Artichoke's Heart

By Suzanne Supplee

Blubber meets Steel Magnolias in this funny and honest story about body image and family.

Rosemary Goode is smart and funny and loyal and the best eyebrow waxer in Spring Hill, Tennessee. But only one thing seems to matter to anyone, including Rosemary: her weight. And when your mom runs the most successful (and gossipy) beauty shop in town, it can be hard to keep a low profile. Rosemary resolves to lose the weight, but her journey turns out to be about everything but the scale. Her life-changing, waist-shrinking year is captured with brutal honesty and humor, topped with an extralarge helping of Southern charm. A truly uncommon novel about an increasingly common problem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
• Release date: Jun 12, 2008
• ISBN: 9781440629945

Book preview

chapter one

The Resemblance

Mother spent $700 on a treadmill from Santa that I will never use. I won’t walk three blocks when I actually want to get somewhere, much less run three miles on a strip of black rubber only to end up where I started out in the first place. Aunt Mary gave me two stupid diet books and three tickets for the upcoming conference at Columbia State called Healing the Fat Girl Within (I’m sensing a theme here). Normally, I’m not a materialistic sort of person, but let’s just say this was one disappointing Christmas.

At least Miss Bertha gave me something thoughtful, a complete collection of Emily Dickinson poems (so far my favorite is I’m Nobody! ), and Grandma Georgia sent money.

Still, all I really needed was to be stricken with some mysterious thyroid condition, a really good one that would cause me to wake up and weigh 120 pounds. Instead of experiencing a news-worthy miracle, however, I spent the holiday in sweatpants, with Mother and Aunt Mary nagging me to please change clothes. I refused, citing the whole comfort and joy argument. The truth was I had outgrown even my fat clothes. It was either sweatpants or nothing.

Once I’d wolfed down enough turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie to choke a horse, I loosened the string in the waistband and plopped down at the computer. Consumed by overeater’s guilt, I browsed the Internet and gazed zombie-eyed at the countless and mostly expensive ways a person might lose weight (how pathetic to be thinking about this on Christmas night). According to a doctor on one website, losing weight can be even harder than treating cancer. This uplifting little tidbit was enough to catapult me straight back to the kitchen for two more cups of eggnog—right before bed. When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t even have to step on the scale. Still snuggled beneath my bedcovers, I could feel those new pounds clinging to my thighs like koala bears on a eucalyptus tree. The day after Christmas should get its very own italicized title on the calendar: December 26—the Most Depressing Day of the Year. With Christmas officially over, I knew there was nothing left to anticipate but the endless gloom of winter, nothing to look forward to except devouring the secret lovers stashed under my bed—Mr. Hershey, Mr. Reeses, and Mr. M&M. I’m convinced Mother must have secret powers because just as I was about to rip open the bag, the phone rang.

What are you doing, Rosie? she asked accusingly. Have you used your treadmill yet? There’s a new box of Special K in the pantry. They have that weight loss plan, you know.

"Mmm, almost as yummy as packaging peanuts," I replied.

I’m just calling because we need you at the shop today after all, Rosie, said Mother, ignoring my sarcasm. I want you to take down the Christmas tree. It’s a fire hazard. All dried out and messy needles everywhere. Translation: Mother couldn’t take the thought of me eating and watching talk shows all afternoon, so she’s dragging me into work. Miss Bertha’ll be over to pick you up in a few, okay? She said it like it was a question, as if I actually had a choice in the matter.

"O-kay," I said, annoyed. It’s not even New Year’s Eve, and I already have to rip down the last semblance of festivity and celebration—and hope. If it were up to me, I’d leave the tree up all year, but Mother had to shove the manicure station into the closet just to make room for it, and with so many parties right around the corner for New Year’s, clients are clawing (ha-ha) for manicures. Mother isn’t about to swap good business sense for sentimentality. At least there’s time for half an Oprah rerun and a few diet Reese’s cups (they’re bite-sized instead of regular).

Several hundred calories later, Miss Bertha picked me up, and since the salon is only a mile or two from my house, we arrived within minutes. Mother was giving Hilda May Brunson blond highlights, and four old ladies from the Hopewell Baptist Church, a.k.a. the Quilters, were sitting under hairdryers, clucking like noisy hens. I was humming Blue Christmas (the Elvis version) softly to myself and carefully taking ornaments off the sad, dried-out little tree. Everything was thumping along at the barely tolerable level when I heard Miss Bertha say, Oh, Lordy, here she comes.

I looked up, and filling Heavenly Hair’s entire plate glass window was Mrs. Periwinkle McCutchin, her arms overloaded with a stack of paper plates wrapped in pink-tinted cellophane, her sausage-sized knuckle rapping the glass for someone to help her with the door. I had no other choice; I was forced to let her in.

Hey, there, Rosemary, I got you some delicious treats today, darlin’! Snort, snort. Big Hee Haw laugh. You’ll have to wait till Richard shaves my neck real quick, though. You got time to shave my neck, don’t you, Richard? Richard nodded politely, although I knew for a fact he hated shaving necks, especially Mrs. McCutchin’s. Reckon you can wait that long to get your hands on my goodies, Rosemary? Snort, snort.

Suddenly, I realized Mrs. McCutchin was actually waiting for my reply. Oh . . . um . . . sure, I mumbled. The Quilters gaped. Hilda May Brunson pursed her thin, judgmental lips together. When you’re normal-sized, no one cares what you eat; when you’re fat, it’s everybody’s business.

It took Richard several minutes to shear Mrs. McCutchin like a sheep, and by the time he finished, the Quilters and Hilda May Brunson were standing by the front counter.

Rosemary! Mrs. McCutchin called. Can you help me get some-a this scratchy hair off my back? I won’t let Richard put his manly hands up my blouse! Snort, snort. Cackle. (Richard does not have manly hands. In fact, nothing much about him is manly.)

Richard mouthed a Thank you, God at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. Okay, I said, and prayed that the Quilters and Hilda May Brunson would leave before Mrs. McCutchin made another giant fuss over the sweets. Slowly, I brushed the stubby black hairs off her barn-sized back.

Hurry, sugar pie! Willy Ray and me and the boys is gonna try to make it to Catfish Campus before the rush, Mrs. McCutchin scolded, and then, with everybody listening, she said IT: Rosemary, I swear you look more like me ever’ day. Why, I b’lieve they got you and my little Willy Ray, Jr., mixed up at that hospital. Honey, you are built just exactly like I was at your age.

Heat ran up my face like a scared cat up a tree. The numbers of my morning weigh-in flashed through my brain: 1-9-0. Mrs. McCutchin wasn’t a pound under 300.

The next thing I knew, Mrs. McCutchin was trying to pry herself out of the chair. Richard took one side, and I took the other. Somehow, even without the Jaws of Life, we managed to free her and stand her on her feet again. Mrs. McCutchin eyed the heap of treat-covered plates stacked on the worn linoleum and heaved her body forward to grab them. Her polyester skirt hiked up, revealing knee-highs with varicose-veiny fat bulging over. Her pendulous bosom swung in front of her face. Joints crunched. Her cheeks turned a dangerous shade of high-blood-pressure red, and layers of forehead and face and chin and neck pulled toward the ground. For a second, I wondered if Mrs. Periwinkle McCutchin might just turn inside out.

When she was miraculously upright again, the tight little salon expanded with relief. Mrs. McCutchin turned toward me and held up the pile of goodies. I shifted my eyes away from her and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror (the whole salon is nothing but mirrors, unfortunately). It was then that I saw exactly what Mrs. McCutchin was talking about—the resemblance. It wasn’t her imagination. It was real.

I brought tea cakes and blondies and sand tarts just for you, Rosemary! she went on. You don’t even have to share. And the Piggly Wiggly had pink cellophane. Ain’t that the cutest thang! She grinned proudly and tried to hand me the festive little plates.

All eyes were on me. Every single person in the salon was waiting for my response. In private, I have absolutely no willpower, but in public I wasn’t about to fail. I don’t want those things, I said, my voice small and childish. And cold.

Pardon? asked Mrs. McCutchin.

"I said I don’t want them!" Before Mrs. McCutchin could reply or cry, I raced off to the back room and left her standing there, humiliated. It was like shunning Little Debbie or slapping Sara Lee.

According to one of the books Aunt Mary gave me, a person has to be willing to eat differently even if it hurts people’s feelings or causes conflict. I guess today I did both, although I was so upset about wounding a woman who has been nothing but nice to me my whole entire life, I came home and ate four chocolate bars and two bags of cheese curls.

Not only am I fat, I’m stupid, too.

chapter two

The Insulator

This morning there was a note from Mother on my bedside table—Take the day off. It’s New Year’s Eve! After what happened with Mrs. McCutchin and her Christmas treats last week, Mother must think it’s safe to leave me home alone with food. Maybe she thinks I’ve turned over a new leaf or something. Wrong. I called Miss Bertha to come pick me up. I knew Mother would need the extra help at the salon, it being a holiday and all. Besides that, I knew if I stayed home I’d start eating and never stop.

Last night I dreamed about Emily Dickinson. I must’ve read a hundred of her poems before bed. I gobbled them up like they were Mrs. McCutchin’s sand tarts. In my dream, E.D. and I were sitting together at the school lunch table when nasty Misty Winters walked by and said, Hey, Fat Artichoke! E.D. looked at me strangely, as if she could see straight through to my soul, then she said, Whatever did you do with your dignity, Rosemary? When I opened my mouth to respond, all the letters of the alphabet came tumbling out.

The Artichoke name-calling started in sixth grade. All winter long, I’d begged Mother and Aunt Mary and Grandma Georgia (and anybody else who would listen to me for five seconds) for the Insulator. Really it was just a goose-down jacket with arms that zipped in and out. Mother had just purchased the shop. Grandma Georgia was still trying to pay off her lawyer from divorce number three. Aunt Mary hadn’t finished paralegal school yet. Basically, nobody had money for the Insulator.

So the gift seemed that much sweeter when it finally arrived that exceptionally warm afternoon in late March, a few days before my birthday. I felt only a mild twinge of disappointment to find the jacket in avocado green with celadon lining. Quickly, Aunt Mary explained, They were all out of berry pink! You’ll be an original, said Mother. You’ll set trends, Grandma Georgia promised. I wonder what my adolescence would be like today if L. L. Bean hadn’t sold out of berry pink.

All morning long I sweated buckets waiting for the other girls to notice my Insulator. Finally, it was Misty Winters who did. Oh, my Gawd! she cried, and motioned me toward her lunch table. Overloaded tray in hand, I made my way across the crowded cafeteria. Finally, someone was going to say something about my new jacket.

Did you get your calendar mixed up? Misty asked.

What? I replied.

Duh! said Misty sharply. It’s practically summertime outside, and you look just like a sweaty, fat artichoke in that stupid coat!

I could tell by their dumb, blank faces that most of the kids at Misty’s lunch table didn’t even know what an artichoke was, but the damage was done, and artichoke is a very catchy word for twelve-year-olds. From that fateful day forward, I became the Artichoke, Arti, Chokey, Fat Artichoke. The list of variations is as individual as the name-callers.

Oprah always says, It’s not about the food. But right now, it feels very much about the food. All I do is think about food, try to resist food, give in to food, hate myself over food. I dream about food; even my nickname is a food! Heck, my real name is a food, or an herb, at least. Why, this very minute there’s a jumbo-sized Hershey bar hidden in my cedar chest, and it’s yelling, Hey, let me out of here!

Miss Bertha better hurry up.

Mrs. McCutchin came into the salon today. She wanted a wash and set, since she and Mr. McCutchin were going to Country Sizzlin’ Steakhouse for dinner. She didn’t bring any treats. She didn’t smile. She didn’t call me darlin’ or sugar or honey pie. In fact, she didn’t even speak, at least not to me. Instead, she put on this big act like she wasn’t feeling well. My heart is just a-flutterin’ like a little bird, I overheard her say. My stomach’s right queasy, too.

Peri, you need to call that new doctor who took over Harry Smith’s practice. What’s his name? I forget, said Mother.

Aw, naw. Me and Willy Ray’s goin’ out to eat tonight. I’ll call Dr. What’s-His-Name next week, after the holidays maybe. She shifted her weight slightly, and the chair let out an irritable groan.

Mother and Aunt Mary were invited over to Hilda May Brunson’s annual New Year’s Eve party. Mother said she hated to leave me home alone on a holiday, but New Year’s Eve or not, I didn’t care. In fact, I was so totally miserable with myself, I actually wanted to be alone. Being by myself was certainly better than sitting through another nag session about Special K or listening to a guilt trip about not using my treadmill (dreadmill, as I’d started calling it).

After Mother and Aunt Mary left, I clicked through the channels and tried to occupy myself with festive television programs about the shining promise of a brand-new year. Bored, I went to take a peek in the pantry. It won’t hurt just to look at food, I told myself. I kept hoping the unfortunate episode with Mrs. McCutchin wasn’t in vain, that maybe I would start to change— eat better, exercise—tomorrow. I stood in the kitchen, closely examining shelf after shelf of canned goods, boxed goods, plastic-bag goods. All of it was boring, the kind of nonperishables people donate to food pantries, as if poor, homeless folks don’t have taste buds. All at once, I spotted something promising. It was on the very top shelf, tucked way in the back—hidden from me, more than likely, and then forgotten. I climbed on a chair and grabbed the giant bag of Easter eggs.

It seemed way too pathological to start with the Easter eggs (I guess I was still holding out hope that I wouldn’t actually consume them), so I began with the Hershey bar from my cedar chest. Slowly, I devoured each happy little rectangle. Just before midnight, I switched stations so I could watch the ball drop in Times Square. It seemed a shame not to toast the New Year with something, so I went to the freezer and found two slices of carrot cake (it was still frozen when I ate it). I’m not sure how many calories I consumed, but it was probably more than a person is supposed to have in a whole week. If I were a heroin addict, I’d be in big trouble.

All at once, I got this sinking feeling, a wave of self-hatred so violent, a sense of disgust and regret so crippling, I thought I might die. It was the kind of moment that makes people vow to change things. It occurred to me that right that very second, millions of people all over the world were bracing themselves for resolutions. They were having one last drink, one final smoke. Determined to make January 1 my new day, I ripped open the bag of petrified Easter eggs and swore this would be my last ever indulgence.

After the binge, I turned on the treadmill and sat on my bed watching it move. I wondered how long I’d have to run just to work off the night’s calories—from now till morning would probably do the trick. I switched it off again and climbed into bed. I didn’t bother changing my clothes. Sweatpants are multifunctional, like those little black dresses they show in magazines that can go from daytime to evening wear (and in my case, back to daytime again). I lay in bed and thought about an Emily Dickinson poem I’d read earlier that day.

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all . . .

E.D., in my opinion, is the perfect (although admittedly slightly cliché) poet for lonely fat girls. Is that why Miss Bertha gave me the book? Whatever her reason, I’m grateful. Instead of trying to fall asleep by counting the day’s calories, I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on that four-letter word: H-O-P-E. I held on to it as if it were a life vest.

On New Year’s Day Mother woke me up with bad news. Mrs. McCutchin wasn’t faking. She had a heart attack right smack in the middle of Country Sizzlin’ Steakhouse. She’s barely clinging to life over at Maury Regional Hospital. Mother says they’ve got her on all kinds of machines. Mother also says it’s a wonder Mrs. McCutchin didn’t collapse in the middle of Heavenly Hair. Actually, it would’ve been better if she had. At least Mother and Miss Bertha know CPR. The only thing they knew at the steakhouse was the Heimlich maneuver.

That next Friday morning, all the clucking Quilters could talk about was Mrs. McCutchin. I tried ignoring them. I went to the back room to fold clean towels. I unpacked and priced new shampoo and conditioner in the basement. I even washed the plate glass window—from the outside. It seemed like everybody, including the meter maid, was talking about poor old Mrs. McCutchin or poor old Willy Ray, Sr., or those poor little boys soon to lose their precious mother. I tried not to think about the plate of goodies she’d brought for me just one week ago, or the expression on her jiggly face when I said I didn’t want them.

To make matters worse, school starts back on Monday. I’ll have to face Misty Winters and her lunch table filled with teasers and P.E. and my too-tight, ride-up-in-your-crack gym shorts and hall hecklers and locker bangers. If it weren’t for learning, school would be hell.

But at least that’s two whole days away, and tomorrow Mother is leaving the shop to Miss Bertha, Mildred, our part-time manicurist, and Richard. For the first time since I was twelve, Mother canceled her Saturday clients. Mother, Aunt Mary, and I are spending what’s left of Christmas break in Nashville. Maybe I won’t even think about Mrs. McCutchin one time while we’re gone. Maybe some hope will perch on my soul for a change. I wish it’d perch on Mrs. McCutchin’s heart.

chapter three

Hermetically Sealed

Nashville has way more stores than Spring Hill, so Mother and Aunt Mary were dying to go shopping first. No one bothered consulting me about what I wanted to do first, which was not shopping. We started out in the petite section (you can imagine how fond I am of the petite section) at Rayman’s Department Store. There was a huge after-Christmas sale going on, and the place was packed.

Mother and Aunt Mary spotted a whole rack of discounted holiday dresses. For what seemed an eternity, I had to listen to Aunt Mary say things like, Rose Warren, you think I should try the size two in this, or the zero? To which Mother would reply, Well, that looks like a mighty big size two to me.

How BIG can a size two be? I wanted to scream.

In the dressing room, I sat on a hard bench and watched as Aunt Mary came parading out of the stall wearing nothing but a black silk skirt and her bra. You know a lot of these places have surveillance cameras, I reminded her. I could picture a bunch of sweaty men in uniform getting all excited in a

Reviews for Artichoke's Heart

[ms_rowse · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Can't really write a review because this hit just a little too close to home for me. Good story, great characters. Some PG language (some students are sensitive to that, others aren't) but overall a quick, fantastic read.

[sheriawilkinson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Artichoke's Heart

Rosemary Goode is an over weight teen. She lives with her Mother who owns the local Hair salon in a small Tennessee town. When she notices Kyle Cox, a basketball player her life starts to change.

Rosemary's problems are true to life. Being overweight, the struggles she goes through at school, at home, and trying to fit in. I liked Rosemary, she is sarcastic, snarky, and has a great sense of humor.

Kyle is very likable as well. He is not the typical (stereotypical "jock"), and I really like that quality in him. The relationship between Rosemary's Mother and (her) Aunt is also one that is true to life.

Suzanne Supplee knows how to grab the readers attention, hitting real life problem with accurate details. The story flowed perfectly, the characters are well developed and the plot is true to life.

I feel that Artichoke's Heart is perfect for young adults (as well as adult) readers. There is a very good message in this story, it is not all about losing weight, it is also about, self evaluation, self worth, family and rediscovery.

Fantastic. I loved it.

[katieloucks · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Cool! Inspirational

[sallyburger1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was a fantastic read.Rose was a main character that you could definitely relate to.She had the best of both worlds,by being sarcastic and funny,to somebody who was kind and compelling. The other characters of the book were great too.The author was able to make Rose somebody you could root for every page,with not only her weight loss,but how she handled her daily life.

[rapikk_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It’s been a long time since I’ve read some good high school fiction. Artichoke’s Heart was just what I needed. Rosemary Goode is just trying to survive high school. She tries not to get noticed, and comforts herself with food. When one of her mom’s beauty shop clients draws attention to Rosemary’s growing weight, Rosemary knows she needs to make a change, and for the first time in her life, she wants to make a change too.

Artichoke’s Heart has everything–underdog heroine to cheer for, perky cheerleaders to hate, cute “boy next door,” a little drama, a little romance, and a plot that makes you believe that if you had to do high school all over again, just maybe, it could be better.

[lnommay · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Book talk:
It's not that Rosie is an ungrateful, materialistic 15 year-old. In fact, I would bet most girls her age, given the same gifts as Rosie, would think this was the year that Christmas sucked the most. Her mom did spend $700 on her, but now she has a treadmill in her bedroom to further remind her that she is fat. And like Rosie will tell anyone willing to listen (and there aren't many), "I don't walk three blocks when I actually WANT to get somewhere, much less run three miles on a strip of black rubber only to end up where I started out in the first place." Then her meddling aunt Mary gave her "two stupid diet books" and tickets for the three of them to go to the "Healing the Fat Girl Within" conference. Talk about a waste of $150! Her mother refuses to take her side in the battles against nosy Aunt Mary because, as she puts it, "She means well."
With no friends at school to turn to, Rosie finds comfort in the "secret lovers" hidden away in her room, actually, stashed under her bed: Mr. Hershey, Mr. Reeses, and Mr. M&M. When she is not working at her mother's beauty salon, she is suffocating her misery with food. What could make life worse for Rosie? The cruel taunts by the popular girls in the Bluebird Club? Having a crush on the star of all the high school athletic teams and knowing he could never like you? No, it would have to be finding out her mom has cancer.

[aleon_849032 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The reason I love this YA book so much is because even though the plot is about a girl who is overweight, you can relate with her no matter what size you are. This truly is a great comfort book, it gives you all the mushy feelings of romance and the joy of hearing how the protagonist, Rosemary Goode, loses and gains control of her life. This book was actually a relatively realistic for a YA book, it wasn’t too perfect and by end of the book, Rose hasn’t all of a sudden gone popular and gotten to her ideal weight, showing readers that overcoming something like weight isn’t something that will just be a quick fix. Who’s never had a bully, or at least who’s never just felt self-conscious about them selves? I usually don’t get all mushy over a book but by the end I was nearly in tears (happy tears) over how she overcame such a big obstacle, I would highly reccomend it.I would have to say that a few things she did were disturbing, like the way she initially tries to lose weight, so I wouldn't recommend this if you are sensitive to those kind of things.

[thekaisu · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I love this book!I really really do.It felt like a journey reading this. It was much more closer to home than I imagined it would be. I am like Rosie. And with the struggles she faced and how she overcame it just made me think that there is hope. And hopefully I'll be able to make it just like she did.It took me a while to get over the first part of the book, but once I got over Chapter 3, I couldn't stop reading.I want to be just as courageous as she is. It was difficult at first but then again nothing is easy. I want a friend like Kay-Kay. I want my own Kyle who can see past the body and see everything else that is worth seeing in a girl. I hope some guy like him exists somewhere.This is a really amazing book. I couldn't begin to tell the lessons I've learned and the truths that I've read in this book.

[gayldashersmith · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This novel illustrates just how complex the act of obesity is. I rooted for Rosemary every step of the way.

[ewyatt_16 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Rosie's self-esteem is at an all time low while the scale hits an all-time high. Although she experiments with some not-so-healthy weight loss methods, Rosie works to navigate her way through a host of problems not to mention her first love. An enjoyable read I think many HMS girls will enjoy.

[abbylibrarian_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I am picky about my fat-girl books and I enjoyed Artichoke's Heart. Rosemary is a likeable character who's dealing with her problems, albeit not always in the healthiest ways. She doesn't always succeed in her struggle with weight loss, but she doesn't always fail. And the book's not all about calories and treadmills either. With the exception of her weight, Rosemary's issues are the same issues that any girl might be going through: making friends, starting a relationship, dealing with family. That's what I really liked about it. I hate to get all message-y on you, but the fact that Rosemary starts a relationship while she's fat was a big plus for me.