Butter (15 page)

“Doc, about that Christmas dinner. I promise not to go nuts or anything, but y'know, I have been pretty good. If I want to treat myself to a big meal, it's not—There isn't—Um … I can't
die
from one meal, right?”

“That is not a funny question,” he said. “Do you really worry about such things?”

I shrugged.

“Well, first, we should never eat to the point where we get sick. But even if you did get sick, I assure you, you would not die. You are more likely to choke to death on a turkey bone than fatally overeat this holiday season. I promise.”

The doc's answer was unexpectedly helpful. I could eat fast to increase my chance of choking; and if I gagged—well then, I would just keep shoveling it in. It certainly wasn't foolproof, but combined with the alcohol, I now had at least two dangerous ingredients to mix into my menu. My New Year's plan felt more real by the minute.

Mom shook the doc's hand as always and headed to the reception desk to pay.

Doc Bean tapped my shoulder as I left the room. “I won't see you again until the new year.”

My shoulders slumped. I hadn't even realized this was my last visit with Bean.

He continued. “So remember: don't overeat at Christmas, and don't drink on New Year's Eve.” He peeked over my shoulder to make sure my mom was out of earshot and then lowered
his voice with a wink. “And give your lady a kiss at midnight to knock her into next year.”

I wished I could see Bean's image of my New Year's Eve, but when I tried to picture it, all I saw was a sad buffet and a camera rolling on the kid who would eat it all. I suddenly felt fourteen pounds
heavier
.

I didn't want to say my good-byes under a cloud of doom, so I forced myself to share one final laugh with Bean.

“Really, Doc, there's no lady.”

Mom didn't give me too much trouble about my half-eaten dinner that night. I think she was still shaken by my reaction to the institute. It was easy to excuse myself early and escape to my room for some Internet time with Anna.

Hey handsome, we still on for New Year's?

She was in a good mood.

Of course. Counting down the days.

Fifteen days to be exact. But I wasn't really counting down to a rendezvous with Anna. More like a meet-up with a man in a long dark cloak carry ing a scythe—or what ever they call
those big pointy silver sticks. I wondered if there really was such a thing as a grim reaper.

Well, do you have anything planned for us?

Oh. No, I didn't. Now I was not only standing Anna up on New Year's Eve, I was also crushing some fantasy she probably had about a big romantic eve ning I was supposed to be planning.

She sent another message before I could respond.

Because if you don't, my friend Parker is having a party. We could meet there. It's going to be huge, and his parents are out of town for the whole weekend, so there will be alcohol and no chaperones.

Parker was having a party? Was I not invited?

Of course I wasn't invited. Those guys all knew I had other plans that night.

Then it hit me; they weren't calling my bluff. They really
did
expect me to make good on my promise, and not only did they not care—they were having a fucking party. As pissed as that should have made me, all I really felt was hurt that I wasn't invited. A party sure sounded like a hell of a lot more fun than a lonely last meal. And didn't anyone think I might like a bit of a sendoff? Something fun to do before I pigged out for the last time?

Invitation or no, I had a plan, and for once, I made a promise to Anna that I would keep:

I'll be there.

She just wouldn't know it.

In fact, I wondered if I could work that in my favor. Anna would be hurt when J.P. didn't show up. She would need a shoulder to cry on, and I could be there for her.

I shook that thought out of my head. I had deceived Anna enough without also taking advantage of her misery—misery
I
would be causing. I made a promise to myself that I would leave that party before Anna realized J.P. wasn't coming. Then I wouldn't have to see the damage I'd done.

I chatted with Anna a little longer, but my heart wasn't in it. I kept picturing different New Year's scenarios and how each one would play out on her overly animated face.

J.P. doesn't show up: a crinkle at the eyes, then tears.

Butter tries to make a move: lips open in shock and horror, then eyes squeezed shut with laughter.

Butter kills himself on the Internet: a shrug and a yawn. Oh well, show's over. What's next?

No matter what I tried to imagine, I just could not create a scene in which Anna gave one fat fig about the obese kid on a suicide mission. And for the first time since popularity had distracted me, I saw my life in focus: sharp images of a girl out of my league, oversize desks, a lifetime supply of insulin, and plate after plate piled high with foods made of butter.

I wasn't the guy Anna wanted me to be, but with my faux friends and newfound popularity, I was living in his skin for a little while. It was an illusion I now realized would disappear
on New Year's Eve whether
I
disappeared or not. Jeremy was right—even if I chickened out and couldn't go through with my plan, come January first, this party was over. And I'd be damned if I was ever going back to that long table in the back of the lunchroom.

I said a hasty good-bye to Anna and checked my website. The thrill I usually felt at seeing the huge number of comments on my site was gone. Now, I felt only indifference. I had a job to do, and these leeches were helping me do it, with their endless list of food suggestions. Today's new additions included an entire cheesecake, a gallon of whole milk—
sick
—and a jar of strawberry jam.

Wait a minute
. I backed up to the strawberry suggestion. I had dismissed it out of habit because I was deathly allergic to strawberries, but in fact, that was exactly what I needed—something I was
deathly
allergic to.

As far as I knew, I had no other allergies, but strawberries made my throat swell up so tight I couldn't breathe. Mom always told this story about a picnic we went to when I was a little kid. I guess I gorged myself on strawberries and stopped breathing completely. Some doctor at the picnic literally stabbed me in the neck and shoved a straw in my throat until the paramedics got there. Mom says I was in the hospital for two days, and I still have a little scar that you'd be able to see if it weren't for all my chins.

Those were the last strawberries I ever ate, so I couldn't even remember what they tasted like. Now, I was going to find out … on New Year's Eve.

That's three.
Alcohol, the chance of choking, and now strawberries. My last meal was getting deadlier by the day.

• • •

The last day of school before Christmas break might as well have been a full-day free period. We were all so anxious for the time off, the teachers just couldn't control us, and by the end of the day, most had given up trying. My final teacher of the day dismissed class early just to get us out of her hair. I used the extra ten minutes to make the long trek across campus to the band room. I wanted to patch things up with the Professor before he left for the holiday.

But apparently he let his students out early too and got a head start on his own vacation. The band room was dark, his office door locked.

I hurried down to Trent's locker instead to say good-bye to everyone, but good-bye was the last thing on anyone's mind.

The final bell rang and school was out, but the party was just beginning. The whole crew was headed over to Jeremy's house.

“Ride with me, Butter. We'll pick up some pizzas on the way over,” Trent said.

“I doubt I'm invited.”

“Oh, what ever.” Jeremy's voice floated up from behind me. “Just come. Who cares?”

“See?” Trent smiled.

“Okay, but I'll drive myself. Don't want to come back here for
any
reason—not even to pick up my car.”

“I feel that,” Trent agreed. “You can follow Parker over there then.”

He opened that loud mouth once more to holler at everyone within earshot. “What are we still doing here? Let's go party! Get your crap and get out of here!”

At his command, backpacks filled up, lockers slammed shut, and the hallway emptied. I joined the masses headed for the parking lot.

• • •

I tailed Parker to a gated community on a golf course and had to pick my jaw up off the floor when he pulled up to a sprawling mansion, complete with its own private gate, a guest house, and a tennis court. Megamansions weren't uncommon in Scottsdale, but this one was something else.

“Jeremy lives here?” I asked, stepping out of my car.

Parker hopped out of his own ride, a shiny black Corvette. “Oh,
hell
no. This is my house. Jeremy lives in that little shack over there.” He pointed down the drive at another impressive home across the street, then started walking toward it.

I gaped at the castle-size home we'd parked in front of. “Nice place.”

He continued down the drive with a shrug. “Yeah, it's okay.”

I fell into step next to him, panting a little with the effort to keep up. “So you and Jeremy live across the street from each other?”

“Yup, always have. It rocks in the summer. Pool parties at my house all day, then everyone trucks over to Jeremy's to drink all night.”

“Hey, I heard you were having a party on New Year's Eve.”

“Oh yeah.” He looked at me. “It's gonna be awesome. My
parents are going out of town for New Year's, so no supervision. You
have
to come. Everyone will be here.”

Okay, so maybe I hadn't been intentionally left off the guest list. It sounded more like Parker had just forgotten to invite me altogether. I couldn't decide if it was worse to be deliberately left out or to be so insignificant he simply hadn't thought of me. I tried not to care either way, because the point was I'd gotten what I needed—an invitation.

We crossed the street to Jeremy's place, which was still a mansion, but closer to the size of a home than a hotel. Parker opened the front door without knocking, and I followed him down a set of stairs to a game room packed with kids.

Familiar faces from school were crowded around a pool table, a dart board, video games, a Ping-Pong table, and a bar. Jeremy was behind that bar, mixing up something with tequila.

“We can drink here?” I asked.

Parker nodded. “Oh yeah, dude. We can do anything here. Jeremy's parents live in LA full time. It's just him and his brother here, and their mom and dad come home like once a month to check in.” He raised his voice to shout at Jeremy, “You lucky bastard!”

Jeremy tipped a shot glass in response and downed the dark liquid inside in a single swallow.

“How old is his brother?” I asked.

“Twenty-two, I think? Twenty-three? I don't know, but he buys the beer. That's him there.”

Parker pointed a finger, and I followed it to a face that nearly made me throw up on the spot. It had been two years since I'd
seen that face, in the secluded back alley lot of the Salad Stop. I'd never seen him in person again, but his face had haunted me—nightmare after nightmare about that evil grin and the way he had held my hands to my thighs so I couldn't move, the way he had hopped in his Mustang and sped off like nothing had happened as I sat on a dirty curb trying not to puke up butter.

After all this time, the identity of one of Jeremy's thug helpers from that day was revealed. It was his brother, and if Parker was right about his age, he was already a man when he helped his little brother attack an obese teenager. What a great influence. No wonder Jeremy was a douche bag.

I looked away before he could catch me staring. I wanted to leave that instant, but I was afraid a hasty retreat would trigger gossip, and that Jeremy and his brother would take the opportunity to tell their own version of how I “willingly” ate a disgusting stick of butter. It's amazing the paranoia that sets in when you become desperate to maintain your social status. I almost missed being invisible to these people.

Someone shoved a cup in my hand, and I took a big gulp of a liquid that burned my throat. I felt like I was breathing fire, but I didn't gag. Parker slapped my back and disappeared into the crowd.

A guy like me can't just stand around and hope to blend in, so I inserted myself into a card game underway at a nearby table. Jeremy came by at one point with a tray full of tequila shots and passed them around; he even gave me mine without a smart-ass comment.

A boy to my right pushed a deck of cards in front of me. “Your deal, Butter.”

My fingers were clumsy with the shuffle, but I managed to pass out the cards without sliding any off the table onto the floor. I wish I'd been just a little bit faster though, because the break in the game gave some other guy at the table time to ask me, “Dude, are you really going to kill yourself?”

“Shut up, Mikey!” A redheaded girl next to him elbowed him hard in the chest.

“What?” he slurred. I noticed he was weaving a bit in his chair. If he hadn't been drunk, I would have told him where to shove it, but in his state, I forgave him for his curiosity. I also decided to screw with him a little bit—with all of them; the whole table had gone silent at his question.

“Yep, I'm really gonna do it. You gonna watch?” I gave him a wide smile. “Should be a good show.”

The boy named Mikey blinked. “Uh, yeah, I'll—I guess I'll watch.”

The boy who had passed me the cards—Nate was his name—joined the conversation. “Everyone's going to watch … because no one really thinks you're going to do it.”

“Don't they?” I challenged.