Butter (5 page)

And now I was at another one. The cashier paused for only a moment when she saw my size and the remains of my other meal. Then she passed me my change and hastily averted her eyes. The tacos were even less filling than the burgers, so I moved on to a greasy chicken joint.

My stomach growled.
More
.

I ate my chicken wraps on the way to the teriyaki takeout place, but I saved my stir-fry until I found an empty lot to park in. When the last grain of rice was gone, I tossed the bowl on top of the pile of hollow cups, taco wrappers, and burger boxes.

I wasn't hungry anymore, but I was far from full. I somehow felt emptier with every bite.

As if to prove otherwise, I could suddenly feel the contents of my stomach pushing upward into my throat, and I barely had time to open the door before all of my fast food came rocketing out of me,
Exorcist
style. I tasted more of it coming up than I did going down. Afterward, I felt cleansed, even a
little bit high; for a moment I could almost see the appeal of bulimia. But the sour sick taste that followed quickly pushed that thought out of my head.

They think I put on a show in the cafeteria? If only they could see this scene. That would really give them something to look at
. I closed my eyes, as if that could shut out the image of all those faces staring at me. People never looked at you the way you wanted them to. Classmates you daydream will someday watch you with admiration as you blow a tune on the sax in some kick-ass rock band only stare with sympathy; a dad you imagine will look at you with praise instead spreads his face with disappointment; and the girl you hope will gaze at you with love in her eyes looks away entirely.

I was confused by Anna's reaction to the cafeteria confrontation. My Anna had something to say about everything and never hid her feelings. My Anna wouldn't have averted her eyes and let Jeremy Strong speak for her. I resolved to pull Anna's version of the story out of her when we talked online that night.

The decision finally gave me something to do besides hit another drive-through. I slammed the car door, locked out the scene of my own mess, and drove home.

I cut the engine and rolled to a stop in front of one of our four garage doors. I was as stealthy as possible as I exited the BMW and opened the front door; it barely whispered as I pulled it shut behind me. But I couldn't keep the steps from creaking under my bulk, and halfway up, my mom's voice startled me from the foot of the staircase.

“What are you doing home?”

I kept climbing.

Her footsteps followed me. No creak beneath her tiny frame, of course.

“Is everything okay? Are you sick?”

I didn't have room for this. How was I supposed to comfort my mom when I couldn't even comfort myself? I reached my door just in time to turn the lock before my mom's hand hit the knob on the other side.

“Are you sick?” she repeated through the door.

I picked up my sax and played a few notes in response. It was a song I played often when I was down. I knew Mom would recognize it and know I needed time alone. The message got through. She didn't say anything else, but knowing my mom, she probably stood there in the hallway until the song was complete and didn't leave until I started a new tune.

Half an hour later, she tried a soft knock at the door. I didn't answer but lowered my sax. I was getting tired anyway.

“I called school,” she said. “I explained you weren't feeling well and that next time you'll see the nurse before leaving without permission.”

Shouldn't she have been mad at me? Shouldn't I have been grounded or something?

“And if you need a break, I made you a snack.”

Of course. A snack.

I imagined my mom sometimes like a doctor treating a dying person in a hospital. There's nothing left to do to save that person, but the doctor can “make him comfortable.” Maybe
Mom saw where I was headed better than I did, and she was just trying to make me comfortable.

“Baby, did you hear me? I have a snack for you.”

Comfort food.

I blew a loud, low warning note in response.

“It's just apples.” Her voice was small. She knew food had been the wrong medicine this time.

Two more notes—the prelude to a raucous big band tune I loved.

“I'll just leave them on the floor here outside your door, if you get hungry.” Then she was gone again.

I pictured the plate of food on the floor, like a meal on the other side of a starving inmate's prison bars. The image stirred something inside me—the glimmer of an idea—but I pushed it aside, along with my sax. She was right. I did need a break, and Anna would probably be home by now.

I perched my laptop on my middle and steeled myself for Anna's account of the cafeteria incident. I was sure she was just dying to tell “J.P.” all about it.

I was right. As soon as I logged online, Anna was there, ready to fill me in on her cafeteria drama, beginning with the fight with Jeanie. Apparently the spat was over some Web list billing Scottsdale High students as “most likely to make a million dollars” or “most likely to become a doctor” …
or a stripper, or a crook, or a warthog. Who cares? Forget the list and fast-forward to the part where the fat kid came after you!

But Anna was furiously typing every detail of her exchange with Jeanie, down to direct quotes. Anna had been voted most
likely to have a white-picket-fence life, and Jeanie had been selected most likely to get divorced—
twice
. Somehow, these facts had led Jeanie to call
Anna
a slut and make up a story about how Anna had hooked up with a lifeguard at their country club last summer. Or at least, Anna
claimed
it was made up. If it was true, I didn't want to know. In fact, I didn't want to hear about that or the stupid list or any of this shit.

Finally, the message I was waiting for came.

So I told Jeanie to go to hell and tried to walk away but this big kid at school stopped to ask if I was okay and kind of made a scene, so everyone was staring at me. It was sooo embarrassing. Anyway, I stayed mad all day, but Jeanie's my best friend, so I tried to make up with her after school but she just got in her car and drove away and now she's not even speaking to me! As if I did anything wrong! She should be apologizing to me!

What? That was it? I was a
footnote
? I struggled to compose my thoughts before typing back.

Sorry you had a bad day, babe, but it sounds like a dumb fight. Who cares about some list?

There was some snark in her reply.

Only everyone at my school.

Anna went quiet after that, and I wanted to keep the conversation going, so I asked her for a link to the list. She sent me the Web address of a blog run by some anonymous student. The top entry was a post listing the results of the Scottsdale High “most likely” poll. I scrolled through it and confirmed Anna's and Jeanie's rankings. I agreed with a few of the votes. Trent Woods—
I was right, his name
is
Trent
—most likely to get a football scholarship. Jeremy Strong: most likely to cheat on his SATs. I could barely muster a grin at that one.
How about most likely to fail at life?

I was about to click out of the site and navigate back to my conversation with Anna when my own name caught my eye, right next to this category:

Most likely to have a heart attack.

There was even a little thumbnail photo of me, sitting at my lunch table alone, stuffing my face! Some jerk probably snapped the shot off with a cell phone. I swallowed hard. I knew they all watched me eat—it's hard not to—but I didn't know they
watched
me.

I clicked into the comments section to see if anyone fessed up to having taken the photo.

No confessions, but my category had definitely drawn some attention. A few kids from other schools had found the site and asked about my photo. The comments from strangers were mostly nasty, but the posts from Scottsdale High students were almost proud.

I once saw him eat an entire large pizza without taking a breath!

He has to park in a handicapped spot, because he gets tired just walking!

I bet he weighs 500 pounds! Top that!

Top that? Seriously? It was like I was their mascot. Our yeti can eat your yeti!

Then I saw this:

This dude is amazing. Do you know he actually ate an entire tub of butter in one sitting? My friend was there. He saw the whole thing. The guy ate the entire tub and didn't even barf. That's why everyone calls him Butter.

Red.

And spots.

And a tunnel.

Or whatever it is they say you see when you're so angry your vision blurs.

A tub of butter? No puking? What bullshit! What fucking garbage!

That was
not
how it happened.

I looked at the name next to the comment. I didn't even recognize it. Who was this kid to be talking about me? Like he knew me. Like his friend was really there. If his friend
had
been there, I bet he wouldn't be telling anybody about it, because that's the kind of thing people don't like to admit they saw—don't like to confess they stood by and watched and didn't help.
I guess I wasn't surprised that someone had turned the story around—whatever they had to tell themselves in order to look in the mirror every day.

I closed my computer without saying good-bye to Anna. I hoped she'd believe me later when I pretended I'd lost the Internet connection. Or maybe I didn't care what she thought. Right then, all I cared about was what people would think when they read that comment. Would they believe it? Would anyone remember what really happened? Would they even care?

• • •

It was the summer before my freshman year. I had just gotten back from FitFab and was really motivated. I'd lost sixteen pounds that summer and wanted to keep the momentum going with diet and exercise. So I remember clearly deciding to walk down to the Salad Stop instead of having my mom drive me.

I loaded up a Styrofoam takeout box with everything green, plus a few carrots and beets for color. The FitFab counselors said natural colors were good for a balanced meal. I skipped the cheeses, creamy dressings, and croutons and was actually looking forward to my salad until I got to the checkout counter. The kid at the register reminded me why I was glad my parents didn't make me get a job. The poor guy was decked out in a red-and-white-striped apron over an electric-orange shirt with hot-pink buttons. He looked like one of those acid flashbacks my uncle Luis was always describing. I recognized the kid from school—Brian something-or-other.

“You want bread with your salad?” Brian asked automatically.

Mmm. Bread. Yes, please
.

“No, thanks.”

“You sure? It's real soft and warm, and we bake it fresh daily in our kit—”

“I said
no
, thanks.”

Interrupting Brian's robotic speech caused him to look up at me for the first time. I knew I had been rude, but surely now that he saw me, he would realize I was on a diet and maybe a little sensitive about bread.

Nope. I'd pissed him off.

“You
sure
you don't want just one roll? C'mon, one little roll won't kill you.” Brian leaned over the counter, a fresh-baked roll suddenly in his hand. “A little warm, toasty, soft, salty—”

“You sound like a phone-sex operator.”

He snapped upright. “What did you just say to me?”

“You heard me. Now just tell me what I owe you for the salad.”

“What you owe me is an apology!”

“
I
owe
you
?” I spluttered. “You treat all your customers this way, or do you just get off on torturing fat kids?” I was getting loud, and people were starting to stare.

Brian dropped the roll and held up his hands. “Hey man, you snapped at me first. I was just messing with you.”

“Well, now I'm going to mess with you. Get your manager.”

It was so not like me. Honest. I cringed when adults made scenes like this, but it was just so unfair. Here I'd lost some
pounds and done the work and changed my attitude, and my reward was taunting? Where was the payoff for a summer of suffering small portions and long workouts? FitFab counselors always made you believe it would be better on the other side, but it never was. Going home was always just a colossal letdown.

“Our manager is on break. Look, I'm sorry—”

“No, you're not, but you're gonna be.”

“Hey, Bri! Everything all right?” Jeremy Strong appeared next to Brian behind the counter, a plastic tub of lettuce under one arm.

If Brian's face had been fuzzily familiar, Jeremy's was instantly recognizable. We'd gone to the same junior high, him a year ahead of me. The past year as an eighth grader—with jerks like Jeremy gone to the realm of high school—had been blissful. But here he was now, an in-your-face reminder of what was waiting for me when I started high school the next week.

Jeremy cocked his chin at me. “You got a problem?” I think it was supposed to look tough, but as he was dressed to match Brian with the added bonus of an electric-green hairnet, I just couldn't bring myself to be afraid. In fact, all of a sudden, I was laughing. It came out like a little snort at first, then a foot stomp, then I was doubled over trying to catch my breath between howls.

Other customers in the restaurant began to join me. I've been told I have a contagious laugh, which can be a problem when you're a nervous laugher anyway. I had everyone
rolling in the pews at my great-aunt's funeral. My dad was so pissed.

I'm sure that's all it was—my contagious laugh—that had the whole restaurant twittering, but Jeremy sure seemed to think it was at his expense. His face turned as red as the beets on my salad, and the sight of his glowing skin under that green hair net was too much. I finally just left my salad on the counter and laughed all the way out the front door, gasping for air.