turned their heads toward the Pillsbury Doughboy not because he was strange, but because he was unexpected. My concept was truly creative. It pushed familiar boundaries, just enough to shock my audience without alienating them.
My schoolmates laughed at the Pillsbury Doughboy not because he was laughable, but because he was funny. Dressing as the doughboy for Halloween was hilarious, full stop. More hilarious because I was fat, yes; but I think a skinny person would have gotten laughs, too.
As for the schoolmates who poked me? They didn’t do it to offend. They did it because they wanted to be a small part of a great idea; to partake in the most original and exciting aspect of Halloween 1997. Which was me, sixth grader Andy Malone, dressed as the Pillsbury Doughboy.
So, yes, these strangers, my schoolmates, they loved the Doughboy, and they respected me. Before Halloween, most had seen me only as the fat kid in the hallway. Now, they saw that I was creative and funny. They saw that I could read a moment and stick a landing.
They saw something else, too. Something rare. Something like courage, but not quite. The strangers were courageous in their own ways; in ways that I was not: climbing rock walls in gym class, asking each other to dances.
What I had done on Halloween was different. I still don’t have the word for it. What do you call it when you take your most glaring weakness, the thing that you are supposed to be the most ashamed of, and instead you own it, and you work it, and you wear it with confidence, and you turn it into the best Halloween costume of the year?
What kind of courage is that?
Whatever kind it is, that was my kind of courage, that Halloween. Beneath the Doughboy’s novelty and humor, I think that kind of courage is what my schoolmates responded to. I think that hard-to-name courage is what accounts for the cinematic head turns, the slew of complements, and the occasional belly poke. That kind of courage is what earned me respect.
Many big victories in my life, I prepared for. I worked hard for. The Pillsbury Doughboy was not one of them. I did not envision him to be a bold or courageous statement. My planning for him was casual, almost half-hearted: a commercial I overheard, some sweatpants I bought, a rolling pin I remembered to pack.
And yet, he became one of my finest accomplishments. He exposed something wonderful about me; something that was a mix of courage and optimism and confidence and self-love; something that I still don’t have the words for; something that allows a fat sixth grader walk out of a bathroom, dressed as the Pillsbury Doughboy, fearless, to face an audience of strangers and schoolmates; who are, for at least a day, stunned and reverential, because for a fat sixth grader to do all of that? Well, that really is something.
P.S.: I won three costume contests that year.
Woo-hoo!
