Butter (10 page)

He sat on the couch next to me.

“You don't know what it's like to be homeschooled, to have friends for only a couple months out of the year every summer. It makes me want to eat. It makes me want to stop working out and hit the Dunkin' Donuts, because every pound is another good reason for my mom to send me back to FitFab, so I can see you guys. And I can't do that anymore.”

Donuts and fat-camp friends. Tucker was talking about triggers.

At FitFab, the counselors were always coaching us to know our triggers—the little things that happen that make us want to eat. Then they would ask us to go deeper, to find the one thing that sparked our weight gain and confront it—as if there were ever just
one
thing.

I've got your one thing right here. It's called ge ne tics
. I'd
always been chubbier than other kids, and Uncle Luis was pretty beefy. As for triggers, I could see how Dad's distance from me made me hungry for something and how Mom's solution was to fill up that empty space with food. I could see how assholes like Jeremy made me want to reach for food instead of reach out and make friends. But none of that was my fault, so how the hell was I supposed to fix it?

I never really understood the point of that FitFab exercise.

Tucker went on. “One more summer and we're all too old for fat camp; we're on our own. Plus, I want to have a real graduation, to throw a cap and be part of a class. Can you see me suddenly enrolling in a school here for senior year?”

I shook my head and tried to smile. “Nah, a skinny little homeschooled pussy like you? They'd eat you alive.”

Tucker laughed. “Exactly. Plus, I'd really like to go to college a normal size. Walk to class, talk to girls, and not have to explain to anyone how I lost all the weight, because they'd never even know I was fat in the first place. Fresh start, y'know?”

Easy for Tuck to say. He was already within reach of normal and could easily be
thin
by the time college rolled around. I had never even thought about walking around a college campus. And thinking about it now didn't give me inspiration to lose weight, it only gave me another reason to say “sayonara” before college even came up.

“You want to go to college?” I asked.

“Of course! Who doesn't want to go to college?”

I looked at my hands.

“Really?” Tucker tipped his head and scrunched his
eyebrows. “I always thought you were dying to get away from your parents and high school and all the Scottsdale skinnies.”

I was. I was literally
dying
to get away from them.

“College would just be more of the same,” I said. “I thought high school would be different, remember? Total bust.”

“Well, that's because you don't make an effort.”

“What?” I snapped my eyes up to meet Tucker's.

“Butter, I get why you didn't go out for football, but why not band?”

“Because it's all classical music and kids who don't know how to play their instruments.”

“How do you know? You never gave it a shot.”

“I don't have to try something to know it's just going to be a bust,” I huffed. “Look, Tuck, you don't go to school, so you don't know—”

“I know if I did, I'd at least
try
to fit in, to make friends. Man, you just assume everything sucks before you try it. You don't give anything a chance because you're afraid of being disappointed. And
that
is why you eat. Because it never lets you down.”

My mouth fell open, and I felt my face turn red from Tucker's verbal slap. Who the hell was he to psychoanalyze me?

“That's not—You don't know—That's all just … just … bullshit,” I spat.

“You know it's not. It's exactly what they tell you every year at FitFab, but you never try to change it.”

“Because it's not my fault!” I raged. “Everything
is
disappointing! How am I supposed to stop everything from sucking?”

“Everything doesn't suck, Butter. All that sucks is your attitude.”

He didn't have to elaborate. I'd heard the same speech from FitFab counselors for years. “If you just stop expecting perfection from everyone and everything, you might see the good stuff outweighs the bad. And then maybe someday you'll look in the mirror and see the same thing. Because the person you're most disappointed in is yourself.”
Blah, blah, blah
. Spare me.

I could tell Tucker was on the verge of repeating this completely unhelpful diatribe, so I forced myself to swallow the four-letter words I really wanted to say and give him something he wanted to hear instead.

“Tuck, I'm just not ready to face all that.” I almost gagged on the lie. “Maybe I need this last summer at FitFab to figure myself out. And it would be a lot easier if you were there.”

Tucker smiled, accepting the olive branch. “You'll be fine, and we'll stay in touch. But the next time I go to FitFab, it will be as a counselor.”

The surprise must have showed on my face, because Tucker laughed.

“I knew you'd think I was crazy. There's a program at the institute that trains kids to be fat-camp counselors. I think I might take it.”

“So you'd be my counselor?”

“No way,” he assured me. “You have to age out before FitFab will hire you, so it would be a couple of summers before I could start.”

“Oh.” I shifted on the couch, searching for something to say.

“So you get it? Why I'm going to the institute?”

I locked eyes with Tuck and tried to make a face like I understood, but I really didn't. No matter how fancy his speech, how honest his explanation about wanting a normal college experience and a future helping kids like us, I still thought he was a little off his rocker to be moving to the land of cold and snow just to have some calorie-counting nazis dictate his life. But I kept my doubts to myself and spent the rest of the afternoon playing video games with Tuck and pretending like nothing had changed.

Besides, who was
I
to call
him
crazy? With my whacked-out suicide plot, I was probably going straight to hell. Tucker was just going to Chicago.

I spent most of first period Monday morning daydreaming about my list of “one lasts.” I'd gotten a few out of the way over the weekend: one last jam with the Brass Boys, one last day with Tucker, one last ninety-mile-an-hour cruise through the mountains in the Beemer. Sitting in my extra-large desk in the back of comp, my eyes settled on Anna, and thoughts of “one lasts” drifted to thoughts of firsts.

First steps.

First time riding a bike, driving a car.

Anna crossed her legs.

First kiss.

My first kiss had been two summers ago, at camp. It was a FitFab girl, so needless to say, she was no swimsuit model, but hey, I could cross it off the list.

Anna leaned forward in her seat and her tank top shifted, exposing a cotton-candy-pink bra strap.

First time having sex.

I didn't have any hope of getting that one done before New Year's Eve, but I wouldn't mind getting to second base. I wondered if there was any way—any shot in hell—I could somehow touch Anna's boobs before I died. I tried to picture the front of her pink bra. Was it lacy? Or smooth and satiny? Was it low cut or more modest? I felt a shift below the belt and forced myself to think of something else.

The first time you bring home a report card with all As and your mom puts it up on the fridge.

The first time you press a saxophone to your lips and discover your passion.

Anna sneezed, and the jerk of her head made her fine strands of hair shake and shimmer in the light.

The first time you fall in love.

I wondered how people knew when they were in love. Everyone always said you just
knew
, but I didn't really buy that. I knew what I felt when I looked at Anna, and it was a whole lot more than like or lust. I was pretty sure it was love, but was there a difference between loving someone and being
in
love with someone? That sounded like it took two people—in it together, in love with each other. And when it came to team sports, I knew the drill. I got picked last—always.

I was pretty sure that even if I lived to be a hundred and five, I would never find anyone who would see past my massive outer layer and fall in love with the me underneath. In fact, I
figured if I lived that long I'd stop compiling the firsts altogether and start adding up the “never haves, never wills.” And that was a list I
never
wanted to make.

• • •

I was startled on my way into algebra by a clap on the back.

“What's up, Butter?”

I turned to see Parker walking side by side with another boy, who gave me a head tilt in greeting.

“Hey,” I replied and echoed, “what's up?”

“Not much. Just saying hey.” The boys smiled and took their usual seats.

That turned out to be the first of many hellos and friendly back slaps that day. At lunch, a kid from Jeremy's table even gave me a complicated handshake, which I tried to return without looking like too much of a fool. Others at the table waved and said hello like they knew me—hell, like they were
friends
with me.

One kid pointed at my lunch bag. “Save some room.” He winked and said it in such a friendly way, I actually found myself smiling back.

Twisted.

Only Jeremy sneered at me. Clearly, he still wasn't sold on my story.

Trent and Parker's story about the website being a prank, on the other hand, was a big seller. Kids seemed to be buying that one all over school. In between the smiles and waves, I saw plenty of eye rolls and heard mutters of “liar” and “some joke”
everywhere I went. One of those comments came as I left the computer lab, from a boy standing with the soda machine girl at her locker. I glanced from his face to hers, expecting to see the same angry expression she'd worn the other day. Her eyes were narrowed at me, her lips twisted into a sideways pucker, but it wasn't anger there on her face. It wasn't even pity. It was something more … thoughtful, like she was trying to look right through me.

I pretended not to notice and pushed my way through the crowded hall and away from her probing stare.

I'd always thought the lines of popular and unpopular at school were blurry, but by the end of the day, I could see a solid divide between those
inside
Trent's circle of trust and those on the outside. It gave me a strange sense of satisfaction knowing that this time, I was one of the insiders. But I was still unhinged by how many supporters I seemed to have. How many people had Trent and Parker's password?

I got my answer that night when I was finally alone with my laptop. Mom had made me join them at the table for dinner, but somehow I still wasn't hungry. Then she had made me take out the trash and help sign family Christmas cards. I finally lied and said I had a lot of homework to do, so she'd let me escape to my room.

I signed online and went straight to the site before I could get distracted by Anna.

Holy.

Shit.

ButtersLastMeal.com
had exploded—more than
two hundred
new comments. I devoured them. Whatever appetite I had lost for food I gained for Internet attention. I was hungry, hungry, hungry for Web hits.

Most people commented anonymously, but a few boldly used their names. I recognized kid after kid from school—mostly juniors and seniors, and all, without a doubt, somehow associated with Trent, Parker, and Co. There were still some disbelievers, but no one threatening to tell or trying to stop me. Everyone wanted a piece of my last meal. In fact, a hundred or so comments in, I realized just how true that was.

It started with toast. Someone thought I should have a little bread with my butter and suggested I add it to the menu.

That's all it took to light the fire. Suddenly, it was comment after comment of food suggestions, each one a new ingredient to add to my morbid recipe for death. A fruitcake here, a pile of mashed potatoes there, and the occasional crackpot suggestion, like chocolate-covered crickets.

At some point, I started jotting down foods on a pad of paper. I picked the items that would be easy to collect ahead of time and hide from Mom, things I wouldn't have to cook. I was halfway through writing “box of candy canes” when the pen froze and my hands grew clammy.

What am I doing?
This was sick. This was sick and demented. And I didn't even
like
candy canes!

I dropped the pen and put my fingers on the keyboard. I had to end this. I had to write a new post copping out of this whole mess I had created. Sure, I would be a joke and a target for a while, but someday—maybe even before graduation next
year—I would go back to simply being a nobody, just another elephant in the zoo for kids to stare at. I opened a new page to write the post backing out of my plan, but as I typed, I kept hearing all of the hallway hellos and feeling the smack of a supportive hand on my back.

Each of those smiling faces at school could be the start of a new friendship … or even something more. The possibilities were intoxicating. As I let my imagination run, my fingers continued to fly over the keyboard, and when I'd finished typing, instead of making a graceful exit from this whole mess, I had posted this instead:

Suggestions noted. I am going to pick the best items and add them to the list, which I will post soon. Passing on the toast though. Thanks anyway, but the butter stands alone. For those of you planning to tune in, the day is New Year's Eve. The time is midnight. And the menu is still a work in progress.

—Butter

Pathetic. I can't explain what came over me, but I had this overwhelming urge to see it through. Maybe I wanted to drag out the attention for a few more days. Or maybe I really did want to die, and I just didn't want to do it alone.