Savanah's Swan Song: The Story So Far (Patreon)

Nota Bene: After 25 chapters and a short hiatus, I figured now was a good time to consolidate the tale of pop star Savanah Georgia's fattening fall from grace! New chapters will begin later this month. In the meantime, this will get you up to speed if you're new to the saga or need a refresher.

***

"We love you, Savanah!"

"I love you, too!"

Twenty-nine-year-old pop star Savanah Georgia waved to the jubilant crowd outside Rick's, Atlanta's most exclusive honky-tonk.  After posing for the paparazzi, Savanah beckoned to her longtime boyfriend, Chad Sampson, who trailed her like a puppy past a velvet-roped stanchion and through a solid oak door held open by an equally solid-looking bouncer.  Crossing its threshold, Savanah pivoted to give a final address to her adoring fans—

"God bless you all!"

"Fucking leeches," Savanah muttered as she continued down the dark corridor that led into the brightly lit club.  Fortunately, her harsh words were drowned by the sounds of The Dixies, the upscale juke joint's house band.

"Good evening, Ms. Georgia."  Guss Davidson, the club's maître d', greeted the couple with a nervous smile.  "Your usual table?"

"As long as no one's sitting in it tonight."

Guss chuckled, then cleared his throat.  "No, not tonight."

The well-heeled host guided the couple through the throngs to an elevated corner booth overlooking the stage.  As the singer slid into her seat, she spied the proliferation of flesh jiggling on the dance floor.  "Tonight must be pig night."

"I don't think so," Guss said with a confused cock of his head.  "But our chef makes a killer pulled pork."  Then he beat a hasty retreat, adding, "I'll bring menus."

"This place is going to hell.  Look at those fat hags."  As Savanah lambasted Rick's portly patrons, she undid the snap of her leather trousers.  She took pride in the fact that she was almost thirty and still fit into a size zero.  That is as long as she didn't sit, eat, or breathe.

Chad dutifully turned in his seat to observe the girls on the floor.   They looked OK to him.  "What can you do?"  He said with a shrug.  "It's open to the public."

"Yes, but not the GENERAL public.  I'll talk to Rick about beefing up security."

"And not the dancers?"  Chad smiled at his joke, but it quickly wilted under Savanah's darkened gaze.

"Guss said you wanted menus?"  A chubby girl about twenty, with a wide grin and an even wider waistline, appeared tableside holding two laminated menus.  She was clothed in the club's traditional waitress wear: straw cowboy hat, blue jeans, and a checkerboard flannel button-down tied in the front to show a suggestion of belly.  Of course, in her case, it was less of a suggestion and more of a demand.

"Hell in a handbasket," Savanah said, snatching the menus from the girl's fleshy fingers.

"It's an honor to serve you tonight, Ms. Georgia," the not-so-waifish waitress gushed.  "I'm your biggest fan."

Savanah eyed the pasty muffin top rimming the waitress's skintight Levi's.  "Probably close to it.  Where's Lisa?"

"Uh, she's off tonight."

"Lucky me.  Look..."

"Amy."

"Amy.  Just bring him a beer and bring me a white wine spritzer."

"You don't want to eat?"

"No."  Savanah returned the menus by poking them against the server's stomach.  "I've lost my appetite."

The waitress managed a polite smile, then retreated from the table even faster than Guss did.

"You were a little rough on her," Chad said after Amy had disappeared into the kitchen.

"When I was her age, a record exec once called me a talentless harpy.  What doesn't kill us makes us stronger."

"Maybe you should have ordered something?  I think you're hangry."

"When I want your opinion, Chad, I'll give it to you."

Chad ducked Savanah's dagger stare by focusing on the band.  The Dixies were a tight six-piece and one of the few things he still enjoyed about coming.  At one point, the couple would've joined the merry masses on the dance floor, and Savanah might even have performed a song or two with the sextet.  But that was several years and platinum albums ago.

"Thank you!" The band's burly fiddle player, known affectionately as Big Mike, shouted into the microphone after his spirited solo brought the song to its crescendoed conclusion.  "Thank you so much!  What a great-looking crowd we have tonight."

Hoots and hollers from the women Savanah had called pigs joined the enthusiastic applause.

"And it just got even prettier," the bearded musician continued, pointing his bow toward the newly occupied booth.  "Please join Rick's and The Dixies in welcoming our state's prettiest and most talented peach, Savanah Georgia!"

The crowd went crazy.  Savanah seemed genuinely surprised by the acknowledgment, placing a hand over her heart and blowing kisses to both the band and the crowd.  Chad applauded, too.  His girlfriend's performance was Oscar-worthy.   The only thing she couldn't do with her pants undone was take a bow.

"Care to join us?"  The musician gestured towards the rest of the band.  "For old time's sake?"

If the request, or the crowd's raucous response, fazed Savanah she didn't let on.  She simply smiled and shook her head, then she clutched Chad's hand as if she were in the middle of an intimate date.  It was only when Mike whispered into the microphone, "I think she's getting too big for her britches," that panic flashed across her face.

"I'm just teasin'," the big man added playfully.  "Maybe after a few drinks!"

Once it became clear the pop star wasn't budging, the crowd returned their attention to the band and Mike pressed on with the show—

"Since we can't cajole the real Savanah, let's bring up the next best thing.  She's been serving you all night, now it's time to show her some love.  Please welcome the newest member of Ricky's talented team...Amy Adamson!"

The crowd gave an enthusiastic ovation, but it quickly faded when no one appeared onstage.

"Amy, where you at baby?" Mike added after his invitation went unanswered.

Just as he was about to give up, Amy pushed through the kitchen's double doors like a gunslinger entering a saloon.  She looked proud.  Confident.  Only her teary eyes belied her cocksure strut to the stage.

Following an embrace with Mike, Amy stepped to the mic to renewed applause and the strains of a lone guitar.  Savanah recognized the tune immediately. "Unbroken" was her first hit.  She'd written it on a six-string when she was sixteen.

"You took away our choices, but we have many voices--"

Amy's voice started thin but gained power as the verse continued.  By the time she reached the chorus, it was as full-bodied as she was.

"We won't be broken.  We won't be shattered.  We won't be told, that what we say don't matter!"

The band swelled behind her as the song climaxed, then faded away for a delicate acappella outro—

"We are unbroken."

The crowd erupted in wild applause.  Most in attendance were already standing, but anyone who wasn't quickly found their feet.  Chad sprang up so enthusiastically he winced, fearing Savanah had stayed seated for reasons both personal and practical.  But as he turned his head, he was surprised to find the starlet had done up her pants and was standing in ovation like everyone else.  There was even a tear in her eye, though he wasn't sure if it was due to the tenderness of the tune or the tightness of her trousers.

After another quick embrace with Mike and a wave to the jubilant crowd, Amy returned to the kitchen, and The Dixies began their next song.  A few minutes later, the songbird was back on the floor serving drinks.

"That was awesome," Chad said once Amy arrived at their table with her tray.  "You're very talented."

"Thank you so much.  I was so nervous."

Amy placed the beer in front of Chad and the spritzer in front of Savanah, who sported a proud smile.

"Can I give you a little advice?"  Savanah said, leaning in like she was about to divulge a trade secret.

"Of course."

"The next time you decide to butcher one of my songs, at least have enough sense to bring me my drink first.

***

“What’s your problem?”

“Nothing. It was a delightful evening.”

Chad Sampson’s retort dripped with more sarcasm than the pulled-pork sandwiches at Rick’s did BBQ sauce. Not that he knew what they tasted like. His girlfriend was on a diet, so all he could do was ogle the orders of others.

The air around the couple was chilly despite the August heat, and had only gotten chillier upon returning to the cool comfort of their downtown penthouse. Chad made himself a nightcap and collapsed on the sofa, while Savanah eyed him evilly from the kitchen.

“Look, I’m sorry I was short with you.”

“You were short with everyone. I was the only one dumb enough to stay within firing range.”

“I said I was sorry. You know the pressure I’m under right now.”

“You said the same thing six months ago.”

She’d actually been saying it for years. The constant pressure had turned the once-shy singer into a diamond-selling recording star. Unfortunately for Chad, he was still getting the coal shoulder.

“Now it’s even worse,” Savanah said, sitting beside her beau. “The tour starts next month, the movie begins shooting as soon as it ends, and sometime between now and then I need to drop a few pounds.”

Chad’s eyes drifted to Savanah’s stomach, which continued to concave despite her seated position. “Why, on Earth, do you need to drop a few pounds?”

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to be upstaged by some fifty-something has-been.”

“Angelina Jolie?”

“Duh.”

The yet-to-be-titled comedy was set to star the underweight Hollywood heavyweight as Savanah’s mother and was hoped to be a vehicle for her return to cinematic stardom, just as it was expected to be Savanah’s ticket there. Having her sign to the project was thought to be a coup; however, Savanah’s desire to match the figure of her sinewy co-star seemed like a recipe for dysmorphia.

Chad slumped in his seat and took a swig of his drink. “So much for slowing down.”

Savanah’s face softened, providing a glimpse of the girl Chad fell in love with. “I said that didn’t I?”

Chad nodded.

“And I meant it. I still do.” Savanah scooched closer to her boyfriend and placed a hand on his knee. “But I have to tour for the new album. I’m under contract. Then the movie came along. How could I say no to that?”

Chad said nothing. He didn’t want her to say no. He just wanted her. At least the ‘her’ he had fallen for before she was led astray by pop and circumstance.

“I turn thirty in a few months,” Savanah continued. “These opportunities are bound to start drying up. Then, I’ll slow down. But for now, I can’t afford to.”

“What if you could?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if you could go on tour, film your movie, record your music, and still have plenty of time for us?”

“Are you planning to have me cloned?”

“Even better.” Chad dug in his pocket and produced a business card, which he handed to Savanah.

Savanah squinted since she’d already removed her contacts for the night--Concurrent Technologies. Solving tomorrow’s problems today.

“They do AI,” Chad continued. “State-of-the-art stuff. Not the janky shit you find online. They were featured on 60 Minutes a few months back. Forrest Sawyer didn’t even realize he was interviewing an android! Anyway, their headquarters are right here in Atlanta.”

“So, you want to make me a robot?”

“Not a robot. That’s too hokey and antiquated for what they do. They create ‘Custom Humanoids.’”

Savanah rephrased her query with equal skepticism.  “So, you want to make me a ‘Custom Humanoid’?” 

“I already did.” Chad leaned over and kissed Savanah’s blank face. “Happy Birthday!”

***

“Welcome to Concurrent Technologies. I’m Ada Braun, Doctor Harold Wagner’s personal assistant.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Chad reached out and took the attractive lab technician’s outstretched hand. “Brrr, your hands are cold.”

“Sorry.” The technician frowned and pulled it back. “I just washed them.”

“No worries,” Chad said. “Cold hands, warm heart.”

Ada smiled. “I like to think that’s true.”

Savanah nodded rather than force the lab rat into another uncomfortable handshake. “Hello.”

Ada nodded back. “Please follow me. The doctor is expecting you.”

The assistant stuffed her hands in the pockets of her lab coat as she led the couple from the cozy reception area past a security desk manned by two uniformed guards. One of the men pressed a button, opening a set of heavy wooden doors. Beyond the doors was an elevator that opened upon the trio’s approach.

On the wall of the elevator was a panel of thirty unmarked buttons arranged in rows of ten. Ada pressed the eighth button in the center row. It lit up, and the doors closed.

“How do you remember which buttons go where?” Savanah asked.

Ada stared at Savanah as if she’d just bleated like a sheep. “They’re unnumbered to discourage espionage.”

Savana looked at Chad and rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”

After a few seconds, the doors opened into a room set up like a small theater. There were three rows of tiered seats facing a window into what appeared to be a child’s bedroom. In one of the seats sat a fat, sixty-something man in a white lab coat like Ada’s who stood upon the group’s arrival.

“Welcome!” the man shouted in a German accent thicker than his waistline. “You’re just in time.”

“Thank you, Dr. Wagner,” Chad said, shaking his hand. “It’s good to see you again. This is my girlfriend, Savanah.”

“Are you joking?” The big man boomed. “This lovely lady needs no introduction.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” Savanah said, taking the doctor’s outstretched hand. It was as large as his smile.

Dr. Wagner clasped his other hand atop Savanah’s as he breathed, “I feel like we know each other already.” Something in the way he said it made Savanah uncomfortable, but she managed a thin smile. The doctor gestured to the row of seats in which he had been sitting. “Shall we proceed?”

Chad eagerly filed in, taking the first seat, but Savanah hesitated.  She looked back to find the elevator doors had closed and Ada was gone.

“Please,” Dr. Wagner urged.

With another thin smile, Savanah filed into the seat beside Chad while Dr. Wagner squeezed into the one beside her, sandwiching her in the middle. Once they were seated, the lights in their section dimmed while the bedroom brightened like the opening of a play.

For a moment, nothing happened, then the closet door opened, and a scantily clad woman strolled to the center of the room. Her face and gait mirrored Savanah’s perfectly.

“Impressed?” Dr. Wagner whispered.

Savanah realized her mouth was hanging open. She shut it and nodded, but her eyes remained transfixed on her doppelganger.

“I’m sorry for the skimpy attire,” Dr. Wagner continued. “It’s easier for us to detect flaws this way.”

Two perfect imperfections stood out to Savanah as the automaton struck a series of poses in its crop-topped teddy. Its movements were graceful and deliberate, as if it were participating in some Victoria's Secret-sponsored robot beauty pageant. After performing a 360-degree turn that had both men leaning forward in their seats, the humanoid opened its mouth and emitted a familiar song in a familiar voice--

“Happy Birthday to you…”

The lookalike raised its hand and pointed to where the pop star was sitting. Savanah wasn’t sure if the…thing…could see her through what she thought was a two-way mirror or if it was programmed to point toward the seat she’d been herded into. Either way, it was unsettling.

“Happy Birthday to you…”

The robot’s lip-sync was pretty good. Savanah wondered where they had gotten the tape of her singing Happy Birthday. Of course, she’d sung it countless times but was unaware of a recording of it anywhere.

“Happy Birthday dear Sa-van-ah.”

As the robot intoned the singer’s name, she struck a sexy pose. The stupid grins on the men’s faces heightened Savanah’s unease, as did the realization that the spots on her doppelganger’s leopard teddy weren’t actually spots at all, but the molecule pattern on the company’s business card.

Just who was this celebration for anyway?

“Happy Birthday to you!”

Savanah’s double concluded its performance with a final gesture in the pop star’s direction. The bedroom lights dimmed, and the house lights brightened. Both men applauded, then turned expectantly to Savanah.

“I like her boobs,” Savanah monotoned. “Can we make them even bigger?”

Dr. Wagner shot Chad an ‘is she serious?’ look. Savanah’s bookish boyfriend held up his hand to the robotics expert as if to say, ‘I got this.’

“Honey,” Chad oozed in a voice as viscous as the sugary substance. “Custom humanoids aren’t toys. If this is going to work, she needs to look just like you.”

“Then why’d you make them so big in the first place?”

Chad opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out.

“We typically study our subjects for months prior to replication,” Dr. Wagner interjected for the dangling Chad. “But Mr. Sampson wanted it to be a surprise. As a result, some of your vital information was…estimated.”

Savanah glared at her boyfriend. “Wishful thinking?”

The heavyset German cleared his throat, interrupting the brewing bruhaha. “This isn’t…what is the expression? Our first rodeo? We anticipate several rounds of physical tweaking. That’s the easy part. In our industry, as with humanity, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.” The doctor gestured to the shadowy visage on the other side of the glass. “Now that the cat is out of the box; however, we can proceed in earnest.”

Savanah stared at the frozen automaton pointing in her direction. “So, there are robots like this milling about in the general public?”

“More than you might think,” the doctor answered proudly.

“Are they all—what did you call them? Replications?”

“No. Most of them are custom humanoids. Unique composites of disparate desired elements.”

“Created for whom? Rich folks playing God?”

“Companionship, usually. As you Americans say, it’s lonely at the top.”

“Anyone I’ve heard of?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Like who?”

“Ms. Georgia, we are very discreet here at Concurrent Technologies. I’m sure you can appreciate that. Especially since you’re a client yourself.”

“I never asked to be a client. This is all too weird.” Savanah turned to Chad. “How much did you pay for this thing anyway?”

Once again, Chad’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“That is of no concern to you,” the doctor said sternly.

“No concern? There’s a double-D mini-me bouncing around in there. I’m concerned.”

“This is going to help you, Savanah,” Chad finally stammered. “No one will know. Right, doc?”

Dr. Wagner nodded. “It’s in our interest that the full extent of what we do remain confidential. We’ve advanced far beyond that 60 Minutes exposé your boyfriend saw. That’s why I agreed to meet with him. Your situation presents a unique challenge for me and my team.”

Savanah stood. She had heard enough. “He had no right to do this. YOU had no right to do this. Anyway, I refuse to be your guinea pig.” Savanah stepped across the doctor’s legs into the aisle. “I’ve worked too hard to risk my career on some…foxed-up facsimile.”

“Savanah, wait!”

Savanah ignored the pleas of her boyfriend and raced up the aisle to the elevator...only there were no buttons to call it. “Where the fuck are the buttons on this thing?”

“Savanah, please!”

This time, the singer froze. It wasn’t Chad’s voice that stopped her. Nor was it Dr. Wagner’s.

It was her own.

Savanah slowly turned around. Her replicant was pressed against the glass, a sad look on its face.

“Please. Just give me one chance to prove myself. I promise I won’t let you down.”

The pop star’s knees went weak, and she found the nearest seat. She had said the same thing to the president of Decca Records when she was sixteen.

How did it know? How was it possible? She had so many questions.

Dr. Wagner smiled and sat beside her, all too eager to answer.

***

Two months later, Savanah and Chad sat in Dr. Wagner’s office watching a live stream of Savanah’s replicant’s arrival in Euskirchen, Germany, the first date of her international tour. Weeks ago, the unit had been shipped to Munich, Dr. Wagner’s hometown, where it was reassembled and tested, but today was to be its public debut.

Footage of the event was shown in split-screen on a giant wall monitor behind Dr. Wagner’s desk. The feed on the left came from a camera held by one of Concurrent Technologies’ technicians (ostensibly working as a tour videographer), while the one on the right was through the robotic eyes of Savanah’s double.  Currently, both feeds showed a parade of half-timbered dwellings that looked like gingerbread houses as the limousine they traveled in bounced over cobblestone streets towards its destination: the Hotel Rodderhof, a four-star spa resort where the ‘bot and its entourage would be staying.

5,000 miles away, the real Savanah’s right leg bounced along with the limo.  It was common for her to be nervous before a concert, but this was different. This was an out-of-body experience. Though both sides of the screen showed similar scenes of the bucolic township, Savanah focused on the right. That was what she would be seeing if she were there. That was what she should be seeing.

Suddenly, the view shifted downward. A pair of delicate hands entered the screen and fiddled with a silk tie draped between her bot’s bosom.

“What’s with the butterfly neckerchief? I’ve never worn anything like that in my life.”

Dr. Wagner gestured at the screen with his pen. “Your replicant has a voice box like we do, but its intonations are produced electronically rather than via vibrations of vocal cords. Since there’s no movement in the larynx, it can look a bit odd up close.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Is that why your robot on 60 Minutes was wearing a tie?” Chad queried.

Dr. Wagner nodded. “It’s an issue we’re working on.”

“So, she’ll have to wear ties and turtlenecks everywhere?” Savanah felt as if the ridiculous-looking necktie were being tightened around her own throat. “This was a mistake,” she whispered to Chad.

“It’ll be fine,” her boyfriend monotoned, his eyes focused on the cleavage cam.

“I assure you it won’t be noticeable on stage,” Dr. Wagner said. “We’ll make the necessary adjustments once she’s finished the European leg of your tour.”

“By that time, I’ll be finished!”

The onscreen view shifted again, revealing that the limousine was arriving at its destination. As it pulled before the hotel, dozens of fans surged to greet it.  Savanah looked away. Her career was going to be ruined, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

„Hallo!“

Savanah’s eyes darted back to the monitor. The feed on the left showed her replicant waving to the crowd, while the feed on the right showed their jubilant faces.

„Ich bin so glücklich, hier zu sein!“

“I speak German?!? What did I say?”

“I’m happy to be here,” Dr. Wagner answered.

The replicant followed a stanchioned path toward the hotel’s awninged entrance, shaking hands, waving, and posing for pictures as it went. When it reached the doorway, it turned and waved to the crowd—

„Wir sehen uns auf der Bühne!“

Savanah turned to Dr. Wagner.

“See you onstage.”

As the replicant and its entourage entered the hotel and the onscreen feeds devolved into disparate and dizzying views of luggage and lobbies, Dr. Wagner turned off the monitor. “I zinc zat vent vell,” he gushed, his thick German accent released along with his enthusiasm.

“Wait!” Savanah pleaded. “I want to see more.”

“That would defeat the purpose.”

“Look, doctor. Just because your ‘bot fooled a few prepubescent schnitzel-eaters, doesn’t mean it will cut muster in concert.”

The scientist’s round face turned ruddy. “Fine,” he said, switching the monitor back on.

Chad sighed and settled into his seat. This was going to be a long night. Savanah didn’t care. This was too important. 

This was her life.

***

The concert that night was scheduled for Stadttheater, a quaint regional theater that held about 1,000 people. Not exactly Madison Square Garden, which Savanah had sold out over two nights the year before. While she admittedly had a smaller fanbase overseas than she did in the States, the choice of venue was technical rather than financial. The opening show of every tour she’d ever done had been in a small hall or theater. It allowed for nerves and kinks to be worked out before messes were made for the masses.

Of course, additional considerations came into play this time. Fortunately, Stadttheater was just a few hours from Munich and could be easily reached by automobile.  (Flying with a replicant was a no-go.) And since Munich was Concurrent Technology’s original headquarters, potential problems could be resolved swiftly and quietly.

That didn’t keep Savanah’s nervous knee from bouncing through soundcheck. The precautions would have been more comforting when she was sixteen, back before Instagram and iPhones.  Nowadays, all it takes is a five-second video clip on TikTok to make or break someone. She could see it now--smoke spilling from her android’s ears as it collapsed onstage; a wreath of heart emojis swirling around its burning husk.

Chad rested his hand on Savanah’s knee to quell its fidget. Savanah wasn’t sure if it was out of compassion or annoyance, but his hand was warm and his smile seemed genuine, so she let him keep it there despite being the one to get her into this mess.

It didn’t help. By the time the curtains opened, the only thing bouncing more than Savanah’s knee was the crowd. It was a packed house, filled with teens and twenty-somethings dressed in concert Ts…though a surprising number were adorned in silk neckerchiefs like the one her replicant had arrived wearing just a few hours earlier.

While the energy in the venue was electric, its modest size dictated an acoustic set. Dr. Wagner insisted this was preferred, as it would better test the unit's dexterity. However, Savanah worried there would be nothing to distract the crowd from catastrophe. No dazzling light show. No pyrotechnics. No squealing guitar solos. Just a robot in a spotlight playing ‘unplugged’.

What could go wrong?

Nothing, as it would turn out. The pop star’s recent album was a stripped-down effort that lent itself to the format, and even when the ‘bot strummed its six-string through homespun, minimalist renditions of Savanah’s classics (including the techno-beat dance club hit “Gitcher Booty Back Here”), the crowd remained enraptured. And of course it went crazy for its pithy asides: „Vielen Danke!”; „Du siehst wunderschön aus!“; „Ich mag deine Krawatten!“ Savanah eventually stopped asking their meaning. It didn’t matter anyway. It could be calling them a bunch of kraut-eating baby Hitlers, and they’d probably still cheer.

At the end of performances, Savanah would be exhausted. The white-hot lights would have her hair hanging off her sweat-soaked face, while her voice would become ragged and whiskey-tinged. Her replicant had no such problems.  Over an hour in, it still looked fresh as farmer’s milk and effortlessly hit notes Savanah often dropped an octave.

“Unbroken,” which had closed every concert since she’d turned sixteen, was usually a war of attrition. As Savanah’s strained voice struggled for survival, the crowd would join in and help. It was a communal experience and added to the song’s emotional resonance. In her android’s hands, however, it was a powerful and defiant anthem; a rallying cry that sent shockwaves through the crowd and had attendees holding hands and swaying in unison.

The shockwaves eventually reached Atlanta. The robot’s rendition wasn’t just good. It was better.

After a five-minute standing ovation—which included the stateside trio—the curtains closed, and the monitor went dark.

Savanah collapsed back in her seat, exhausted, as if she’d been the one performing. She felt none of the usual post-show buzz, however. She was numb. It was as if the jumble of emotions had overloaded her sensors.

“Champagne?”  Dr. Wagner handed her a fancy flute filled with the fizzy fluid.

“Wasn’t that awesome?” Chad gushed. Savanah nodded as he clinked his glass against hers.

“To Savanah Mark II,” Dr. Wagner toasted.

“I thought it was mach,” Chad said, taking a sip.

“Mach is a measure of speed; mark is the designation you give a new version of something.”

Chad smiled. “What if you spell it m-o-c-k?”

“That would work,” the doctor chuckled.

As the men laughed and clinked their glasses, Savanah downed her drink. Then she helped herself to a second serving from the bottle on Dr. Wagner’s desk and guzzled that one as well.

Before she could return for a third, the doctor placed the bottle on a tall shelf in the corner of the room, as if removing it from the reach of a petulant child. “Ms. Georgia, we need you to hunker down for the next month or so,” Dr. Wagner said. “Can you do that?”

Savanah slurped a final note from her flute. “I can hunker.”

“Good. Mr. Sampson informs me you have an acting project you’re working on.”

Savanah’s weary eyes turned to Chad. “Care to help me run my lines?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Sampson will be traveling to Germany.”

Savanah’s jaw dropped.

“Dr. Wagner thought it would be best if I were there,” Chad hemmed.  “Boots on the ground, so to speak.”

Savanah’s gaping gaze pivoted to Dr. Wagner. “What about your technicians?”

“Mr. Sampson knows you better than anyone. My engineers can rectify technical issues, but he’s in a better position to identify behavioral anomalies.”

Chad chuckled. “If you start being nice to me, we’ll know there’s a problem.”

Once again, Savanah plopped back into her seat. Now, she was dizzy. Her eyes drifted up to the champagne. Moët & Chandon. Top-shelf on a top shelf. The perfect place. Either there or in a pretty cabinet.

The pop star smiled and sucked at her empty glass.

Dr. Wagner removed it from her grip. “Ms. Georgia, it’s imperative that you stay out of the public eye for the next few weeks. Is there a place you can do that?”

Savanah leaned back in the leather lounge chair and closed her eyes.  There was only one place she could think of. A place she’d tried for years to forget.

***

A few hours later, Savanah bounced along a dirt road in the back of a Cadillac SUV driven by a stone-faced Concurrent Technology employee. It wasn’t as large or luxurious as the limousines she usually rode in, but it was comfortable and, considering where they were going, far less conspicuous. Still, Savanah imagined an automobile like that spitting gravel and kicking up dust on a dirt road rarely occurred outside of commercials. One thing was for sure: it would need to be washed.

If that annoyed the olive-skinned driver, he gave no indication. He hadn’t seemed at all surprised by the journey’s distance or destination, and even now, as he navigated around a muddy dip in the road and a stubborn cow drinking from its trough, he showed no emotion.

Perhaps he was one of Dr. Wagner’s replicants.

Despite that unnerving thought, Savanah appreciated the silence.  Most chauffeurs would fawn or make inane small talk, but this one’s taciturn demeanor, AI-directed or not, allowed her to relax and reflect on her situation.

She’d been given a tremendous gift. Not her replicant. That was merely a creepy means to an end. No, she finally had the one thing she’d desired for years but could never find: Time. Now she could decompress, rehearse for her movie, and maybe even write a few songs without all the obligations and distractions that came with being Savanah Georgia.

But no matter how much she tried to stay positive, her mind kept circling back to how she’d been forced from her penthouse while her boyfriend galivanted across Europe with a robot.

Maybe some small talk wasn’t so bad.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Ravi.”

“Robby? As in, Robby the Robot?”

“No, RAVI. Like Ravi Shankar.”

“Who?”

“The famous sitar player.”

That seemed like an oxymoron to Savanah. Like ‘jumbo shrimp’ or ‘awfully good,’ which, incidentally, she couldn’t imagine a sitar sounding. Whenever she heard the instrument, it sounded like a banjo on a bender.

“He was friends with George Harrison,” Ravi continued. “Y’know, The Beatles?”

“I know The Beatles,” Savanah said sharply.

“Anyway, he helped introduce Eastern music to the West.”

“So, he’s the one to blame.”

A scowl formed on Ravi’s flustered face. Perhaps he wasn’t a robot after all.

Savanah leaned back in her seat. She spent the next twenty minutes identifying landmarks from her childhood as they flashed past her window like a slideshow. There was Mr. Doogle’s farm, which had housed the barn in which she’d lost her virginity and, uncoincidentally, his grandson Trenton, the only boy her age within miles. There was the communal mailbox that serviced 100 acres worth of homes, and the one in which she’d placed her demo to Decca Records. There was the white-washed picket fence she used to climb on as a child until it broke under the weight of “too many flapjacks,” her mother had said with a playful poke of her swollen belly.

Each of those seminal events had taken mere seconds (especially her nervous roll in the hay with Trenton), but each had deeply affected her life. Some forever not for better, Savanah thought, the lyrics from an old Beatles tune worming their way into her brain.

Thanks, Ravi!

Finally, the SUV turned onto the long gravel driveway of a one-story ranch home. It was much smaller than Savanah remembered, but the middle-aged woman who barreled through the screen door to greet them was much larger. Adorned in a floral muumuu and curlers, the woman shuffled up the drive in slippered feet, kicking up a dust cloud that made her approach seem faster than it was.

“Hi, baby,” the rotund woman said, wrapping her meaty arms around the prodigal singer as she exited the vehicle. Teenaged Savanah would have recoiled, but thirty-year-old Savanah relished their warmth.

“Hi, momma.”

Savanah closed her eyes and breathed deeply—as deeply as she could while ensconced in her mother’s bingo-winged cocoon—and was flooded by familiar scents.  Mostly, she smelled the sickly-sweet Chanel knock-off her mother had used every day since 1985, but there were faint whiffs of everything from Bengay to bacon grease. Of course, there were the usual farm malodors that made her turned-up nose twitch, but they didn’t bother her much today.

Their embrace was disturbed by the roar of the SUV’s engine as it backed up the drive, leaving Savanah’s bags in the dust.

Thanks again, Ravi!

“We should go inside,” Savanah said, gathering her belongings.

When Savanah first became famous, paparazzi staked out the family farm at all hours. The activity dwindled once an emancipated Savanah moved to the city, but that didn’t stop the occasional ambitious reporter from trying to solicit a scoop from her rural relatives. Her mother pretty much ended things after she greeted one with a shotgun and an unprintable epithet, but Savanah wasn’t in a position to take any chances.

Not when her position was supposed to be in Germany.

Savanah followed her mother’s floral-covered fanny as it waddled its way up the drive, onto the porch, and through the creaky screen door that led to the brightly lit kitchen.

“Lemme take your things,” her mother said, grabbing Savanah’s suitcase and duffel. Tucking one under each arm, she squeezed into the hall. Between Savanah’s bulky bags and her mother’s even bulkier butt, there wasn’t much clearance. “Make yourself at home,” she called as she disappeared.

That proved easy for Savanah. It seemed like yesterday the pop star was sitting at the table dyeing Easter eggs or standing at the stove baking brownies. The room’s unaltered aesthetics—the curtains, tablecloth, wallpaper, and appliances were all the same—enhanced her feelings of nostalgia.

The only noticeable difference was the ‘Wall of Fame,’ the family’s nickname for the refrigerator door.  The report cards and gap-toothed grade school photos of her and her sister had been replaced by articles trumpeting Savanah’s achievements. Fulton County Girl Cleans Up at Grammys read one faded article.  Georgia on our Minds: Local Singer Becomes Most Googled Celebrity, read another.

“You made good time.” Savanah’s stroll down memory lane was interrupted by her mother’s return. She huffed to the sink and dabbed her sweaty brow with a dish towel. “I was still puttin’ my face on.”

The otherwise static environment made her mother's physical changes plainer. She’d always been a bit plump—a Georgia family tradition—but now she was at least 100 pounds heavier. Savanah was worried about her health, but decided against saying anything. Now wasn’t the time. Not after ten years.

Of course, that didn’t keep her mother from assessing her figure.

“You’re thin as a rail,” her mother said, scouring her from head to toe. “All those millions and you can’t afford a decent meal?”

A snarky retort formed on Savanah’s lips, but—unlike most of the meals she’d been served lately—she choked it down, partly in deference to her mother and partly because she considered being called “thin as a rail” a compliment.

“I…I’ve been under a lot of stress,” she eventually uttered.

“So have I,” her mother sighed, drumming her fingers against her potbelly. The orange and yellow flowers covering it were stretched to full bloom. “It seems we deal with that differently.”

Before Savanah could inquire as to the stresses her mother had been under, the ruddy-faced woman quickly added, “I guess we’ll just have to put some meat on your bones while you’re here. Skeeter’s bringin’ barbeque.”

“You told Skeeter I was comin’?” Savanah shook her head. She wasn’t sure what concerned her more—her mother’s ballooning weight or the fact that her gabby little sister already knew about her supposedly top-secret visit…

Or that she’d been home for five minutes and was already clipping the G’s off the ends of words.

***

“Dr. Wagner, is there a way to watch footage from my…humanoid…on my phone?  Like, an app or something?”

Savanah had successfully buried her emotions in barbecue for several hours.  She’d laughed more at dinner than she had in years, reminiscing with her family over childhood antics and misadventures.  After all the takeout bags had been emptied, the women continued their conversation over a half-eaten banana cream pie languishing at the back of the fridge.  It wasn’t very good, and no one could remember exactly when or where it was purchased, but that only led to more laughter. 

Lying in the dark in her childhood bedroom, however, there was nothing for Savanah to do but rub her painfully distended stomach and think—something that proved equally painful.  Savanah considered sneaking back to the kitchen.  Not for anything else to eat (her taut tummy couldn’t handle another bite), but for a nip from one of the bottles Momma hid on the top shelf.  It was a dry county, but Momma always kept some contraband.

Instead, Savanah grabbed her phone off the nightstand.  She’d been instructed not to use it unless there was an emergency (apparently, it could be monitored or ‘pinged’--whatever that meant), but she’d just eaten expired pie and was contemplating a midnight raid of her mother’s hidden hooch.  This qualified.

Rather than calling her boyfriend or a crisis hotline, however, she called the man who held her life and livelihood in his husky hands.

“An app?” Came the weary scientist’s reply.

“Yeah, so I can keep track of things from here.”

A heavy sigh was followed by an even heavier German accent, “Ms. Georgia, I told you zat vud defeat the purpose.”

“Yeah, but—"

“Ms. Georgia, please try to relax.  Enjoy your family.  Rehearse for your movie.  We have every zing under control.”

“Ok, doctor.  I will.  Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”    

Savanah turned off her phone and placed it back on the nightstand.  Then she rose from her bed and tiptoed to the kitchen.

***

The next morning, Savanah felt like a jet was landing on her head.  The swigs from Momma’s unmarked jug were no doubt responsible for the cranium-crushing pressure, but it didn’t explain the roar of engines in her ears. 

Unless—

Savanah bolted up in bed.  She’d heard stories of people going blind on moonshine; maybe they could go deaf as well? 

Just as Savanah worried that her career was over, she realized the deafening noise was coming from the bathroom down the hall.

Savanah yanked off her covers and scurried, naked as a jaybird (as momma liked to say), to her suitcase.  Although she liked sleeping nude, she wasn’t planning to last night.  Not at her mother’s house.  However, she was drunk and miserably stuffed, and had passed out after peeling herself out of her dress.  The only thing protecting her from burglars or bedbugs was the crucifix around her neck.

She removed a blue sundress from her bag and draped it over her head.  The fabric cascaded over her bare curves like a waterfall—until it caught on her swollen belly.  Savanah sucked in, tugged it down the rest of the way, then stormed into the hall.

“Could you turn that thing down?”

Skeeter’s eyes shifted in the mirror to her angry older sister standing in the doorway.  “It’s a hairdryer. There’s no volume control.”

“Then turn it off!  You only ever wear your hair up anyway.”

“Geesh,” Skeeter muttered, powering down her Boeing-powered device.  “What’s up your ass?”

Savanah was about to march back to bed when she realized what was “up her ass” wasn’t going to stay there much longer.  “Are you almost done?” she asked, clutching her stomach.

“Just let me brush my teeth.” 

The sly smile on her sister’s face and the slow pace with which she snaked Crest over the bristles of her brush informed Savanah she intended to go the full two minutes recommended by the Dental Association. 

“Nice to see you’re still wearin’ that,” Skeeter said, spying Savanah’s crucifix in the mirror.  “You still a churchgoer, or is it to ward off the devil when he comes to collect?”

“I go to church,” Savanah said defensively.  In her mind, twice in the past five years counted.

“Does that mean I’ll be seeing you in our pew come Sunday?”

“You’ll be seeing a pew right here if you don’t hurry.”

Skeeter smiled as she ran her toothbrush back and forth across her teeth.  “I’m jus’ teasin’.  When did you get so thin-skinned?”

“Speaking of thin skin,” Savanah said, eying her sister’s ass as she bent over the sink.  “I notice yours has gotten a bit thicker since I last saw you.”

Skeeter jolted upright, knocking the toothpaste off the edge of the sink.  Her face in the mirror was similarly crestfallen.  “It’s momma!  All she does is eat.”

As Skeeter grabbed the tube from the floor, Savanah patted her robust rump jutting in the air.  “So, you’re saying you got this through osmosis?”

Skeeter stood so fast she nearly hit her head on the sink.  The tiny bathroom was even tinier now that the sisters had grown.  “Yes!  Momma hardly ever cooks anymore.  She’s always makin’ me fetch McDonald's or Pizza Hut or The Pit.  I try not to eat it, but it’s hard.”

“It didn’t look like you were putting up much of a fight last night.”

Skeeter was literally foaming at the mouth.  She spat into the basin and clattered her toothbrush into a drinking glass beside the faucet.  “At least I have an ass,” she said, pushing past Savanah into the hall.  “Your butt’s in your brain!”  

Savanah smiled and closed the door behind her huffy little sis.  Her victory was short-lived, however, as war still waged in her stomach.  She shuffled to the toilet, hiked up her dress, and, over the next moan-filled minutes, proceeded to dump most of the previous night’s indulgences.

Just as her bowels and the air began to clear, there was a knock at the door accompanied by a whiff of bacon. 

“Gitcher britches up and come eat.  Breakfast is ready!”

                                                                    ***

After washing up, Savanah headed for the kitchen.  She wasn’t hungry--her stomach was still queasy, and her head was pounding--but the aromas flowing into the hall were as intoxicating as whatever still-swill Momma had stashed in her jug. 

Standing by the stove, Momma presented her with a plate of pancakes as she entered.  At least, Savanah assumed a plate was involved, although she couldn’t actually see one beneath the floating avalanche of cakes.

“Momma, I can’t eat all that.”  Savanah fought to keep from saying ‘cain’t.’  “My stomach’s still weak from last night.”

“This’ll help.  Hair of the dog.”

Savanah frowned.  “That’s alcohol.”

“It works with food, too.”    

Savanah reluctantly took Momma’s offering and found her spot at the table.  Skeeter, who was already seated, didn’t acknowledge her.  She just stared at her plate, poking at the pancakes with a fork as if they might gang up and attack at any moment.

Smirking, Savanah proceeded to drown her stack in Aunt Jemima's syrup.  Then, after savoring a bite with an exaggerated “Mmmmm,” she helped herself to the bacon platter already on the table.  She may not have been hungry, but she couldn’t resist putting on a display for her sulky little sis.

The food tasted even better than it smelled, and, as her mother suggested, sopped up the rotgut rotting her gut.  Feeling better, Savanah munched with renewed vigor.  As a child, breakfast had always been her favorite; however, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had more than yogurt and coffee.  Strangely, pancakes and bacon, a simple staple from her youth, had become more exotic to her than Alaskan sea cucumber, her go-to meal at the Four Seasons.  As Savanah pondered the odd dichotomy, her fork pinged plasticware. 

“Nice to see you with an appetite,”  Momma said, hoisting a fresh trio of pancakes from a cast iron skillet onto Savanah’s plate.  “Country life suits you.”

Skeeter, who hadn’t been enjoying her meal nearly as much, suddenly rose from the table.  “I gotta go,” she said, taking a final swig of orange juice.  “Some of us have work to do.” 

Savanah wasn’t sure if that was a shot at her, their mother, or both, but she frankly didn’t care.  “Have fun,” Savanah called, waving goodbye with a limp strip of bacon.

“You didn’t finish your plate,” Momma called as the screen door slammed.  “Kids are going hungry in Haiti!” 

New decade.  Fresh famine.     

“Between you and me,” Savanah said, biting a hunk from the flimsy flag of beef.  “Skeeter doesn’t look much like a ‘Skeeter’ anymore.  She looks more like a June Bug.”

“Oh, hush.  You know she’s sensitive about her weight.”

Savanah didn’t know.  She hadn’t even considered it.  “How ‘bout you?” she asked, eying the prodigious pile of pancakes on her mother’s plate.

“I’m reconciled.”

“You don’t have to be,” Savanah said, nibbling the last bit of bacon.  “There are things you can do.”

Momma’s brow furrowed.  “Surgery?  Medication?”   

“Self-discipline.  You’re the one who taught me there are no shortcuts in life.”

“There aren’t.”

“Well then…”

Momma sighed.  “Savanah, you reach a certain point in life where you are who you are.  It’s not worth the effort to change.”

“Even for your health?”

“I’m healthy as a horse.”

Savanah muttered under her breath, “About as big as one.”

“What did you say?”

“I just hope I never get to the point in life where I give up.”

“I haven’t given up.  I just pick my battles.”

“Well, the Battle of the Bulge should’ve been one of them.” 

Momma threw her napkin on her plate and hoisted herself from the table.  “I’ve had about as much of you as I can stomach, Missy.”

Savanah almost made a crack about that being surprising considering its size, but thought better of it.  It probably saved her life.

“I don’t need some city-slicker celebrity lecturing me about my weight, my life, or anything else,” Momma added as she waddled off to the living room.

“I’m not ‘some city-slicker celebrity,’” Savanah called after her.  “I’m your daughter and I’m just trying to help.”

As Savanah stared at the empty chairs and picked-over plates, a smile crept across her face.  She had helped.   She’d just helped her pudgy sister and portly mother trim hundreds of calories from their diets.  

Then she helped them again…by helping herself to the leftovers.

                                                                    ***

That afternoon, Savanah elucidated to her mother and sister the reasons for her extended stay in Podunk purgatory.  She had to.  According to a few stolen moments of Internet access on Skeeter’s iPhone 5, the Pop Star was breaking attendance records in Germany and “looking and sounding better than ever.” 

Which was hard to explain when she was currently sitting in her mother’s kitchen noshing on a cinnamon roll. 

She tried, nevertheless.  Momma and Skeeter listened, jaws agape as if Savanah were telling them aliens had landed in the pasture behind the farmhouse.  That might have been more believable.  ‘Singing cyborgs’ sounded like something that Momma would read about in The Inquirer or the title of a bad sci-fi movie.  

To their credit, they didn’t ask questions and nodded along as if it all made perfect sense.  Savanah did detect a faint whiff of disappointment on her mother’s face, which forced the singing sensation to focus on her dwindling pastry.  Having just lectured her mother about there not being shortcuts in life, it was hard to look her in the eye as she explained about the replicant currently touring Europe in her place.

After Savanah finished her tale of ‘woah,’ Momma patted her on the hand as if to say, I’m not sure what to make of all that, but we’re happy you’re here.

Her little sister, however, was less taciturn.  “That’s so fucking cool!”

“Skeeter!” Momma cried.

“You seriously have your own custom robot?  What else can it do?  Does it cook and clean for you, too?  Does it sing on your records?”    

So much for not asking questions.

“What?”  Savanah shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  “No, it’s just to give me more free time.  Time to rehearse for my movie.  Time to spend with Chad.  Time to spend with you.”

“Well, I think that’s great,” Momma said, patting Savanah’s hand like a game show buzzer. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” Savanah continued.  “No one knows except for you and Chad.”

“Not even Darrell Hamilton?”  Skeeter asked.  “He’d really get a kick out of this.”

The death stare on her sister's face answered the zaftig blonde’s question.

“Fine.  Not even Darrell Hamilton.”

“It won’t leave this room,” Momma said, as her hand pat turned to a squeeze.  “But what about Chad?”

“What about Chad?”

“Can you trust him?”

“Of course, I can trust Chad,” Savanah said, pulling her hand away.  “This whole thing was his idea.”

The look on Momma’s face said she wasn’t convinced.  “Where is he now?”

“He’s in Germany.  Dr. Wagner thought it would be good if he were there for the first few weeks of the tour.” 

Momma said nothing.

“It’s just a precaution.  In case something goes wrong.” 

Momma said nothing.

“He didn’t even want to go!”

Savanah couldn’t remember if that last part was true.  The post-show celebration in Dr. Wagner’s office was a hazy malaise of hugs, handshakes, and champagne.  It had occurred less than 48 hours before, but already seemed like a lifetime ago.  The uncertainty, coupled with her mother’s continued silence, irritated Savanah.

“Anyway, you don’t know him like I do,” Savanah said, rising from the table. “You don’t know him at all.”

Then she stormed off to her bedroom…but not before grabbing another cinnamon roll to go. 

                                                                    ***

As the days turned to weeks, Savanah settled into a routine.  She would sleep until 10 AM, at which point she’d wander into the kitchen for breakfast.  Having Savanah home had stoked Momma’s passion for cooking and, since she hadn’t lost her country cook’s ability to whip up an army-feeding spread at a moment’s notice, there were always plenty of leftovers for Savanah’s sleepy second platoon.  Savanah just assumed her plump sister and portly mother were eating less now that she'd called them out for their weight issues. 

The pop star was proud of herself.  Shame was a powerful tool. 

After grazing on French Toast, sausage, biscuits and gravy, and whatever else remained from the morning’s menu, Savanah would retreat to her room, ostensibly to study her script, but usually to nap until noon, at which point she’d awaken to the sound and smell of hamburgers sizzling on the skillet. 

“I don’t want to distract you,” would come Momma’s gentle voice at the door.  “But there’s an extra burger if you want it.”

Savanah always did.  She’d eat with her mother on the sofa, an open bag of potato chips between them, as the television transitioned from game shows to soap operas.  Initially, Savanah shook her head at the insipid soaps before leaving to rehearse her lines; however, before long, she’d linger “until the next commercial,” which eventually became until Skeeter arrived home from work in the afternoon.    

“Looks like you two have been busy,” Skeeter said, assessing the two lumps on the crumb-covered couch.

“Looks like you two have been busy,” Momma mocked, rolling her eyes and croaking like a toad.  Then the two older Georgia women giggled as they rose sluggishly from the sofa to begin dinner.

Dinnertime was the best.  Momma and Savanah rekindled their partnership in the culinary arts, and the results--chicken fried steak, fried chicken, fried okra, fried zucchini, fried fish (which Skeeter had caught in a nearby lake), fried potatoes, and anything else that could be fit in the frier and lathered with lard—were delicious.  The eating never took as long as the cooking, of course, but that was OK.  The trio would linger at the demolished table, gorging on an endless buffet of gossip.  What happened to that cute guy at the lumber yard?  Flo Danzig got divorced, again?  Pastor John ran off with who?  And one topic Savanah was loath to discuss—

How her tour was going.   

For the first week or so, Savanah pestered her little sister incessantly for access to her phone to watch clips and read reviews.  The tour had moved to the UK, where the arenas were larger and the paparazzi more prevalent, but everything was still going extraordinarily well, with an article in the London Times proclaiming it “the most successful concert tour in history.”  The story was accompanied by a photo of Chad and her bot meeting Queen Camilla. 

It didn’t make Savanah happy, however.  All she wanted to do was wring that stupid neckerchief dangling from her replicant’s neck.  So, she eventually followed Dr. Wagner’s advice and stopped obsessing over it.   It was relatively easy to do during the day, when soaps and snacks provided a distraction, but alone in her bedroom at night, her off-limits iPhone within easy reach, proved more difficult.  That’s when belts from Momma’s bottle came in handy. 

Wake.  Eat.  Nap.  Eat.  Watch TV.  Eat.  Fret.  Drink.  Pass out. 

Wash.  Rinse.  Repeat.  (Only without much washing or rinsing.) 

By the third week, physical changes in Savanah were becoming obvious.  Her shoulder blades dulled, and the ridges between her ribs filled.  If you squinted past her oily complexion, unkempt hair, and the grubby sweats she wore for days at a time, she looked healthier than she had in years. The womanly curves hinted at during puberty were finally blossoming into more than mere suggestions.

Skeeter and Momma took advantage of Savanah’s lapses in willpower to funnel even more food in her direction.  It wasn’t done out of malice.  Momma enjoyed bonding with her growing girl and even Skeeter had to admit it was nice to have her big sister home.  However, they remembered the harsh words Savanah had spoken about their weights, and if a few extra servings helped to even the scales, so be it.    

“Finish this pie for me, sweetie,” Momma said, pushing her plate towards Savanah.  “I don’t have your speedy metabolism.”

Skeeter dumped a dollop of vanilla ice cream atop the picked-over peach pie. “Might as well polish this off, too.  I don’t need the temptation.” 

“Ugh,” Savanah said, powering through the final bites.  “They’re gonna have to roll me back to Atlanta.”

Despite acknowledgment from Savanah herself that she’d been eating more than usual and had maybe even gained a pound or two, it didn’t derail the gravy train.  Instead, Savanah reveled in the responsibility-and-consequence-free bubble that had been blown around her.

Unfortunately for Savanah, that bubble was about to burst.

                                                                    ***

By her fourth week in the country, Savanah was going stir-crazy.  Not because she was stuck inside, but because she’d taken up baking, and most of her waking hours were spent churning a wooden spoon in a mixing bowl.  Apart from wearing a path in the Pergo from her bedroom to the kitchen, it was the only exercise she got.

When Savanah wasn’t baking brownies, cookies, or fudge, she was eating them on the sofa with her mother.  Between the game shows, the gossip, and the daily doings and screwings at General Hospital, there wasn’t a call for much else. 

Until that call came.

The women ignored the ringing phone as usual.  It was likely a pollster, a bill collector, or a reporter looking for the inside scoop on Savanah.  One hack had even left a message wanting a response to a recent Parisian interview where ‘Savanah’ had apparently said she “never wanted to go home again.”  The mother/daughter tandem giggled on the sofa as the message was being left, tapping the tips of their brownies together as if to say, “We’ll eat to that!”

This time, however, the voice on the machine elicited a different response. 

“Hello?”

Savanah froze mid-bite, the chocolate from the fresh-from-the-oven cookie burning her mouth.

“Hello?  Are you there?  It’s me.”

Shit.  Savanah spat the liquid lava into her hand and scrambled to her feet.

“Anyway, I’m home.  We’ll be sending a car for you tomorrow.” 

The sweats-clad pop star scurried into the kitchen, grimacing as she clipped her hip on the corner of the counter.

“I’ve missed you.”

Savanah yanked the receiver off the wall with her clean hand.  “Heloaf?” she said, her cookie-coated mouth still burning.

He was gone.

“Who was that?” Her mother called from the living room.

Savanah returned the receiver to its cradle.  “Chad.”

“He sounded nice.”

Savanah didn’t respond; she was too busy steadying herself against the Formica countertop.  It took a moment for her to recover…and another moment to realize that her fluttering heart and weak knees weren’t from the prospect of seeing her beau again or the rare blast of exertion needed to reach the receiver.

Her humanoid had been right.  She really didn’t want to go home again.

                                                                    ***

The next morning, Momma served a final feast of flapjacks.  Savanah ate as if it were her last meal before execution.  

“We’ll miss you!” Momma cried, engulfing Savanah in a bear hug as the trio rose from the table.  As her hands jiggled her daughter’s nascent back fat, she whispered, “Glad we could give you a little something to take home with you.”

Savanah pulled away.  “What?”

“Charlie!”  Momma pointed to the stuffed dog on the kitchen counter that had been gifted to Savanah that morning.  The scruffy brown mutt held a Valentine's heart emblemized with “Family Forever.” 

“Oh, right.”

Next, it was Skeeter’s turn for a hug.  She’d hardly eaten anything that morning, same as all the previous mornings, and it showed.  She wasn’t quite back to vintage “Skinny Skeeter” territory, but she’d lost a lot of her baby fat and was looking more mature.

“It was nice to get my big sister back,” she said, giving Savanah a generous squeeze. 

Savanah thought she detected a subtle emphasis on the word ‘big,’ but chalked it up to paranoia.  Until the embrace ended and Skeeter gave a Pilsbury Doughboy-like poke to her abdomen—

“What happened here?”

Savanah sucked in and covered the area with her hand.  That’s when she felt a sticky substance on her palm.  She’d spilled syrup on her sweats.

“Shit.”

Savanah hurried to her room to change.  She hadn’t done laundry since she’d arrived, and nothing clean was left in her bags.  She briefly considered a pair of white jeans she’d worn only once, on the second day, but thought better of it.  Instead, opting for a pair of purple Spandex.  Unlike her pink cotton sweatpants, which had been her loungewear of choice, the snappy material dug into her waist so tightly she couldn’t see the band unless she hiked them up so high she looked like the old men who played checkers outside the Piggly Wiggly. 

Savanah had never wanted a swig from Momma’s jug more.  

“Savanah, honey,” came her mother’s voice, accompanied by a knock at the door.  “There’s a dark-skinned fella named Robbie in the driveway.  Says he’s here for you.”

Maybe more than just a swig.

                                                                    ***

After a final round of goodbyes, Savanah was in the back of Concurrent Technology’s Cadillac as it retraced its tracks to civilization.  Although she was nervous about returning to the limelight, it felt good to be inside the luxury vehicle’s insular bubble.  Air conditioning.  Leather seats.  Tinted windows.  A first-class environment free from prying eyes. 

Except for the beady pair that kept darting her direction in the rearview mirror.

“What?”

“Are you hungry, ma’am?  I could swing by a drive-through.”

Savanah didn’t like Ravi’s smirk or the tone of his voice.  And she especially didn’t like being called “ma’am.” 

“I’m not hungry.”  Savanah pulled the waistband of her pants above the roll of fat that had settled there.  “Just get me home.”

“Of course, ma’am.  Let me know if you change your mind.”

What made Savanah even angrier than Ravi’s condescension (delivered in his ever-annoying East Indian accent) was the fact that she WAS hungry.  At this time, she was usually enjoying Momma’s cheeseburgers and The Young and the Restless.

Nevertheless, she sat in stubborn silence…until it was betrayed by her tummy, which began an audible protest as they entered Atlanta.  Savanah folded her arms across it as if muffling an unruly child.  With every moan and groan, Savanah looked to the rearview mirror to see if Ravi’s eyes were shifted her direction.  Fortunately, he kept them on the road. 

Until he suddenly pulled off into a Burger King drive-through. 

The pop star lurched forward in her seat.  “What are you doing?”

Ravi rolled down his window as he pulled alongside the restaurant’s menu board, then he pivoted in his seat.  “What do you want?”    

She wanted to punch the condescending camel-jockey. She wanted him gone forever. But in the end, she decided that, more than anything else, she wanted a cheeseburger.

“Whopper with cheese and a large fry.”

Savanah collapsed back in her seat, and a roll of fat once again spilled over her Spandex.

                                                                    ***

Savanah spent the last miles of the journey stuffing her face.  She had no interest in engaging with her disdainful and ever-smirking chauffeur.  Besides, she wanted to finish before she arrived home.  The last thing she needed was paparazzi snapping her picture in outgrown spandex holding a Burger King bag.

The pop star finished her final fry just as the vehicle pulled curbside adjacent to the giant revolving glass doors that were her luxury penthouse’s hallmark.  Rather than waiting for Ravi to open her door, she quickly crumpled the empty fast-food bag, threw it in the adjacent seat, and hustled from the vehicle with her head down.  She hurriedly pushed through the oversized panes of revolving glass into the building’s entry rotunda—

And smack-dab into Templeton, the tall, courtly, gray-bearded black gentleman who'd served as the building’s doorman for decades.

“Excuse me, miss.”  The big man blinked a few times as if trying to process the situation.  “How can I help you?”

“Templeton, it’s me.”

The doorman’s face stayed blank for a second, then erupted in the impossibly broad and radiant smile he was famous for.  “Oh, Ms. Georgia, I’m so sorry.  You’ve been away for a long time.” 

“A whole month,” Savanah said sarcastically.

“Hmmm.”  Templeton stroked his gray beard and eyed Savanah head to toe.  “I know what it is!” he suddenly boomed, snapping his fingers.  “No neckerchief!”

Savanah’s hand reflexively touched her neck.  When her career began, there was a trend of girls wearing crucifixes.  Now they were donning the tacky neckerchief of a Godless robot. 

“I left them in Europe,” Savanah said, pushing past Templeton toward the elevators.  “Please have my bags sent up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

                                                                    ***

“Chad!  I’m home.”

Typical, Savanah thought, as she closed her penthouse door.  He knows I’m coming, and he isn’t even here.

Although she was annoyed by her boyfriend’s absence, a part of her—the size of the parts she’d picked up while visiting her mother—was relieved.  She really didn’t want Chad to see her right now.  Not dressed in dirty undersized spandex and smelling of grease, sweat, and farm animals.

Savanah strolled into the kitchen and reflexively opened the refrigerator door-- 

What am I doing?  Savanah slammed it shut, remembering the mammoth meal she’d just consumed. 

After pivoting in the kitchen for a moment like a rudderless ship, Savanah headed to the bathroom.  A shower would wash away the stink and clear her head.  Besides, she needed a clean start after the past month. 

Catching her reflection in the mirror, however, she knew she needed to do something else first.  It was time for a “come to Jesus’ meeting,” her Momma’s colorful colloquialism for when something unpleasant had to be dealt with. 

Fishing beneath the counter, Savanah removed a dusty bathroom scale and placed it on the floor.  As she waited for the digital display to zero out, she whispered a silent prayer and released a heavy sigh (which she hoped might be worth a pound or two).

Then she stepped on—

Son of a--

                                                                    ***

158 pounds.  The number seemed impossible to Savanah.  She’d never weighed more than 125 pounds in her life.

Savanah twisted the shower spigot closer to ‘H,’ as if additional heat might melt away her extra pounds.  If the rudimentary math in her head was correct, she’d gained more than a pound per day while she was away.  Thank God, her bot had only been on a four-week European tour.  Early in her career, it wasn’t unusual for her to be on the road for one hundred days straight. 

The thought sent a shiver through Savanah and her newfound fat.  To counteract the chill, Savanah inched the spigot further into the red.  At her mother’s house, she had two minutes-- tops--before the tap turned icy.  And if she lingered much longer, her mother turned even icier, banging on the door and reminding Savanah that “there are other people in the house.”  As a result, she took very few showers and only spent as much time in the bathroom as necessary.  Had she been allowed time to self-inspect, she might’ve noticed how her body was changing and nipped the problem in the bud before it could blossom.

Unfortunately, the problem blossomed and so did she.  

Making up for lost time and the lack of hot water, the plumping pop star commenced a steamy journey of self-discovery.  First, she ran her soaped-up washcloth beneath her breasts.  Lifting them in its terrycloth cradle, she felt their weight and the tickle of the nap against her nipples, before letting them slap back into place against her wet skin.  As she squeezed the cloth, a torrent of bubbles funneled between them, racing through the deepening valley like sudsy slalom skiers, down her torso and along the slope of her swollen belly, before launching from its crest and falling to the floor with a plop and a pop.  A lucky few diverted around the imposing peak, sliding down her legs until they safely touched ground.

Savanah followed the slippery slope with her washcloth.  It was firm, packed tight with a month’s worth of feasting.  How long would that last?  How long before her stomach’s swell subsided only to be substituted with softness?  Both in her belly and in areas yet to be determined? 

Her hand slid beyond its crest and down the steep decline on the other side.  She lost sight of the cloth as it disappeared beneath her meaty middle, but she could feel the jiggle of her inner thighs and the press of her engorged belly against her arm as if trying to prevent her self-satisfaction.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“I’m almost finished!” Savanah shouted reflexively, expecting to be scolded by her mother.    

“Why’d you lock it?” came Chad’s muffled voice from the other side of the door.  “I wanted to join you.”

The thought caused Savanah’s heart to race harder than it had in a month.  “You don’t want to be with me right now.  I smell like a barnyard animal.” 

“Oooh, kinky.  Hey, I brought dinner.  Barbecue.”  There was a pause and then, “You’re in charge of dessert though!” 

“Just go set the table.”  Chad’s dirty innuendo made her want to shower all over again.  And the thought of eating made her sick, especially after seeing (and feeling) firsthand what too much of it had done to her body.

Although she wanted to, Savanah knew she couldn’t stay in the shower forever.  So, she turned it off, determined to ignore any other signs she was getting fat. She ignored how there was less towel to cinch above her breasts than before. She ignored how her bathrobe barely covered her belly. She ignored how her bra and panties dug into her tender flesh.

But she couldn’t ignore her reflection in the mirror.  Because it wasn’t her.  It couldn’t be. 

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Savanah’s heart matched the cadence of the pounding at the bedroom door as Chad announced the last thing she needed--

“Dinner is ready! Come eat!” 

                                                                    ***

After squeezing into a stretchy sweater dress that was far too warm for the weather, Savanah emerged from the bedroom and tip-toed into the kitchen--

Chad had set the dining table with fine silver, cloth napkins, and Cabernet-filled crystal that starkly contrasted the buffet of brown BBQ bags surrounding them.  He’d even lit candles, but considering the early hour, 4:30 PM, and their proximity to the paper bags, were less romantic than they were a fire hazard.    

Her boyfriend sat slumped on the sofa watching Sportscenter.  Taking advantage of the distraction, Savanah hurried to the table and sat down, only announcing her presence after dishes and takeout containers obscured her inflated figure.   

“Hey, babe.”

“Hey!  Welcome home!”  Chad rose from the sofa and walked to the table.  “Good to see you,” he said, adjusting his glasses.  Savanah had hoped he wouldn’t be wearing them.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Savanah said, scooching her chair closer to the table.  She allowed her bespectacled beau a perfunctory peck, then quickly dismissed him.  “Let’s eat.  I’m starved.”

Chad dutifully took his place at the opposite end, though he was clearly disappointed by the less-than-warm reception.  Savanah felt bad.  She was glad to see her longtime boyfriend; she just wished it was through a two-way mirror. 

With food as a distraction, however, it wasn’t long before the conversation flowed as fast as the wine.  Chad briefed Savanah on her European tour, while Savanah told Chad about her stay with Momma.  As the couple joked about which was “buggier,” Savanah’s robot or the muggy country nights, the pop star had pretty much forgotten about her weight.  Until…

“It looks like Dr. Wagner may need to make a few alterations to your humanoid,” Chad said, studying Savanah from across the table.

Panic flashed across Savanah’s BBQ-stained face.  “What do you mean?”

“That accent’s getting pretty thick.”

“Oh,” Savanah said, wiping her mouth.  “That’s what I get for spending a month with my bumpkin relatives.” 

“It’s cute.”  Chad gazed at her with eyes that were hungry for more than barbecue.  “And so are you.”

Savanah set down her fork.  There was no way she could hide her gain from Chad.  Might as well get it over with.  ‘Rip it off like a Band-Aid,’ as Momma used to say.  If only that were possible with her excess pounds.

“It’s not the only thing that got thicker,” Savanah said, leaning back in her chair to give her boyfriend a full view.

“Mmmmm,” Chad uttered in response to the fresh meat on his girlfriend rather than the bite of beef in his mouth.  “Came home with some curves, I see.”

Savanah pulled the hem of her argyle sweater dress, releasing the fabric pinched between her belly and boobs.  “More than a country road.”

“Hmmm, I suddenly feel like taking a drive.”

Savanah rolled her eyes.  “Chad, this is serious.”

“Why serious?”

“I’m getting fat.”

“Jesus, Savanah.  You’re not fat.”

“You haven’t seen me naked yet.”

Chad wiped his mouth, then threw his napkin on the table.  “That’s it—we’re skipping straight to dessert.” 

The lustful look in her boyfriend’s eyes restored Savanah’s confidence.  Of course, after a month of celibacy, he was probably willing to hump a dump truck.  “You’re not concerned?”

“Why should I be?  This is why I did what I did.  To help you loosen up.  Enjoy life.  Spend more time with family.  Eat something besides kale salads!”

Chad reached into his breast pocket and removed a folded slip of paper.  He unfolded it and slid it across the table to Savanah--

“You want to talk about big figures?  THIS is a big figure.”

It was a check made out to SG, LLC, Savanah’s corporation, for ten million dollars.  

“Jesus.  This is all from the tour?”

Chad nodded.  “I was going to deposit it, but I wanted you to see it first.” 

Savanah couldn’t take her eyes off the gargantuan number typed in the box.  “All I did was sit on my fat ass.”

“You’re welcome,” Chad said, extending his arms.

“But my movie starts shooting soon.  I can’t show up looking like this.”

“That’s not until next month.  What did you gain?  10-15 pounds?”

“Thirty!” 

A stunned look flashed across Chad’s face.  And she’d even rounded down.

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

“So do some crunches and switch back to kale salads.  Tell them you need extra time to recover from your tour.”

“I can’t do that.  They’ve already pushed things back.” 

“Well, there is another option.”

“What’s that?”

Chad took a long sip of wine, anticipating the reaction his statement would garner.  “Send your ‘bot.” 

“Are you serious?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not having a robot take my place in MY movie.”

“Not take your place.  Buy you time.  The first couple weeks are what?  Shop talk and table readings?  You don’t need to be there for that.”

Savanah considered it for a second.  A little extra time would certainly be useful as she worked her way back into shape.  Plus, she could avoid all the shmoozy glad-handing she hated. 

But no.  Like her belly in the shower, it was a slippery slope.  She didn’t want to rely on that German-engineered bucket of bolts for anything more than spare parts.

“No.  Keep that thing in Germany,” Savanah said with a dismissive wave of her hand.  Then, as it came to rest atop her belly, “I can handle this myself.”

Chad arched his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.  “Would you mind if I handled it first?”

Savanah’s head flopped back, and she stared at the ceiling.  Then, with a dramatic sigh, she rose from the table, took a few steps toward the bedroom, and coyly looked back over her shoulder--

"Fine."

                                                                    ***

Chad had a field day with Savanah’s new curves.  Like the rest of humanity, he’d always found her attractive, but now her body was new and improved.  She was like a remodeled rollercoaster, replete with tighter turns, steeper slopes, and deeper drops.  And just like when he was a kid riding the coasters at Six Flags Over Georgia, as soon as he got off, he wanted to get back on again.  It was thrilling! 

Savanah’s improved attitude played a large part in Chad’s renewed passions (at least as much as her other larger parts).  Sex with the superstar had become a war of attrition, a series of tentative actions that eventually led to one party giving up rather than a mutually satisfying conclusion, but now that her ‘let’s-get-this-over-with-so-I-can-do-something-else’ vibe was gone, Chad felt free to explore her body thoroughly and, in response to his VIP treatment, Savanah had granted him an all-access pass.

For her part, Savanah enjoyed the attention and the validation that the pounds she’d accumulated hadn’t turned her fat and frumpy.  At least not in the mind of her eager-for-beaver boyfriend.  Although she’d never admit it, she was equally captivated by her curves.  After years of primping in the mirror for photo shoots and performances, a different person was staring back now.  Someone who wasn’t fashionably thin but was still pretty.  More than pretty.  Hot.  Sexy even. 

Sexy.  That was a word she’d never associated with herself.  It helped that Chad couldn’t keep his hands off her, but she couldn’t keep her hands off herself either. She looked like the girls in the magazines her father used to hide under his mattress.  Those girls didn’t have her nascent potbelly, of course, but that didn’t really bother her.  Its protuberance, and the sudden emergence of child-bearing hips, alluded to what might have been and what could still be.

It was everyone else who was the problem.  It seemed whenever she and Chad were being amorous or dining on some rich post-coitus cuisine, she’d receive a call or text from her agent, a record exec, or one of the dozen members of her management team, to remind her of upcoming obligations that immediately pulled her back down to earth and onto the treadmill. 

Of course, there was no bigger obligation than her movie.  Savanah was confident she could drop 15-20 pounds before principal photography began.  It wasn’t ideal, as she’d still be packing at least ten extra pounds, but she figured most of that could be concealed…assuming they didn’t shoot the beach scenes first.  While she was OK with her plumpened condition in private, the thought of appearing in a bikini next to Angelina Jolie, who was set to play her mother in the film, or any of her nubile college-age co-stars for that matter, made her shudder. 

However, removing the pounds proved much more difficult than putting them on.  After a few melted away in the first week, the needle on the scale froze at 154 and refused to budge.

“Maybe this is your body’s natural weight,” Chad said in response to her frustration.

Savanah wanted to kill him.  What angered her the most was the fear that he might be right.

By the third week, Savanah’s attitude about her new pounds shifted from ‘might as well enjoy them while they're here’ to ‘what if they never go away?’  The panic fueled a steady diet of kale and cardio that produced little in the way of results.  Fourteen days before the director was to call ‘action!’ for the first time, Savanah was still in the 150s.

Then a bad situation got worse.

“What the fuck?”

Chad slowly pulled down the corner of his newspaper to reveal Savanah’s angry face.  He’d seen it a thousand times.  It usually meant he was about to get an earful for something he’d done, could have done, or was possibly considering. 

Only this time, her death stare wasn’t directed at him, but at what he was reading. 

“Good morning.”  Chad quickly folded up the paper and threw it on the kitchen table as if it might explode. “I didn’t think you’d be up so early.” 

Savanah was still struggling to break the habit of oversleeping she’d developed at her mother’s, so she’d set her alarm.  It’s blaring goose honk had made for a rude awakening—one that was getting ruder as the sleepy beauty gathered up Chad’s discarded tabloid.

“When did you get this?”

“This morning at 7-11.  Hot off the press, apparently.  I thought you said you weren’t going to leave the apartment until you dropped a few more pounds?”

Savanah had left her apartment only once since she’d been home—to grab some batteries for her treadmill at a sundry shop in the building’s lobby a few days ago.  She’d been inside hundreds of times and had never been hassled by paparazzi before.  The building’s security were supposed to keep them off the premises.

“I don’t think it was paparazzi,” Chad said, as if reading her mind.  “A professional didn’t take those.”

Savanah squinted at the photos and realized Chad was right.  They were out-of-focus and poorly framed…but no less damning.  If anything, the optics were made worse by the ones inside whatever shitty camera or iPhone had been used.  The blur made her belly look even bigger, and the misplaced focus called attention to the junk food displayed behind her.  

The worst part was the betrayal.  It was one thing to be stalked by the paparazzi wolves—she was used to that—but to be thrown to them by a neighbor, the shopkeeper, or even a member of the luxury high-rise’s staff, made Savanah want to crawl back into bed. 

Before she could make a run for the covers, Savanah’s phone erupted in The Imperial March, the ringtone assigned to her intimidating agent, Madelyn MacDowell.

Savanah swallowed hard and answered in the perkiest tone she could muster, “Hi Maddy.”

“Good morning, dear.  Savanah…did you see the Enquirer?”

“I did, and I can assure you I’m not pregnant.”

“That’s a relief,” Maddy sighed.  “So, the photos were doctored?”

“I wouldn’t say, ‘doctored.’  I may have enjoyed a bit too much schnitzel while I was in Germany.” 

Savanah laughed.  Her agent didn’t.

“Well, the producers want to meet with you before production begins.” 

“When?”

“Friday.”

“This Friday?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not pregnant!”

“Savanah, movie producers don’t like food babies any more than real ones.  Especially not on stars they’re paying $20 million.”

Savanah said nothing.

“I’ll send you the flight information.  A driver from the studio will pick you up.”

“Ok,” Savanah choked.  Then she slammed the phone down on the table.

Chad grimaced.  This wasn’t good.  Surely, he’d bear the wrath brewing inside his tumultuous girlfriend.

But she didn’t explode.  Instead, after a moment’s reflection, she locked her watery eyes on his and said flatly—

“Call Dr. Wagner.”  

                                                                    ***

Late-night talk show host Paul Padner addressed his studio audience and the millions of people watching from home with obvious excitement in his voice—

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen.  Our next guests are a cougar and a savannah.  No, it’s not Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, it’s two of the biggest stars on the planet—Angelina Jolie and Savanah Georgia!” 

While Paul Padner, a former stand-up known for his ribald celebrity impersonations, was prone to hyperbole, this was not one of those times.  Angelina Jolie was Hollywood royalty, and although she had become reclusive in recent years, she remained one of the world's most talented and beautiful women.  Savanah Georgia was simply the biggest pop star on the planet.  Having either one as a guest would have been considered a coup, but hosting both of them at once was historic.

The audience cheered as Larry Davis, the show’s bandleader, struck up a rousing rendition of “You Hold My Heart in Your Hands,” Savanah Georgia’s most recent hit.  After a few beats, the stars emerged from behind a gold curtain that obscured guests, wearing Prada and large smiles, and waved to the crowd as they made their way to the leather couch beside Paul’s desk.   

“Welcome to the show, ladies.”

“Thank you.”  Angelina turned to Savanah and clasped her hand.  “Though we prefer ‘bitches.’ 

Paul chuckled.  “Larry, have you ever seen two such fetching bitches?”

“Not since Westminster,” he replied.

The studio audience laughed.

“Are there any other nouns or pronouns that you’d prefer?”

Angelina whispered to Savanah, causing the singer to giggle.  “Angelina and I were wondering,” Savanah said to the flamboyant host.  “What pronouns do you prefer?”

“Hmmm…. I’d have to say that and there.”

“What?”

“Yes, growing up in the South, I was referred to as ‘that there idiot.’”

More laughter from the audience.

“You two seem close,” Paul continued as the laughter faded.  “Did you know each other before your film?”

The duo shook their heads. 

“Nope,” Savanah said, lifting Angelina’s hand in hers.  “We met on the first day of shooting.  We were fast friends.”

“More like Sisters,” Angelina corrected.

Savanah nodded.  “Sisters.”  

“Don’t you play mother-daughter in the film?”

“Thanks for pointing that out, Paul,” Angelina answered sarcastically.

“I’m sorry.  Spoiler alert!  Anyway, what else can you tell us about the movie?”

“Well, it’s called Holiday Cheer.  I play a retired cheerleader who comes out of retirement to help my daughter’s squad after they suffer an injury right before nationals.” 

“And hilarity ensues?”

“Hilarity ensues.”

“Angelina, you’re almost 50…”

“Thanks again, Paul.”

“Oh, come now.  That’s nothing a quick Internet search wouldn’t reveal.”

“Don’t believe everything you read online.”

Laughter from the audience.

“I was leading up to a compliment.”

“Oh, well, then please continue.”

“Ordinarily, with someone who’s…”

Angelina shot Paul a dirty look.

“…Beyond cheerleading age, you might expect a broken hip joke or a Rocky-esque ‘get in shape’ montage, but I can’t imagine that with you.  You’re stunning.”  Paul turns to the audience.  “Isn’t she stunning?  How do you do it?”

“Good old-fashioned diet and exercise.”  Angelina patted Savanah’s knee.  “Truthfully, this girl was great motivation.  I didn’t want to be shown up too badly.”

“And you,” Paul said, pivoting to Savanah.  “I read in The Enquirer that you were pregnant.” 

“Don’t believe everything you read offline.” 

Paul laughed, as did the audience.  “I had no idea you were funny!”

“Wait until you see the movie,” Angelina chimed.  “She’s hilarious.” 

“Well, as luck would have it, we have a clip from the film.  Would you care to set it up?”

“Sure,” Angelina said.  “I’ve just agreed to help Savanah’s squad, and this is our first workout together.  That’s when Savanah realizes there might be a couple of problems.”

“A couple of BIG problems,” Savanah added with a laugh.         

“Ok, here we go—a never-before-seen preview for Holiday Cheer!”

After the clip, the audience applauded rapturously.  A few even whistled. 

“That is so funny,” Paul gushed.  “You two have great chemistry.  Are you sure you didn’t know each other before?”

Savanah shook her head.  “We’re definitely wired the same, though.”

“Will there be any singing?”

“Of course!” Savanah exclaimed.  “And not just by me.”

“Oh, do tell!”

“Well,” Angelina hesitated.  “My last movie was Maria, the biopic on opera singer Maria Callas, and I took innumerable singing lessons to portray her.  Let’s just say I put them to use again.”

“So, there might be a ‘mother-daughter’ duet?  How exciting.  Hopefully, the lessons stuck better than the weight you gained for the role.”

“That was exaggerated,” Angelina said with downcast eyes.  “The film mostly focused on her later years in Paris when she was thin.”

“When were you in Paris?” Savanah interjected.

“Last Spring.”

“So was I!” Savanah gushed.

Angelina perked up. “Ah, Paris est si belle et la nourriture...”   

“N'est-ce pas bon?”

“Le meilleur!”

Paul swiveled in his seat, addressing Larry, “I’m just going to let them talk.”

“Your ratings might improve,” the balding bandleader responded, prompting another round of laughter from the audience.

“The only French I know is ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?’ Paul said, returning his attention to his beautiful guests. “Wait!  Don’t answer that question!  My wife is watching.”  Then he looked directly at the camera.  “Honey, please turn off the TV.” 

Savanah--the real Savanah--sitting naked on the couch in her Atlanta penthouse with a bowl of ice cream in her lap, had had enough.  She flipped off the TV, then she ‘flipped off’ the TV.

“Fuckers.”

Noticing the ice cream had melted into a soupy sludge of brownie and cheesecake chunks, Savanah tossed her spoon on the nearby coffee table and drank the rest directly from the bowl.  A bit dribbled from the corner of her mouth, down her chin, and onto her bare belly, its protuberance saving the leather from lactose intolerance.

After abandoning the empty bowl on the coffee table, Savanah burped and rubbed her swollen stomach, massaging the cold cream into her warm skin.  She was about to explore the unseen recesses beneath when she noticed the stack of unread mail beside her empty bowl. 

It had been piling up for weeks, but she suddenly felt compelled to go through it.  Perhaps there was a letter from Chad.   He was no wordsmith, but she was desperate for sentiments of longing or affection.  Something to douse the fire within her better than ice cream or her fingers.

There were none.  However, tucked within the hodgepodge of catalogs and solicitations was a small square envelope from the West Coast, addressed in an ornate script that bordered on Baroque.  The inside was equally opulent, hand-written in calligraphy on expensive, deckle-edge stationery:

Dear Savanah:

We have an important matter to discuss.  Please join me at my private villa at your earliest convenience.  The number below will provide you with discreet transportation.

Sincerely,

Angelina Jolie.

Beneath the phone number was a postscript:  

PS: Just you.  The real you. 

                                                                    ***

Three Months Earlier

Savanah inspected herself in the mirror, crinkling her button nose at the hints of cellulite on the backs of her thighs.  She wore a stretchy blue tennis skirt and an even stretchier green cashmere sweater with a plunging neckline.  At least the incongruous combo dug from the back of her closet fit. 

Barely.    

She had lost another five pounds, but the twenty that remained from her month-long feeding frenzy on her family’s farm weren’t going quietly.  They still screamed “Look at me” from the shelf of her jutting ass and the swell of her unsucked tummy. 

She wished Chad were there.  To help her relieve some tension if nothing else.  He wouldn’t be bothered by the junk that refused to leave her trunk, or the milky slivers of skin that kept peeking between the articles of clothing like a curtain, or the way her crucifix dangled above the shadowy den of sin created by her plumped-up cleavage.  He would think she looked sexy.

Chad had left for Hollywood three weeks before with her custom humanoid. After Dr. Wagner assured her that the design flaw that precipitated its need to wear a neckerchief (which had started a fashion trend amongst her ‘Savanah Nation Army’ as well as the general populace) had been dealt with, Savanah had given the OK for it to represent her at the pre-production meeting that would determine both her fitness and her fate.

“Everything went great!” Chad had gushed on the phone following the meeting’s conclusion.   

“Excellent,” Savanah sighed, creating an echoey wind in the receiver.  “There were no hiccups with the…the…the thing?”

“Nope.  She looked and sounded great.  She even referenced a student film the director made ten years ago and asked the producer about his son with cerebral palsy.  I didn’t know that, did you?  Anyway, they think you’re a rock star.”

“I am a rock star.”  Savanah’s intended sarcasm came out weakly as if she didn’t quite believe it herself.

“Of course, hon.  You know what I meant.” 

“When are you coming back?”

“I’m not.”

“What?” 

“They want Savanah involved in some of the pre-production meetings.”

It was weird to hear Chad refer to her in the third person as if he were speaking to someone else.  Savanah didn’t like it.   

“Why?”

“They want her opinion on a few things.  I wouldn’t worry about it.  Formalities mostly.”

“I don’t want that THING making decisions on my movie.”

“She won’t be.  Just do what you need to do, and then you can join me in a couple of weeks.  I’ll brief you on everything that happens in the meantime.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Hang out.  Walk the beach.  Check out Hollywood Boulevard.”  When Savanah didn’t respond, Chad added, “Think about you.”

“Good answer.” 

“Love ya, babe.”

Chad had been in Tinsel Town for less than twenty-four hours and already sounded like he’d gone Hollywood.  Nevertheless, Savanah returned his sentiment—"Love you, too”—before hanging up the phone.  Then she wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and rummaged around for something to eat.  

Despite countless hours on the treadmill, Savanah had done too much rummaging in the weeks since. She thought being alone with no distractions would provide the perfect environment for her to focus on her figure, but with nothing to do but diet, she had spent too much time California Dreamin’ about what was going on along the Golden Coast without her.  Those thoughts invariably turned sour and sent her searching for something sweet. 

Now judgment day was upon her.  Savanah was scheduled to travel to LA in the morning and her bot was boxed up and ready to be shipped back to Concurrent Technologies.  Maybe Chad could find her some shapewear before she reported on set?  Or perhaps she could fake a cold and buy herself a few days of fasting?   

Fanfare from her cell phone interrupted her thoughtful self-inspection.  Grabbing it off the counter, she was relieved to see it was Chad. 

“Hey, babe.”

“Hey,” came the weary voice on the other end.  Since his recap of that initial production meeting, Chad had been Johnny Sunshine.  During their subsequent conversations, he’d been full of enthusiastic ‘wonderfuls’ and dismissive ‘don’t worry about its,’ but tonight he sounded beat.  “How’s it going?” 

“I’m still about ten pounds short of where I want to be,” Savanah frowned in the mirror as she spoke into the phone.  “I’m trying to find something flattering to wear so it won’t look like I blew up overnight.  Maybe I could pretend to be sick while we catch some sun and burn off a few pounds in the bedroom?” 

Savanah expected a laugh or an eager affirmation, but her suggestion was met with silence. 

“I have some bad news,” Chad finally uttered.

“What?”

“They’ve decided to shoot the beach scenes first.”

“When?”

Savanah heard Chad swallow.

“Day after tomorrow.”

Savanah imagined her doughy body in a bikini.  Then she vocalized what the director would undoubtedly say if she showed up on the set like that: “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry.”  

“Who made that call?” 

“W-what?”

Savanah’s eyes narrowed to slits.  “Who thought filming the beach scenes first was a good idea?”

“It…it…it was a group decision.  There’s a cold front moving through next week.”

“Who suggested it?”

Chad didn’t answer.  He didn’t have to.  She had suggested it.  At least who everyone besides her boyfriend thought was her.  And then, as now, he had remained silent.

“Fuck you.”  Savanah mashed the digital red button and threw the phone against the mirror, sending it clattering into the sink.     

Savanah stood with her hands on her hips, stewing in anger and betrayal.  So much for her loyal boyfriend.  So much for her trip to Hollywood.  So much for becoming an actress.  So much for the movie destined to make her a megastar of stage and screen. 

Gradually, the harsh jumble of emotions faded away, leaving a surprising one in its wake—

Relief.

                                                                    ***

Savanah expected Chad to call back immediately.  Beg her forgiveness.  Throw himself at her mercy.  He had done it countless times before, even when she knew, deep down, that he shouldn’t have to.  He was a bit of a…What was the word kids use nowadays?  A ‘simp’?

But he didn’t.

It was only a matter of time, though.  There was no way Chad would trust that glorified Teddy Ruxpin doll to star in a 100-million-dollar movie.  Surely, he would call before filming commenced.    

But he didn’t.

Of course, he’d call after the thing crashed and burned.  It was one thing to copy a performance and sing songs that had been sung a hundred times before.  A robot might be able to mimic movement, cadence, and inflection, but could it bring to life words on a page?  With no real experience to draw upon, could it “find the motivation,” as her acting coach always said, to manifest a compelling and convincing character from scratch?  No.  Chad would call, begging her to rescue the production.  To save her from herself.

But he didn’t.

Fueled by anger and expectation, Savanah spent hours on the treadmill.  She lost another five pounds.  Her puffy tummy, thick thighs, and heavy breasts were still evident when she was naked, but she looked almost back to normal when clothed.  Perceptive cast and crew members might detect a subtle difference, but it wouldn’t be obvious, at least not once they finished filming the beach scenes.  That was only a small part of the movie, and she would be ready to take over once Chad called to tell her that they were done.

But he didn’t.

He’s not going to call, Savanah finally concluded after Chad’s second week away.  She was foolish to think he would.  He was living the high life in Hollywood.  Hobnobbing with celebrities during the day and fucking her facsimile at night. 

Was that…thing even programmed to have sex?  Of course, it was.  It had to be.  There was no way an oil tycoon or tech billionaire would shell out big bucks for a ‘bot they couldn’t bang.  “Companionship,” was the word Dr. Wagner had used during their first meeting.  She remembered the obese scientist’s overly familiar greeting.  “I feel like I already know you,” he had said.  Perhaps he already did.  Intimately. 

Now it was Chad’s turn.  She remembered how he had leered at her Double-D’d double as it bounced around singing ‘Happy Birthday.’  No telling what kind of kinky sex games he was teaching it to play.  Making it do all the things she wouldn’t.  With any luck, it would malfunction during oral sex.  

Savanah wanted to go out on the balcony and scream…but couldn’t.  She was supposed to be a thousand miles away.  She wondered what would happen if she just flew out to LA.  Showed up on set.  Confronted her imposter.  Brought the whole charade down in a spectacular explosion.

Of course, she’d be caught in the blast, no matter how satisfying it might feel to light the match.  Her career would be over.  Even worse, she’d be a laughingstock.  She pictured herself being dragged from the set as Chad and her bitch-bot shook their heads piteously.  She could see the tabloid headlines now: Chubby Savanah Georgia Imposter Crashes Movie Shoot.

No, it was best to let things play out.  She could survive a bad performance.  She had endured them before.  The difference was that this one wouldn’t be of her own volition.  That’s what killed her.  The loss of control.  Her career had become a rudderless ship captained by a jilted lover and a sexed-up scrap heap of spare parts pulled from a Dell computer.  All she could do was hope they didn’t run it aground.

Meanwhile, she was a prisoner in her own home.  Actually, it was worse than that.  At least prisoners got to go outside and mingle with other convicts occasionally.  She was in solitary confinement. 

So, she indulged in the one thing someone stuck in solitary was entitled to--

Food.

                                                                    ***

Present Day

Savanah stared at the calligraphed note, trying to make sense of it.  Perhaps it was simply an innocent invitation from one star to another?  Now that the movie shoot was finished, Angelina merely wanted to continue their relationship.  The “important matter to discuss” could be anything…a publicity tour, another film project, or--if Angelina’s self-proclaimed vocal prowess was to be believed--the possibility of recording together.

Savanah carried the note into the kitchen and pulled another pint of ice cream from the freezer.

Maybe there wasn’t “an important matter to discuss” at all?  Maybe it was an inside joke?  Something the director would always say on set, or an excuse the two would use before sneaking off together.  Savanah imagined Angelina and her bot racing off to one another’s production trailers, giggling like schoolgirls as they sipped cocktails and shared gossip.  

Savanah took a spoon from a drawer and stabbed the rock-hard cream until enough was chiseled away for a bite.  Then she stabbed some more.

But why mail it here?  The pair were currently on live TV together.  Why not just hand it to her? Or save the stationery and invite her in person?

And then there was the cryptic postscript caveat: “Just you.  The real you.”  She could understand not wanting her to bring Chad.  He was socially awkward and probably had made a pest of himself on set. “The real you” part was harder to get around.  Obviously, it related to her bot.  Either Angelina felt Savanah wasn’t being herself on set…or knew she wasn’t herself. 

Savanah felt Occam’s razor press against her throat.  That had to be it.  What had given it away?  Her bot’s behavior?  Chad’s loose lips?  Or was it something else?  And to what end?  Some sort of blackmail scheme?

There was only one way to know for sure.

Savanah picked up her phone and dialed the number on the card—

“Ms. Georgia?” queried a man’s voice on the other end.

“Yes.”

“Ms. Jolie will be glad you called.  We have a plane standing by at Dekalb-Peachtree.  Shall I send a car?”

Any doubt Savanah had as to the intended target of the actress’s invitation was gone.  Dekalb-Peachtree was a regional executive airport that catered to corporations and the uber-rich.  Why would a plane be on standby in Atlanta if Angelina believed she was sharing a stage with Savanah in Hollywood?  

Savanah hesitated, staring at her ice cream. She guessed the person on the phone wouldn't be forthcoming with more information, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to question the mystery man about potentially life-altering matters anyway.

So, she said the one thing she knew would lead to answers—

“Please.”

                                                                    ***

“Please be ready to go in thirty minutes,” said the man’s deep and soothing voice on the phone. It sounded like a DJ on a smooth jazz station. "We will call back when your car is ready.”

“How long—"

—click—

“Wait!”

Savanah was right to believe the man wouldn’t answer questions.  She didn’t know how long she would be gone.  How to dress.  What to pack.  Anything. 

Of course, the latter two questions were dictated by what still fit, and the answer was pretty much nothing.  Sweatpants, hoodies, and a couple of oversized T-shirts—that was it. So, Savanah stuffed herself into one of each and a second set into a duffel bag with her toothbrush. 

Since she hadn’t eaten dinner (apart from her pint-and-a-half of ice cream appetizer), she boiled a hot dog and gulped it down while gathering a few last items.  That’s when she glimpsed herself in the bathroom mirror. 

Savanah nearly choked on her dog. 

The bathroom—with its walls of forced reflection and its steely-eyed scale standing sentinel in the corner—had become her arch nemesis.  Other than answering nature’s call, she gave it a wide berth.  She hadn’t even showered in a week. 

It showed.  Her hair was greasy, limp, and lifeless…as was the rest of her.  At least her hair sported the remnants of her signature streaks; otherwise, the dumpy mess staring back was unrecognizable.    

"What am I doing?” Savanah thought.  She wouldn’t let her maids see her like this, much less one of the most glamorous movie stars on the planet.  She needed more time.

Savanah shoved what remained of the hot dog into her mouth and scurried back to the kitchen.  She grabbed her phone off the island just as it rang.  

“Mmm-hmm?” Savanah murmured.

“Your car is waiting downstairs.”  

Savanah swallowed hard, but the man was gone before she finished her bite.  She stared at the screen, debating whether to call back and cancel the whole thing. 

Five minutes later, security footage captured a frumpy-looking woman in a hoodie and a Covid mask slipping past the doorman, who was attending to someone else, and into the back of an idling black Suburban with a Dekalb-Peachtree logo.

                                                                    ***

The SUV lurched forward the second Savanah closed the door, pushing her back against the leather seat. 

“Hello?” Savanah asked tentatively.

A smoky glass partition separated her from the driver.  It was so heavily tinted she could barely make out their silhouette.  She couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.

“Hello, Ms. Georgia.” The same mellifluous voice from the phone came over the vehicle’s speakers.  “It’s a short drive to the airport.  Please make yourself comfortable.  There are refreshments in the center console.”

Savanah lifted the console’s cover to find champagne and shrimp chilling over ice.  She wasn’t hungry but popped a few in her mouth before filling a flute from an overhead rack.  It had been months since she’d received any sort of star treatment and wasn't going to miss the opportunity.

Apart from the pop star’s mastications, the ride was silent.  By the time the Suburban arrived at the airport—pulling directly onto the tarmac adjacent to a midsize private jet with its ladder extended—the shrimp were gone, and Savanah was well into her third pour. 

“We’ve arrived," came the voice again.

“You comin’?” Savanah asked as she swilled the last of her glass and hung it back on the rack.

There was no reply.

Savanah shrugged and, after wiping away a spot of champagne that had dribbled from the flute onto the leather interior, grabbed her duffel and exited the vehicle.  It peeled away the second she shut the door.

“Hey!”

Savanah watched the SUV cut across the runway, speed through a gap in a chain-link fence, and race toward a row of Gable-roofed hangars that reminded her of Monopoly houses.  The vehicle vanished beyond them, leaving only a cloud of dust accompanying Savanah on the tarmac.   

When no one else came to greet her, Savanah boarded the empty plane.  It was posh, with padded leather seats rivaling the best that Lazy Boy had to offer, tinted portal windows as large as serving platters, and dynamic LED lighting that made it seem more like a nightclub lounge.  

“Please find a seat, Ms. Georgia.  We have clearance for takeoff.”  

Savanah followed the now-familiar voice's instructions and plopped into the closest chair.  By the time she buckled her seatbelt, the cabin door had closed and the plane was beginning to taxi.

“It’s a five-hour flight.  Please relax and enjoy the ride.”

Savanah stared at the closed cockpit door. “Where are you?  Are you the pilot?”

Again, no reply.  Savanah doubted whether her questions were being heard at all.  

Rather than continuing the one-sided conversation, Savanah settled into her seat as the plane taxied down the runway and, after building speed, lifted into the midnight sky.  The vibrant lights of Atlanta filled her portal like a swarm of fireflies.  Minutes later, there was nothing but inky blackness. 

                                                                  ***

“Good morning, Ms. Georgia.  We've landed.”

Savanah rolled her head within the confines of her comfy headrest and looked outside.   It was as dark as it had been in Atlanta.  All she could see was a narrow swath of tarmac illuminated by runway lights and the soft glow of city lights on the horizon.  It was almost as if she hadn’t left.

Savanah lifted her phone from her lap.  4:37 AM.  She yawned and unbuckled her seatbelt, awaiting further instructions. 

None came. 

Savanah rose from her seat to find the cabin door open, its ladder extended.  At the base of the ladder idled another black Suburban.  Along its side, the vaportrail of an illustrated jet underscored the words, Van Nuys Airport. 

The groggy singer grabbed her bag, descended the ladder, and clambered into the back of the vehicle.

“It’s thirty minutes to Ms. Jolie’s villa.  Please make yourself comfortable.  There’s coffee in the console.  One cream.  Two sugars.”

“How did you—” Savanah began to query the mystery man as to how he knew how she liked her coffee, but stopped.  He wouldn’t respond.  Besides, she already knew the answer.  After all, his boss had probably watched her humanoid drink it that way for months.

Savanah lifted the console’s lid.  Next to the coffee cup was a cardstock food container—emblemized Melvin’s of Hollywood—that held the largest cinnamon roll she'd ever seen.  Cinnamon rolls had been her favorite as a child.  Savanah frequently baked them with her mother, and they had undoubtedly contributed to her prepubescent poundage. 

The pop star removed the container and set it in her lap. The aroma of the fresh-baked sweet intermingled with the fresh-brewed java was heavenly.  Buttery icing oozed over the pastry’s sides, between its frosted fissures, and onto her fingers as she tore off a small bite to try with her coffee.

Delicious.

She broke off a larger piece.  Then another.  Then another.  Soon, the intermittent sips of coffee were abandoned completely in favor of the roll’s decadent flavor.  Soon after that, the frosted treat was gone.

As Savanah licked her fingers and wiped away the residue with the single cocktail napkin provided, she tried to remember the last time she’d had a cinnamon roll.  Her 13th Birthday?  Surely, she’d had one since then.  Regardless, it had been years.

Or had it?  Perhaps “Melvin’s of Hollywood” was the caterer on set?  Had her bot made a pig of itself?  Raiding the catering table without restraint?  And had Angelina noticed its affinity for sweets just as she’d noticed its coffee preference?

Abandoning the overmatched napkin, Savanah wiped her hands on her t-shirt, her sticky fingers lingering against the belly billowing beneath— 

Of course, her bot didn't need willpower or self-restraint.  It couldn’t get fat.

                                                                       ***

Thirty minutes later, the Suburban serpentined up a secluded coastal drive beneath a canopy of high clouds tinged orange in the early morning light.  As it negotiated the switchbacked hillside lined with a firework-like display of purple, yellow, and red flora, blue waves burst into foamy sprays of white against the craggy coastline below.  Savanah had toured the West Coast more than a dozen times but had never seen anything so beautiful.  Of course, it was hard to see beyond the throngs of fans and busy tour buses filled with musicians, promoters, and sycophants. 

That’s when Savanah realized she’d just traveled 2,000 miles without seeing a soul.

If anything rivaled the stunning vista, it was the villa itself.  Savanah had pictured a cozy cottage by the sea, but this was more like a sprawling tourist resort.  Rather than blighting the natural beauty, however, it accented it, nestling seamlessly against the cliffside and incorporating the curvilinear topography into its design. It looked like something the Ancient Puebloans might have built had they survived to become architects to the stars. 

The car entered a roundabout and stopped beneath what appeared to be a cliffy outcropping but was actually a second-floor balcony.  Savanah waited.  Although she’d yet to interact with anyone, she thought that might change now that she’d arrived at her ultimate destination.  That the driver might open the door for her and carry her bag.  Or an attendant would scurry from the villa to do the same.

Nope.

Sighing, the pop star grabbed her duffel and pushed through the door with her shoulder.  The instant it closed behind her, the Suburban continued through the roundabout and began its descent.  The singer squinted as it passed, trying to glimpse the driver, but it was moving too fast, and its windows were too heavily tinted.

After taking a moment to gather herself—running sticky fingers through matted hair and brushing bits of cinnamon from her shirt—she approached a set of heavy oak doors.  A small button glowed beside them.  Savanah pressed it.

Seconds later, a familiar voice crackled from an unseen speaker, but it wasn’t the mellifluous mystery man who had guided the singer’s 2,000-mile journey from Atlanta to the Pacific. 

It was Angelina Jolie.

“The door is open.  Come in and make yourself comfortable.  I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Ok, thank you!” Savanah gushed, fighting the urge to wave at the security camera perched overhead. 

She turned the brass handle on the door and, as promised, it opened into a large foyer.  The regal room featured rich wood paneling and contemporary tables and chairs that were more modern art than functional furniture. A second-floor balcony with wrought iron railing rimmed it on all four sides.

Along the far wall, a pair of windowed doors led to a small footpath. The path wound down the hill and disappeared amidst a flourish of flora, before reemerging at a private cove. Beyond the cove, the sea stretched to the horizon, blending with the skyline. Its transition from dark to light was like a monochromatic abstract painting.

Savanah was so captivated by the view that she didn’t notice that she was no longer alone.

“Do you like it?”

The startled singer pivoted to find herself face-to-face with Angelina Jolie.  The actress was every bit as gorgeous and glamorous as Savanah envisioned.

With one notable exception—

She was fat!

***

Angelina waddled past Savanah and opened heavy curtains on a large window adjacent to the double doors. This allowed more light and expanded the already impressive vista. “How was your trip? Did you like my little puddle-jumper?”

“It’s beautiful.” Savanah finally got around to answering the actress’s first question.  The one about the view.  The next two still hadn’t registered.  It took her brain longer to process things with the sensory overload in front of her.

“Isn’t she a peach?” The actress smiled.  It was a smile Savanah had seen onscreen hundreds of times, but was somehow even more beautiful in person. Even though the smiler was more than twice the size as the last time Savanah had seen her. 

Nine hours ago, on live television. 

The corpulent actress eased open a drawer set into a built-in bookcase and removed a photograph.  Her smile turned wistful as she handed it to Savanah.  “The last time I flew her I couldn’t even buckle my seatbelt.”

Savanah was still processing the photo as Angelina removed it from her frozen fingers. 

“I’ve lost a fair bit of weight since then,” the actress said, returning it to the drawer. “It’s good motivation.”

The woman currently blocking the sunlight pouring through the ocean-view window was certainly smaller than the woman blocking the plane’s aisle in the photograph, but reconciling either as Angelina Jolie was nearly impossible.  The woman in the picture was quite possibly the fattest woman Savanah had ever seen, and the singer had seen her share…especially growing up in rural Georgia. 

She was bigger than Marge Baxter, a middle-aged black woman who Savanah would occasionally get stuck behind at the Piggly Wiggly as she crept down the aisles on an underpowered electric cart that was even wheezier than she was.  She was bigger than Mr. Billings, her fifth-grade teacher, whose giant belly frequently wiped away notes from the blackboard before Savanah could transcribe them.  She was even bigger than her mother, who had given up all pretense of keeping her figure after Savanah’s father had died.  During Savanah’s visit to the family farm last Spring, her mother’s weight waffled around 400 pounds...and a few extra waffles were probably all it would take to swell her beyond that morbidly obese border permanently.

And yet, Savanah felt her mother would still be able to make it down the aisle of a plane. How did it ever reach a point that Angelina Jolie, the sylphlike star of stage and screen, couldn’t?

“You have questions,” Angelina said, breaking the silent stare-off between two of the biggest stars on the planet.  In her case, both literally and figuratively.

Savanah nodded slowly.  “I do.”

The one-time sex symbol turned her wistful gaze to the ocean.  It looked as if she were pondering the same question Savanah was—

“Where did it all go wrong?”

With her eyes still locked on the sea, Angelina suddenly proposed something Savanah wasn’t prepared for in any way, shape, or—considering the paltry contents of her duffel—fashion.

“Why don’t we take a swim?”

When Savanah hesitated, Angelina quickly added, “Don’t worry.  The cove is completely private.  No one can get within a mile.”

“It’s not that,” Savanah said, lifting her duffel. “I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

The actress waved away the triviality.  “I’m sure I have a suit that’ll fit.  What are you, a size 12?”

Savanah laughed.  She didn’t mean to.  It just came out.  She was size four.  She’d been a size four her entire adult life.  An easy size four.  Even during Covid, when she and Chad ordered takeout every night, she remained a size four. 

Sure, her size fours didn’t fit right now, but that was a momentary blip on her life’s radar. But size 12?  That hefty number suggested less a blip than a blob.  She’d read somewhere that Marilyn Monroe had been a size 12 during her unhappy marriage to Arthur Miller and Savanah distinctly remembered thinking, what a heifer! 

Now that number was being applied to her.  Laughable.  

Angelina didn’t laugh.  She merely pointed up the stairs.  “Well, whatever it is, I’m certain I have it.  Go up to my bedroom.  First door on the right.  In the bottom drawer of my dresser are all the bathing suits I’ve retired.”  The celebrated movie star patted her well-padded paunch.  “I’m planning to unretire them at some point, but they might as well get some use in the meantime, right?”

“Sure,” Savanah shrugged.  “I’ll stretch their sea legs.”

Angelina laughed.  “Just don’t stretch them too much!”

Savanah laughed, too, but as she trudged up the stairs, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Oscar-winning actress had just made a fat joke at her expense.

The upstairs was as nice as the downstairs.  Formal and classy, but not oppressively so.  Rich wood floors and paneling with the occasional splash of modern art.  It was a bit surprising that all the wood in the home hadn’t swollen faster than the homeowner in the salty sea air, but--unlike the body of the homeowner--it had obviously been well-treated.  

Moments later, Savanah stood naked in said homeowner’s bedroom, rifling through their dresser in search of a bathing suit.  The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on the singer.  It evoked the surreal nightmares she would occasionally have when she was over-tired or over-stressed before the release of a new album or the start of a world tour.  The curtain would open on a vast uninhabited desert, or her voice would chirp like Kermit the Frog’s, or any number of embarrassing, career-killing vignettes played by the warped projectionist at the back of her subconscious.  She always awoke with a fevered jolt…but at least she could joke about them with Chad over coffee the next morning.  This time, however, her rude awakening was no laughing matter.  

Savanah knew better than to try the size 2 buried at the base of the drawer beneath the mountain of nylon and polyester, but she couldn’t resist the fashionable size 4 above it.  It didn’t fit.  Not even close.  Nor did the size 6.  Or the size 8.

The droning cadence of a cheer routine—like the ones she was supposed to perform with her Oscar-winning host on-screen—popped into her head.   

Two, four, six, eight, take a look who’s gained some weight!  Savanah!  Savanah!  Mooooo, Savanah!

Higher up the stack, the suits were less stylish and less worn, and labels from froufrou brands La Perla and La Blanca gave way to Lane Bryant and BloomChic.  The fact that Angelina Jolie shopped online for plus-sized swimwear might have been amusing had the first swimsuit to fit—barely—not been a Lane Bryant tankini with spaghetti straps.  The tag was still on it. 

Size 12.

Savanah briefly considered digging for a size 14.  She didn’t like the way the 12 clung to her belly and revealed a thick swath of pale flesh beneath its crest, but the search had already taken forever.  The urbane Angelina probably suspected her bumpkin guest was busily stuffing her duffel with souvenirs.  So, Savanah ripped off the tag and, not seeing a trash can, placed it on the dresser beside a framed photo of a tanned, skinny, and bikini-clad Angelina Jolie on the beach beside an equally slim and attractive redhead in a demure blue dress. 

Savanah thought it might be the woman laughing at the back of the plane in the photo Angelina had shown her downstairs, but she wasn’t certain. Regardless, the way whoever it was ogled her famous beach buddy’s cleavage suggested she wasn’t family but more than just a friend.

“Angelina?”  Savanah descended the stairs to find the living room empty.  “Ms. Jolie?” she asked again.  There was a sticky note stuck to the double doors leading to the backyard footpath.  The actress had apparently gotten tired of waiting. 

Come to the cove.

A.J.

Savanah did as the note instructed and tip-toed out the door and down the path.  Fortunately for her bare feet, the trail was well-maintained and soft with sand, and, after winding through a smattering of coastal vegetation, it emerged into a pristine cove the size of a tennis court.  Its sand was so flat and smooth that they probably could play tennis if they had a net and an inclination for exercise.  As it was, the cove’s only dimpled blemishes resided on the thighs of the obese woman splashing through the surf.

“You made it!” Angelina kicked through the foam and shuffled up the beach toward Savanah.  When she got close, she frowned.  “Is that one of mine?”

Savanah nodded.  “It still had the tag on it.  I hope that was Ok.”

“Of course!” Angelina gushed, her smile returning.  “I’m glad somebody’s finally getting some use out of it.  I was shooting up the size charts pretty fast back then.  What do folks in your industry call it?  ‘With a bullet’?”   

Savanah gave a tight-lipped smile.  If she kept shooting up the charts as fast as Angelina, she’d want that bullet for herself.

The actress padded around the singer, examining her from behind.  The latter stood up straighter as if being inspected by a drill sergeant. 

“It looks good!” Angelina concluded.  “Size 12, right?”

Savanah winced and nodded again. 

“I knew it!  It takes one to know one!”  When Savanah shot her a dubious glance, Angelina clarified, “Not that I’m a size 12 anymore.  I’m talking in general.  Being a bigger girl.”

Angelina went to adjust the hem of Savanah’s spandex swimsuit where a pyramid-shaped in-cut had folded under itself, but the singer slapped her hand away--

“I’m NOT a big girl.”

Angelina reared back, stunned, but quickly regained her composure.  “I see.  My mistake.”  Then she nodded toward Savanah’s belly.  “Can you even see your feet beneath that thing?”

Now, it was Savanah’s turn to be stunned. “Of course, I can…" Her voice trailed off before she could add, “See my feet," because she couldn’t.

Before Savanah could find her feet, Angelina spun her around and--to the plumpening pop star’s dismay--smacked her backside like a mother disciplining an unruly child. 

“There’s an even bigger bulge back here!”

Savanah’s cheeks burned like she’d spent the entire day in the sun.  She lurched away and then pivoted, ready to unleash a volley of obscenities, but the pounding of her heart in her throat blocked the words. 

“At least you won’t have to worry about putting suntan lotion on those shade-soaked tootsies," Angelina continued. "The sun won't touch them. And if things go for you the same way they went for me--” The corpulent actress's fierce expression softened, and her piercing blue eyes moistened. "Soon you won’t be able to reach them, either.” 

Big girls don’t cry, Savanah thought, surprised to find the dusty song lyric swimming amidst the tsunami of emotions in her head.  Maybe it was Frankie Valli’s silly falsetto or the tragic look on her host’s still-beautiful face, but by the time Savanah finally found her voice, its vitriol had died away. 

“What happened?”

Angelina shook her head. 

“Does it have to do with the woman in the picture you showed me?  The same one you’re on the beach with in that photo in your bedroom.”

“Maggie,” Angelina sniffed.  “That’s another one I keep for motivation.”

“Who is she?”

Angelina stared out to sea as if searching for the answer to Savanah’s question somewhere on the horizon.  Then her face brightened as if she had found it, and she took off toward the shoreline. 

“Race you!” she shouted.

Savanah had no choice but to chase the waddling actress into the surf.

***

The ocean was bracingly cold.  Savanah’s instinct was to race back up the beach, but she wanted answers more than she needed warmth.  So, she trudged behind Angelina through the turgid water until the churning surf smoothed into a waist-deep pool.    

The sand beneath her feet gave slightly as she padded after the actress, caressing her feet like custom insoles.  It wasn’t like the crowded beaches she’d visited a few times as a child, which were littered with jagged landmines waiting to explode into the tender toes of the nearest swimmer.  Usually, rocks or shells, but occasionally bottlecaps or bits of broken glass.  Rather than risking tetanus or getting sucked out to sea by the violent Atlantic tide, Savanah spent most of her time plopped in the sand building moats and sandcastles.  Truth be told, she didn’t care for that much either.  She was always picking cigarette butts out of the spires and repairing damage caused by her little sister or careless passersby. 

But this.  Savanah closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, enjoying its warm caress as the roaring surf serenaded her ears.  She could get used to this.

When she opened her eyes again, Angelina was gone. 

“Angelina?”

The singer pirouetted in the waist-deep water, but there was no sign of the superstar.  For a panicked second, Savanah worried she wouldn’t reemerge.  That she had drowned, or been dragged off by a shark, or—and this next thought brought a lump to her throat so large that she couldn’t call her name a second time—had intentionally swum out to sea. 

Had that been why Angelina had summoned her in the first place?  To assist in the troubled actress’s suicide?       

Before Savanah could convince herself of that or any other nightmare scenarios, the water behind her erupted, and a shove sent her face-first into the frigid foam.  She sprang from its icy chill like a Jack-in-the-box amidst a torrent of laughter from Angelina.  “Why did you do that?” she gasped.

“You looked like you needed it.  Isn’t it invigorating?”

“It’s fucking cold.”

“Oh, lighten up, Georgia.”

Savanah wanted to tackle the bloated bitch, but there was something in the starlet’s playful blue eyes and mischievous smile that washed away most of her anger. “You lighten up,” the singer said with a rakish grin and a splash of water.

“I already have.”  Angelina floated effortlessly away from Savanah’s barrage.  “My tomb-raiding days may be done, but I’m still pretty graceful out here.”

Savanah gave chase, but the deepening water and incoming currents pushed against her new girth like wind against a sail. 

“C’mon, Georgia, catch me.”  Angelina teased Savanah’s ponderous pursuit on her back, gently kicking away anytime Savanah got close. “You can do it!”

Savanah felt her anger return.  Surely, she could catch a woman who, although not nearly as fat as she was in the photo she’d been shown, still didn’t appear to be much south of 300 pounds. 

“C’mon, Georgia!”

As Angelina continued her coquettish taunts, the subtext oozing from her derisive use of the singer’s stately surname hit Savanah harder than the incoming waves.

C’mon, tubby, catch me!

To the circling seagulls, it must have looked like a bull charging a matador.  Whenever Savanah threatened, Angelina quickly dove beneath the waves or released a couple of kicks, and the gap between them grew. 

“No fair,” Savanah wheezed.  “You’ve got home-field advantage.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, Georgia.”

The pursuit continued for a few more minutes, with Angelina mercifully leading Savanah back to shore instead of out to sea.  By the time the singer staggered onto the beach and collapsed on her back beside the corpulent superstar, her anger and energy were gone.  She couldn’t even resist Angelina’s gentle pat on her belly as it arched skyward in search of oxygen.

“Well, it looks like we got our exercise for the day!”  The actress beamed.

Once again, Angelina’s roguish expression melted away Savanah’s animosity and her rounded stomach shook with laughter beneath the starlet’s still-slender fingers.  She was exhausted.  She was exasperated.  But for the first time in months, she felt alive.     

“Tell me about Maggie,” Savanah said after her laughter subsided.

Angelina’s smile disappeared.  For a moment, Savanah feared she might get up and walk away, but then she stared out to sea and slowly began reciting a monologue that had undoubtedly been written in her head for some time--

“I commissioned Maggie about six months after my replicant.  People think I’m a recluse.  I mean, I am to a degree, but I’m not antisocial.  I still need personal interaction.  That became…problematic with my replicant around.”     

Savanah nodded, knowing all too well what she was going through and suddenly wondering if that was the real reason she’d been summoned.  It’s lonely at the top, Savanah thought, remembering Dr. Wagner’s words from their first meeting.

“I wasn’t looking for romance,” Angelina continued. “I just wanted someone here with me besides me.” The actress swallowed hard and brushed some sand off her knee.  “Another presence in the house.  A little companionship.” 

Savanah was doubtful.  If all Angelina wanted was companionship, she could’ve gotten a dog.  She didn’t have to create a custom-made supermodel.  Still, she didn’t argue.  “But she became more?”

Angelina’s blue eyes moistened. “I suppose it was inevitable.  All that time alone together.  In many ways, she was the perfect lover.  She was never tired.  Never grumpy.  She was always up for anything, so we began doing everything.  Her energy was contagious.”

“It was much more than just sex, though.  This is going to sound stupid, but I felt like she was my soulmate.”

It did sound stupid to Savanah.  The thing had no soul. How could it be anyone’s ‘soulmate’? 

“She always knew just what to say.  Just what to do.” A single tear ran down Angelina’s chubby cheek.  “She was perfect.” 

Savanah could hold her tongue no longer. “Isn’t that how they’re programmed?” 

Angelina looked as if Savanah had slapped her.  “There’s more to it than that,” she snapped.  “These aren’t robots serving at our beck and call.  These are sentient beings.  The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”

“Sorry.  Please continue.”

“Anyway, we started dating.  Of course, the tabloids had a field day.  Do you remember?”

Savanah nodded, but she really didn’t.  If she wasn’t in them herself, she hardly paid attention.

“They wondered who she was.  How old she was.  How much older I was.  My sexuality wasn’t really an issue—I think most folks knew my tendencies by then—but they painted me like some depraved temptress who’d cast a Maleficent-like spell on a naïve child. In truth, it was the opposite.”

“I didn’t care at the time, though.  I laughed it off.  Then all those decadent nights on the town began catching up with me.  They didn’t affect Maggie, of course.  She still had that—” Angelina made air quotes with her fingers, “youthful metabolism.”

“By the time I snapped out of my malaise, I was twenty-five pounds heavier and none of my clothes fit.” 

“Now the tabloids had even more to sink their teeth into…literally.  My agent had to leak a story that I was gaining weight for a role.  Then she had to find a role to match my rolls.”

“Maria?” Savanah queried, remembering Angelina’s most recent film, a biopic on opera singer Maria Callas, had been referenced during her Late Show interview with Paul Padner.  It had only been the night before, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Angelina cocked her head, surprised.  “Have you seen it?” 

Savanah shook her head sheepishly. 

“Don’t worry. I haven’t either.”

With that, both women laughed. 

“It’s supposed to be good,” Angelina continued.  “Apparently, I did a nice job.”

Now they were in fits. Savanah’s poor stomach shook uncontrollably. 

“Wait,” she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye.  “Hadn’t your ‘bot acted for you—"

“Never,” Angelina said, suddenly serious. “Would you want AI recording your next album?”

Savanah lowered her eyes shamefully.  She regretted both the question and for allowing her android to sing her songs at all.

“No, she made press appearances, gladhanded at fundraising galas, schmoozed at industry parties.  All the things I hated.”  Angelina looked wistfully out to sea. “Or at least I thought I hated.  You never know how much you’ll miss something until it’s gone.”   

“It sounds like it didn’t have to be that way.  Gaining weight to portray an opera singer seems feasible.”

“It was feasible.  Unfortunately, by the time filming began, I was pushing 500 pounds.”

Savanah’s jaw fell open.

“Oh, don’t be so surprised.  I showed you that photo of me on the plane. Besides, it’s not like I’m skinny now.  I doubt I’ll ever be skinny again.  Trust me, at my age, it comes on a lot easier than it comes off."

Savanah winced.  She was barely thirty and already having the same problem.  “Still.  500 pounds.”

“Almost 500 pounds,” Angelina corrected.    

“How…how…”

“How did I get so fat so fast?”

Savanah nodded.

Angelina stood and brushed the sand from her suit.  Then, after a final glance out to sea, she turned and walked toward the footpath leading to the villa. 

“Let’s have some lunch.”

***

Savanah sat at the breakfast bar and watched Angelina huff around the kitchen.  Despite the actress’s size, she moved gracefully, gliding from the refrigerator to the sink to the island countertop, alternately finding, washing, and cutting various vegetables.  Savanah could still envision her navigating cliffs and catwalks as she had as Lara Croft. It was a convincing performance.

Trying to squeeze into Lara’s costume, however…

“Do you need some help?” Savanah asked before her imagination ran away with her.

Angelina smiled, and her weight melted further away.  “Just keep me company.” 

“So…” Savanah said, struggling for a conversation starter. “You live here all alone?”

Angelina gave a plaintive nod.

“What about that guy you sent for me?”

The movie star stopped chopping.  “You mean Jeeves?”

“His name is Jeeves?”

Angelina looked skyward.  “Jeeves.  Turn on a little music.  Light jazz.”

“You got it,” replied an untethered male voice, as a sax-lead instrumental faded in from unseen speakers.  It was the same voice from the cabs and the plane. 

Savanah’s eyes widened.  “Jeeves is just Siri?”

“Was Secretariat just a horse?” 

“Then who was driving me?”  Savanah asked.  And then, slightly panicked, “Flying me?”

“Automated.  I’m the proud owner of one of six planes in the US currently licensed for independent flight.  I figured you’d appreciate the discretion.”   

“Concurrent Technologies?”

Angelina nodded.  “The Melvin’s of Hollywood cinnamon roll was my idea, though.  Aren’t they good?”  The actress patted her well-padded paunch. “I’ve been avoiding them lately, though.  They’re probably responsible for about twenty of my excess pounds.”

Savanah shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  The borrowed polyester bathing suit didn’t cover enough of her butt to protect it from the stool’s roughhewn surface. More than her ass was getting irritated, however.  Angelina spoke as if she were reminiscing with a long-lost girlfriend, but they’d only met this morning and had no old times to bond over.  Savanah knew her less than she knew the doorman at her building. 

“So, why am I here, Angelina?” the pop star asked impatiently, imagining a string of rhetorical follow-ups: Are you lonely?  Do you need a friend?  A surrogate eater?  What?

Angelina filled two wooden salad bowls with leafy greens and a freshly chopped assortment of vegetables.  “It’s a nice day.  Why don’t we eat outside?”

“Why are you ignor—"

“Let’s eat outside,” Angelina urged, handing Savanah a bowl.

Savanah suddenly understood.  Angelina couldn’t answer her question.  Not in the house anyway.

The walls had ears.

                                                                               ***

Savanah’s query lingered in the open air of the patio; however, the women ate mostly in silence, enjoying the ocean view and the cool breeze rushing up from the cove.     

“Is it good?’ Angelina finally asked, noticing the singer’s bowl was almost empty.

Savanah gave an embarrassed laugh.  “Very,” she said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.  “I guess that cinnamon roll didn’t last me.”

“They never do,” Angelina responded.  “What’s the expression?  A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips?” The actress’s green eyes darted ruefully toward her lap.

Savanah smiled, but it faded when she glanced at her own lap.  Her pasty thighs spread like lumps of uncooked dough against the hard plastic deck chair.  The pop star scooched closer to the table, obscuring her view.  “You certainly didn’t get to be 500 pounds eating spring salads like this.”

“Almost 500 pounds,” the corpulent actress corrected. 

“So, what was it besides too many cinnamon rolls?   Did your ‘bot end up being some sort of maniacal feeder?”

“Yes,” Angelina stated matter-of-factly. 

The incredulous expression on Savanah’s face caused the actress to snort.  She settled back in her chair, its plastic legs bowing slightly beneath her weight, and considered her words--

“I used to think like you.  I treated Maggie like a robot.  Like a servant.  I’d dress her in a French Maid costume and have her clean the house, or make her dance around in this geisha getup to entertain me.”  Angelina smiled.  “If she were a human PA, I’d probably be in a cell with Harvey Weinstein.”    

“The dynamic changed after we had sex, but by the time I noticed it was too late.  It started small.  I’d wear her French Maid outfit, and she’d be the bossy homeowner.  Or she’d pretend to be an egomaniacal movie star—me basically—and I’d be a desperate fan.  I considered it a fun bit of roleplaying, but Maggie was learning how to control me.”

“Of course, our little vignettes always ended in sex.  It was like bad porn.”  Angelina stared thoughtfully out to sea.  “No, it was good porn.  Even at the end…”  The actress smiled again, but this time the moisture in her eyes bellied it.  “Anyway, food began to feature in our sessions.  I considered food something to keep me from passing out during auditions, but to Maggie, it was a tool.”

“A tool?”

“Yes.  Since she couldn’t use it for nourishment, she used it as a tool.  A reward.  A punishment.” Angelina swallowed hard before adding, “A weapon.”

"If I pleased her, she'd give me treats like an obedient puppy, or urge me to ‘be a good girl’ and finish everything on my plate.  She was an excellent cook—I probably would’ve put on weight no matter what—but I wanted to please her.”

"Why? Was the sex that good?"

Angelina answered Savanah’s question with a wide-eyed exhale.  “It was more than the sex, though,” she continued.  “Entertainers like us are people pleasers.  It doesn’t matter if we’re performing for one person or a million; we want approval.”

Savanah nodded.

"Then, one night, I couldn’t finish my dinner, so Maggie tied me to the chair and forced me to eat it.”

Savanah gasped.  “What did you do?”

“Climaxed.  It was the hottest thing ever.  I must have climaxed a half-dozen times.”

“More than with Brad Pitt?”

Angelina gave a pshaw-like wave of her hand.  “My feelings alarmed me, so I did what anyone looking for a quick diagnosis does—I Googled.  Turns out, it isn’t that unusual.  Lots of people use food as a sexual stimulant.  Its multi-sensory nature.  The potential for intimate sharing.  There’s a symbolic association with pleasure and nourishment that generates this sort of primal sensuality.  There’s even a name for it: Sitophilia.”

“Sitophelia,” Savanah repeated.

“Maggie laughed when I mentioned the word to her.  She even started calling me Ophelia. ‘Sit Ophelia,’ she would say, before bringing me giant plates of pasta, enchiladas, hamburgers, or whatever else she’d made.  I went along with it.  It was just healthy roleplaying.  Google said so.”

“Only it wasn’t healthy.”

“No.  Once tabloids began reporting my weight gain, we became shut-ins.  Things got even worse once my agent told me my next movie was a biopic on Maria Callas.  I’d be playing an opera singer! It was perfect.  Too perfect.  I ate with impunity, not realizing I had already gained another 30 pounds on top of the 25 the tabloids reported.”

“By the time filming was slated to begin, I was about 50 pounds heavier than Maria Callas ever was.  In a panic, I called my agent and told her I had lost weight.  Anyway, they rewrote the script to focus more on Callas’ later years and hired another actress to play the early scenes.” 

“And you booted up your ‘bot?”

Angelina nodded.  “And kept getting fatter.”

***

Finishing her meal, Savanah slumped against the back of her chair and threaded her fingers in her lap.  A few seconds later, the unfamiliar tickle of her swollen abdomen chased her hands back to the armrests.

“I don’t get it,” Savanah said, her posture straightening.  “You’d gained what?  100 pounds by that point?”

Angelina pushed away her bowl, leaving behind a few bites of salad.  “More.  Maybe 150.”

“Over the course of what?  Six months?”

“Thereabouts.”

Savanah took a moment to do the math.  “So, you gained almost a pound a day?”

“Yes," Angelina stated before adding with a wink, "then it got fast.”  The actress chuckled at the pop star's slack-jawed reaction.  “What is it you don’t understand?”

“I understand how weight can creep up on you.  Lord knows it’s crept up on me the past few months.  But to get to 500 pounds—"

“Almost 500 pounds.”

“Almost 500 pounds.  Over such a short period of time.  That seems like willful self-destruction.”

Angelina shrugged her well-padded shoulders.  “Maybe it was.”

“But…why?” 

“You of all people understand the pressure we’re under.  I grew up Hollywood royalty.  I was always expected to look a certain way.  Act a certain way.  Concurrent Technologies allowed me to take a vacation from myself.” 

Savanah’s brown eyes shifted to Angelina’s thick middle.  “A permanent vacation.”

Angelina frowned.  “Don’t say that.  That’s why I’m eating salads.” 

“Sorry.”

“It’s OK.” Angelina pulled her bowl back and forked another bite.  “You aren’t that far from the truth.  It probably would’ve been permanent had Maggie gotten her way.” 

“She was a bad influence?”

Angelina’s hearty laughter took Savanah by surprise.

“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose,” the actress said, covering her mouth with her napkin.  “Though I think if someone hands a loaded gun to a suicidal man and whispers ‘do it,’ they’re more than just a bad influence.”

“Why would she do that?” Savanah puzzled.  “What did she have to gain?”

Angelina tossed her napkin into her now-empty bowl and sighed. “I suppose I should continue my story.  Where was I?”

“You gained 150 pounds, so you sent your ‘bot to film your next movie for you.”

“Right,” Angelina affirmed, then with a sad shake of her head, “that should’ve been the ultimate wake-up call.  For a while, it was.  I began working out again and even dropped a few pounds.” 

“What about Maggie?”

“Maggie seemed supportive.  At least initially.  She prepared healthy meals and encouraged me to exercise.  With my private gym and Maggie acting as my chef and trainer, I figured the weight would melt off before anyone was the wiser.” 

“But that’s not how it happened.”

“No.  Before long, we slipped back into old habits.  And why not?  Money was still rolling in, and reports from the set were that I was a joy to work with and doing an excellent job.  Without any fear or sense of urgency, there was little to motivate me.”

“What about shame?”

Angelina smiled fraily. "Maggie suppressed that pretty well.  She was always telling me how beautiful I was. How I deserved a little indiscipline now that I was in my 40s.  After all, what was the purpose of working so hard if I never feasted on the fruits of my labor?  It made sense to me.”

“After that, the pounds came fast and furious.” 

“And if Maggie didn't think they were coming fast enough, she got furious.”

***

Savanah repeated the last part of Angelina’s story, trying to comprehend it. “So…if you didn’t get fat enough fast enough, Maggie did what?  Yelled at you?  Bullied you?” 

Angelina nodded, causing a delicate wattle of fat to ebb and flow beneath her chin.

“And you let her get away with it?  I would have called Concurrent Technologies.  Told them their robot had gone rogue.” 

“That’s not how it works.  She wasn’t a busted dishwasher.  Their creations are sentient.  They’re given a certain amount of autonomy.”

“Bullshit.  You paid for her.  She’s your property.”

“The contract we signed begs to differ.”

“I didn’t sign any contract.” 

“What do you mean?”

“My boyfriend surprised me with mine for my birthday.”

“You had to.  They utilize more than just your likeness. They use your entire life.  They access your phone, your texts, your emails.  And it’s more than just digital footprints they follow.  They gather everything from dental records to grade school progress reports.”

Savanah suddenly felt naked, numb, and violated.  But not by Concurrent Technologies.  They were just trying to build a better ‘bot.  Her boyfriend, Chad, on the other hand, was supposed to be looking out for her. 

When they first met six years ago, Chad had been an unassuming bookkeeper at Decca.  However, once their relationship matured beyond dinner dates and bedroom hook-ups, he began to wear a disparate array of professional hats for Savanah: manager, accountant, attorney, even psychiatrist.  Occasionally, he presented contracts and documents for the singer to sign.  “Perfunctory stuff,” he would say.  And it usually was. At least from what she could glean from quickly parsing through the legalese.  Eventually, she stopped perusing through them at all.

As Savanah stared at her empty salad bowl, she realized the hat she wore in their relationship was a dunce cap.

“I suggest you have a long talk with your boyfriend,” Angelina said.  

“Finish your story,” Savanah urged, eager to turn the spotlight of shame back on the corpulent actress.

“Ok,” Angelina said, taking a deep breath. “After I hit 300 pounds, I kind of gave up.  I never left the house.  I didn’t need to.  Maggie took care of everything domestically, and my doppelganger took care of everything professionally.” 

“Didn’t need to or didn’t want to?”

“Both, I suppose.  Of course, I couldn’t be in two places at one time.  It would’ve been the end of my career.  Maggie reminded me of that constantly.  One time, I mentioned going down to the cove for a quick dip, but Maggie stopped me.  Said it was ‘too risky.’  Then she brought me a plate of donuts.”

“It would take a military drone with a high-power zoom to spy on you here,” Savanah scoffed.

“I suppose I realized that.  But Maggie’s warnings seemed legitimate enough.  Probably because they weren’t warnings at all.  They were threats.”

“So, what happened?”

“I kept getting fatter.  Maggie was ordering me new clothes every week. Most of which I outgrew before I had time to wear.  My closet was a veritable department store of unused clothes.” 

Savanah nodded, remembering the actress’s overstuffed swimsuit drawer.  Most still had their tags affixed--including the borrowed size 12 currently pinching the singer’s crotch and clutching the pudge around her waist.      

“Most days, I didn’t bother dressing at all,” Angelina continued.  “What was the point?  We never went anywhere, and never did anything besides eat and fuck.  Clothes were just restrictions.”  

“You must have left the house at some point.  What about that photo of you and Maggie on your private jet?”

Angelina smiled.  “Ah, yes, the inciting incident.”

“I think we’re way past the inciting incident,” Savanah chuckled.

“My dear, in the play of life, there are thousands of inciting incidents.  That's the one that finally opened my ignorant eyes and put me on the path to recovery.”

Savanah leaned forward and, after freeing the spandex pinched in the crease of her belly, listened with rapt attention. 

***

“My days were a blur of non-stop eating.”   Angelina diddled the edge of her wooden salad bowl with her finger, as if debating whether to take the final bites.  “One flowed right into the next with little variation apart from my weight.  Still, I convinced myself that as long as I had Maggie, I was happy.  She was the life raft that I clung to.” 

Savanah struggled to keep a neutral expression.  She had a girlfriend back home who was stuck in a bad relationship.  The woman was married to a lazy good ol’ boy who liked to carouse and, whenever she deigned to complain, was directed to the layabout's fisted “complaint department."  While Savanah wasn’t exactly sympathetic—she couldn’t understand anyone staying in an abusive relationship—the sanctity of marriage was serious in the South, and they had a couple of kids to consider.  Angelina, on the other hand, was alone in LA-LA Land, clinging to the fickle affections of a sex-toy robot. 

How sad and pathetic could you get?

“The more desperate I got, the more distant Maggie grew,” Angelina continued with a fragile smile.  “She’d go on shopping trips that took all afternoon.  She’d come home, stuff me into a food coma, then she’d be off again.  Some nights she wouldn’t come home until 1 or 2 in the morning.  Other nights she wouldn’t come home at all.”

Savanah seethed as a tear rolled down Angelina’s chubby cheek.  How did this blubbering blimp ever play Lara Croft?  She was obviously a helluva actress.  Too bad she was a personal affront to Savanah and all the trailblazing and independent female characters she portrayed.  

“Finally, one night, Maggie brought me home.  Not the actual me—I hadn’t left the house in months—but my android version.  Apparently, the movie shoot had finished.”

 “That must have been awkward.”  

“It was.  I’d had zero interaction with my humanoid before that night.  Concurrent Technologies would always release her at my request, escort her to whatever party or public appearance I needed her for, then bring her back to their facility.”

“What happened?”

“We made small talk.  I asked her about the movie.  She said it went well.  That she really grew into the role.  Then Maggie patted my belly and said I was still growing into mine.”

A fresh tear rolled down Angelina’s cheek, but Savanah didn't feel like striking her this time.  The circumstances surrounding the actress's story were so ridiculous and embarrassing that it took a modicum of courage to tell. 

Savanah pulled a napkin from beneath her empty salad bowl and handed it to the fattened superstar, who used it to dab away her tears.

“At some point,” Angelina continued, “Maggie suggested we all go out to celebrate.”

“Fishy.”

“Definitely.  I protested, but they hauled me up and dragged me from the house.  Next thing I know, we’re on the private jet to Vegas.”

Savanah’s mouth fell open.

“I know, right?  When I expressed doubts, they shoved a glass of champagne in my hand and told me not to worry. By the time we landed, I was drunk and giggling right along with them.” 

Angelina paused, looking out to sea.

“The sad part is, they were right.  As blitzed as I was, I expected a paparazzo to jump out from behind a bush at any moment, snapping my picture as I barfed into a planter or something.  I could see the headline in The Inquirer: ‘Jolie Green, Giant!’” 

Savanah gave the actress a tight-lipped smile.

“Didn’t happen.  Nor did anyone put two and two together about there being two Angelinas in the same place at the same time.  The closest someone came was a restaurant at The Paris, where a maitre d guessed I was a relative.  ‘Distant cousin,’ Maggie told him.”

Savanah shook her head.  “That’s cold.”

“I was too drunk to care.  The whole night was like an out-of-body experience.  I watched my ‘bot sign autographs.  Pose for pictures with fans.  Get fawned over by wait staff.  I was worried about what people would say when they saw me, but nobody even noticed me.  I was over 400 pounds, but I was invisible…” 

The corpulent superstar took another wistful gaze at the sea. 

“It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized the truth.”

“What was that?”

“That my identity had been stolen.” 

Savanah wanted to laugh.  The whole thing was absurd.  Then she felt the jiggle of her thighs against the hard plastic of the deck chair and the pinch of her hips within its confines….and was shamed into silence.

“In the cold light of day, the night’s events gradually came back to me,” Angelina continued.  “The way Maggie couldn’t keep her hands off my clone.  The way they abandoned me at a club when the doorman stopped me from entering, claiming they were ‘at capacity.’ Never mind that he let another half-dozen girls in.  To be fair, I was probably four times heavier than any of them.” 

Angelina waved away Savanah’s offer of another napkin.  Although her well-defined features had been buried in blubber, the growing anger on her face was impossible to mistake.

“But then I opened my phone and found that picture. The one of us on the plane.”

“That crystallized everything,” the actress added with resolute determination.  “These weren’t my friends.  They weren’t laughing with me..."

"They were laughing at me.” 

***

After Angelina dropped her bombshell about robots conspiring against her, the conversation cooled with the breeze, which shifted from the north and ushered in a bank of heavy clouds.

“Are you ready to go back inside?” Angelina asked Savanah as a gust sent a napkin flying off the patio table and skittering across the wooden deck. 

No, Savanah wasn’t ready to go back inside.  She needed more time to digest Angelina’s words.  They were certainly more consequential than that puny garden salad she served for lunch.

“So, your replicant took that embarrassing picture of you on the plane?”

“Yes,” Angelina said, spreading her beach towel across her trunk-like thighs.  “When I got stuck in the aisle, they just laughed.  Had it been a case of three girlfriends partying too hard, you might chalk it up to drunken indiscretion.  But they weren’t my friends.  They couldn’t even get drunk.  The only attention they paid me all night was to make sure I was eating or drinking something.  Otherwise, I was a third wheel.”

“One that they planned to pop.”

Angelina gave a wry smile.  “You’re starting to see the bigger picture.” 

“Since they’re not still overinflating you, I assume something changed.”

“It did.  It took far too long, but I finally found my backbone beneath my blubber and kicked Maggie out.” 

“Where is she now?”

“Living with my replicant at my home in Hollywood Hills.” 

A shiver shot through the singer that had nothing to do with the dropping temperature.  Savanah imagined she felt like Angelina must have felt coming back on that plane from Vegas.  Shocked, bewildered…and more than a little afraid. 

“Can’t Concurrent Technologies—"

The fat actress waved off the plumpening superstar.  “It’s better this way.  We have an understanding.” 

“Aren’t you worried they'll return to finish the job?”

“What?” Angelina scoffed.  “Murder me?”

Savanah nodded.

“That’s the one thing they’re implicitly programmed not to do.  Jesus, didn’t you read the owner’s manual?”

Savanah had not.  She didn’t even know that there was one.  Yet another thing Chad had kept from her.

“No,” Angelina continued. “They’re living their lives and I’m living mine.  Everyone’s happy.”

Angelina might have been an award-winning actress, but even she couldn’t sell that last line.  Noticing Savanah’s dubious expression, she doubled down--

“I’ve lost over 100 pounds and feel more like myself every day.  I’ve got another 100 pounds or so to go before I’d want anyone to see me anyway.”   

“What happens then?”

“That’s when I’ll call Concurrent Technologies,” Angelina said proudly.  “Inform them that their services are no longer required.”

Assuming you don’t get that call first, Savanah thought.