Butter (24 page)

My feet carried me through two busy intersections before I realized I wasn't walking toward home.

Where am I going?

I reached for my cell phone as if it were a compass—something to show me the way. I dialed Tucker's number without thinking. I was on the brink of something dangerous and
stupid and I must have known, subconsciously, that Tuck would talk me out of it. But instead of his encouraging voice on the line, I only got his indifferent message asking me to leave my name and number. I hadn't even heard a ring; I wondered if maybe he was on a plane to Chicago at that very minute.

I thought about calling Mom and Dad for half a block, but they were at their own New Year's celebration and probably wouldn't hear their cell phones. I didn't want to cry to Mommy anyway. She would just try to feed it away. I couldn't call Trent or Parker or any of my other faux friends. What could I possibly say?
Anna doesn't like me just because I'm a creepy stalker, and by the way I'm supposed to be somewhere at midnight that I'm totally afraid to be.

Pathetic.

Besides, those guys were probably already popping the corn and settling in to watch the show. So I walked with no direction because I had no one to walk to.

I looked up at the third intersection to read the cross streets and assess where I was—one block from Logan's.
The Professor.
I pumped my legs faster and felt my calves searing with delicious pain. The sax was still in my hand; it was a sign.

The line outside Logan's was long. Even on New Year's Eve, I knew only the Brass Boys could draw a crowd like that. The Professor had to be inside. I bellied right up to the front door.

“The line starts back there,” the bouncer pointed.

“I'm with the band,” I said, shaking my sax.

“Oh yeah.” A guy at the front of the line rolled his eyes. “I'm with the band too.”

“Yeah, me too!” A guy behind him laughed.

“No, really,” I pleaded with the bouncer. “The Brass Boys are playing to night, right? I'm with them.”

“Get in line, tubbo!” someone shouted.

Other voices joined his.

“Yeah, come on!”

“Get in line like everyone else!”

The bouncer pointed again, more sternly this time. “Back of the line. Sorry.”

I sized him up. He was more muscular than I was, but I figured I had a good two hundred pounds on him. I turned away, faking defeat, but at the last second, I spun as fast as my huge, aching legs would allow and pushed right past him into the club.

“Hey!”

I felt his strong arms swipe at my back, but I'd caught him off guard, and he didn't move quickly enough. Inside Logan's, the sound of a familiar Brass Boys melody washed over me.

“Grab that guy!” I heard the bouncer's voice behind me. I moved forward on instinct, knocking people to the side—even knocking a few
down
—on my way to the Professor. At the steps of the stage, I finally caught his eye. He looked at me, puzzled, then motioned to a band mate. They both eyed me and said something to each other, as the rest of the band kept the music flowing. Then the Professor set down his trumpet and slipped off the stage.

“Butter, what are you doing here?”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“That's okay, they don't need me for this song.”

“No, I'm sorry I lied to you.” Emotions rippled up from somewhere inside and found my face. I could feel my cheeks grow hot, my eyes begin to sting.

“Lied to me about what? Butter, are you drunk?”

“I lied to you!”
Damn it, here come the tears.

The Professor gripped me by one shoulder and led me away from the stage to a dark corner of the club.

“Calm down and tell me what's going on.” He had to shout over the music, but somehow it still sounded like a whisper.

I only cried harder. The lies I'd told the Professor were nothing compared to the ones I'd told everyone else, but I had to confess to someone—anyone—that I was a liar. I had to purge.

“Butter, what did you lie about?”

I lied to Mom when I said I'd consider going to the institute. I lied to Tucker when I took the FitFab oath.

“About band. I'm not joining band.”

“Is that all? That's fine. It's nothing to get worked up over.”

I lied to Anna about who I was. I lied to everyone when I said I wanted to die. And I lied to myself when I let myself believe I really had friends, really had an Anna.

“And about Anna. I lied about that too. I
do
like Anna.”

“Anna McGinn? Butter, did something happen with Anna?”

“Hey, you know this kid?” The bouncer was suddenly at our side, and he'd brought backup. Three of them formed a wall of muscle, ready to drag me to the street. I was humiliated to be crying in front of such tough-looking guys.

“Yes. He's with me.”

The Professor waved a hand to dismiss the bouncers, but one of them stepped forward.

“Okay, I just need to check his ID.”

“I'm twenty-one,” I said. I was relieved to hear the tears had left my voice if not my face.

“No, he's not,” the Professor said.

Traitor
.

“But it's okay. He's leaving.”

“I'm
not
.” I think I actually stamped my foot.

“If you're underage, you're outta here,” the bouncer said, reaching for my arm.

The Professor stepped in before a second goon could grab my other arm. “I got it, guys. I'll see him out.”

The one with a grip on my arm hesitated.

“Benny, I got it, really,” the Professor promised.

Benny reluctantly let go, but he stayed close on our heels as the Professor led me by a much gentler hand to the exit.

I made one last effort at the door. “Professor,
please
. You have to forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive, big guy. But I have to get you outside.” He looked genuinely sorry. “You're too young to be in here during business hours.” He steered me out onto the sidewalk and waved to a valet driver.

“You running out on the band?” the valet called, plucking the Professor's keys off a hook. “It's not even midnight yet.”

The Professor clapped me on the shoulder in a way that reminded me of Parker. “Got to get a friend of mine here back home before he turns into a pumpkin.”

I shrugged out from under the Professor's grip. “I don't want to go home.”

The valet jogged away in search of the Professor's car, and the Professor turned to face me squarely. “Butter, whatever is going on, you can't deal with it in this state anyway. You need to go home and sleep off the alcohol.”

“I wasn't drinking.”

“Okay.”

“I wasn't!”

“Well, then you can tell me what happened on the way home.”

It won't happen until I
get
home.

“Dunn, what are you doing?” Billy appeared in the doorway of the club, his hand gripping his saxophone just as mine was. He was the thinner, cooler, mirror image of me. “Butter! You joining us?” He nodded at my sax.

“I'm taking Butter home,” the Professor said.

“No.” I wrenched my eyes away from Billy and the image of what could be and focused on the Professor. “You can't leave the guys. I'm sorry I interrupted your show. I'm sorry I—”

“It's fine.” The Professor waved at the valet as his car pulled up.

“Uh, Dunn.” Billy coughed in the doorway. “I don't know about fine. We have a set—”

“Exactly,” I said, backing away from the Professor and his car toward a line of cabs. “You were right, Prof. A little too much alcohol.” I choked out something I hoped sounded like a drunken laugh and threw myself into one of the cabs before the Professor could protest.

He poked his head into the open back-door window. “You sure?”

No.

“I'm sure.”

The Professor gave the driver my address and looked at me one more time. “Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow.”

No we won't.

“Okay.”

The cab was already pulling away from the curb when I realized I'd been telling the Professor the wrong thing. I said
I'm sorry
when I should have said
I'm scared
. I asked for forgiveness when I meant to ask for help. Now the cab was speeding into the darkness, and all the little neon lights outside Logan's were getting swallowed up by the night.

When the last light blinked out, I embraced the dark.

I let the cab driver blare his radio without complaint all the way home. The screaming rock music helped drown out my own thoughts and kept me from doing more crazy-stupid shit like call Anna.

It should have been silent inside my house. But I could still hear the cab radio, the club jazz, the party DJ, and soft strains of Anna's song. Echoes of all the night's melodies thundered in my ears, pushing back against the quiet still of my empty house. A tiny part of me wished Mom was home to get in my way, but there were no obstacles left. It was just me, the music in my head, and a pile of food silently waiting for me upstairs.

I followed my heavy feet up the steps. The ache in my legs no longer felt exhilarating but excruciating. Inside my room, I
cleared my cluttered desk with a single sweep of my arm. Knickknacks and electronics smashed to the floor. I felt each one break; it was energizing. I dragged the desk to the center of my room and perched my laptop carefully on my dresser, making sure the camera at the top of the screen would have a clear shot.

Piece by piece, I spread the ingredients for my last meal across the desk. A few of my fail-proof items were missing. I'd forgotten to score pills from Nate at the party, and I hadn't managed to swipe a bottle of vodka on my way out the door either. I hadn't planned carefully enough, because until this very moment, I hadn't been sure I would do it—not really.

I thought about the night I'd started the website. I'd embarrassed myself at school; I was angry at Mom and Dad and the Professor for thinking they could fix me; I was fighting back against that damn “most likely” list. I wanted people to see my threat and feel guilty. I didn't expect them to believe it. And I sure as hell didn't expect them to
like
me for it.

Everything after that had been a surprise. All I'd wanted was a place at that cafeteria table, a little attention from Anna, and people to spend my weekends with. To keep those things, I had to keep moving forward with my plan. I knew I was painting myself back into a corner, but I never stopped to
look
at that corner to see how dark it was.

Now I was in it, and I had less than what I'd started with. Tucker was gone; the Prof thought I was nuts; Mom looked at me like she didn't even know me anymore. And Anna would never call me handsome again.

I carefully laid out everything I needed in a specific order, from left to right: two shots of insulin, the jar of peanut butter (good to start with stuff that would go down easy), then the poisonous strawberry jam and a container of fresh whole strawberries to really get things rolling. I placed the onion and the carton of eggs next in line; those would be the hardest to swallow, best to get them out of the way together. All the meats came after that, pulled from a cooler I had stashed in my closet. I spaced the diet sodas along the way, to help wash things down.

The last item on the desk sat elevated on a thick Oxford dictionary, resting in the center of a crystal plate, a place of honor for my grand finale—one whole stick of butter.

I picked up my sax from where I'd dropped it on the bed. It felt better than ever in my hands, and I silently prayed the Egyptians were right, that we take some things from this life to the next. I pressed the sax to my lips and played one perfect clear note. It was the first note of Anna's song. I played the song once, all the way through, in the low key that had made the coyotes weep. It never sounded better.

I set the sax gently back on the bed and positioned my overstuffed chair in front of the desk. I checked my watch: six minutes to midnight. I shot the insulin into my upper arm—a lethal overdose. Then I signed on to my website, set up the live feed, turned on the camera … and sat down to eat.

The peanut butter went down easily enough. My body craved the sweet flavor, and after all these weeks of not eating, it was suddenly easy to fall back in love with food. And the
strawberries—
oh, the strawberries!
—that was something worth dying for right there. How unfair that I was allergic to such a delicious treat. They worked their wicked magic fast. My throat was closing up before I'd even finished the last berry. I nearly choked, but true to the plan, I only forced myself to eat faster.

My hands shook violently as I cracked the eggs. The insulin was doing its job. At one point, I glanced over to my laptop and tried to see whether anyone was commenting on my live stream, but the screen was just a blur. My eyes were watering from the onion and swelling shut. My head felt as fuzzy as my vision, and my heart sprinted at a pace that would have terrified Doc Bean.

I barely registered the flavor of the prime rib, the texture of the hot dogs. My eyes were so puffy, I could hardly see through the tiny slits in my swollen lids. I forced the meats down by feel and willpower alone.

My head spun; my hands vibrated; my throat closed.

I was just reaching for the stick of butter when my world went black.

I woke up in heaven. I mean, it had to be heaven, right? All white and bright lights. Everything was broken into a grid of prisms—lights with sharp edges, like the many surfaces of a diamond. A face identical to Anna's took shape in one of those prisms, the face of an angel. Then the angels began to sing, or …
hum? Do angels hum?

I tried to shake my head, but it was too heavy, my neck too stiff. I blinked to clear my vision. The grid of lights only blurred.