Butter (9 page)

“Thanks, guys,” I whispered. But there was no one left in the hall to hear me.

I floated out to the parking lot. I even walked right out the main doors, instead of sneaking out the teacher's side entrance. I didn't mind the longer walk to my car, because everything seemed brighter suddenly, more colorful. I understood now why the sun had not hidden behind clouds that morning; because it was not a day for gloom. It was a day for seeing more clearly than ever.

“A Night in Tunisia.”

“Cubano-Be, Cubano-Bop.”

“Koko.”

“Things to Come.”

Man, what a set list!

The Professor and I were on a roll with Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie tunes; we'd played nothing else for the last hour. One by one, the other Brass Boys had dropped out and taken up seats at the bar to listen.

“Okay, Diz and Bird! We want to hear something new!” a voice called from somewhere below the stage. It was Logan's house manager. My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I could see him moving around the floor, helping his employees bus tables and stack chairs.

“We could use a break anyway,” the Professor called back. He lowered his trumpet to reveal swollen lips. “Butter, aren't you tired?”

I shrugged. Somehow, I wasn't. I'd been on my feet huffing into the sax all night and still felt like I could go another hour. “It's okay, Prof. We can take a break … y'know, if you can't hang.” I winked.

The Professor shook his head. “Time for a solo then. You have anything original?”

I fidgeted. “Just one.”

“Really?” The Professor raised an eyebrow and wandered down a set of steps off the stage. A waitress was waiting for him with a cocktail in hand. He took a sip. “Let's hear it.”

I was glad the Brass Boys were sitting in the shadows. I had never played my own music for them, and I didn't want to see their faces if they didn't like it. I took a deep breath, pressed the sax to my lips for one last time that night, and began to play Anna's song.

“Nice,” someone at the bar breathed when I had finished. There was a sprinkle of applause from the others.

“What's it called?” someone else asked.

“Eh, I don't really want to say.”

“Oooh, it's for a
girl
.”

“Oh, it's definitely for a girl. I could hear that in the first few notes.”

I parked my sax in its case and joined the band at the bar.

Billy, also a saxophonist, pulled out a stool and patted the seat. “Right here, Butter. Who's the girl?”

“Anna McGinn?” the Professor guessed.

I shot him a look.

“Okay, okay, don't tell us.” He held his arms up in surrender, the fingers of one hand wrapped tight around a short glass of caramel-colored liquid.

I cocked a finger at the bartender and pointed to the Professor's glass. “I'll have what he's having.”

“Ah,
no
he
won't
.” The Professor banged his glass onto the bar top. “He's underage.”

“He plays like a man! Let him at least have a sip of yours, Dunn,” Billy said. “It's a rite of passage.”

“It's a rite of passage that could get me fired,” the Professor shot back. Then he pointed at me. “I could be in enough trouble getting you
into
this bar, even after hours. I don't need to push it by contributing to the delinquency of a minor.” He lifted the liquid to his lips, and I recognized the scent of whisky that always made me think of my grandfather. “Besides, this stuff'll kill you.”

The comment hit me like a lightning bolt.
Alcohol will kill me
. Probably not the way the Professor meant—over a long time with decades of liver damage—but if nothing else worked, then in just a few short weeks, alcohol
would
kill me. I made a mental note to add a couple bottles of vodka to my New Year's Eve menu. If I drank enough, fast enough, then by the time I got to the end of the meal, I would surely die of alcohol poisoning.

“You're right, Prof. Don't want to get you in any trouble.” I waved a hand, calling the bartender back. “I'll have a Coke—a
real one—none of that diet shit, okay?” Then a thought occurred to me and I gave the Professor a wicked grin. “Of course, if I
did
get you fired, I wouldn't have to take band next year.”

Billy winced. “Band? C'mon, Dunn. Butter's way too cool for your high school kids.” He turned to me and tipped his glass with a wink. “You should start your
own
band. A little rock-and-roll and jazz blend.”

I shook my head. Always with the performing. It wasn't enough that the sound a saxophone made vibrated all the way to my bones; wasn't enough that a single brass note could carry me out of this world and into another. I could play for myself all day long, but the truth was, to reap any real rewards from all the hard work I'd put into that instrument, I would have to play it for others. Perform to get noticed. Perform to get college scholarships. Perform to get paid. It was this sick side effect that made the sax as disappointing as everything else.

“I don't like playing for people.”

That wasn't entirely true. Like anyone passionate about music, I
did
want to be heard. I just didn't want to be seen.

“What? You just played for us, and you wailed!” Billy downed his drink.

“It's different playing in the dark.” I glanced down, and the eyes of the Brass Boys followed my gaze to the flab oozing up against the bar top and over the sides of the stool below.

Only the Professor kept his eyes fixed on my face. “Butter, when people are listening to your music, they're not judging you by your looks.”

I matched his stare. “Think you got it backward there, Prof.
When people are too busy focusing on your looks, they're not even paying attention to your music.”

“Okay, I've been doing this a long time, and I have to throw in with Dunn,” Billy said. “Kid, if you play a song like you just played, people don't really see you at all. Hell, they don't even really
hear
you. They just, y'know,
feeeel
you, man.”

Maybe some burning incense and a smoldering bowl of marijuana would have helped me catch Billy's vibe, but at the moment, I just couldn't ride his hippie wave of faith in mankind. In fact, his very look contradicted his claim. He still maintained the long locks he'd had for decades; he wore a leather jacket I could never hope to fit into; and his studded leather wristband was a pretty transparent attempt to connect with the younger crowd. It didn't matter how well Billy played. He was still trying to look cool while he did it.

“Well, maybe someday people can just ‘feel' me over the radio,” I offered.

Billy smirked. “My friend, getting felt over the radio is about as satisfying as phone sex. It's nice, but it just ain't the same thing.”

I thought about my late-night web sessions with Anna and had to agree.

“Okay, Billy, that's enough youthful corruption for tonight.” The Professor tried to pay the bartender, who refused, then he gripped one of Billy's shoulders and looked at me. “Tell you what. If this guy keeps drinking, the Brass Boys might be down one saxophonist. Then maybe you can play with us.”

Outwardly, I laughed along with Billy and the other Brass
Boys, but inside, just for a moment, I let myself picture it: a dim stage with friends out front and fellow musicians at my side, a leather jacket of my very own … and Anna's song pouring out of my sax.

Of course, the daydream faded away as I realized they'd have to slaughter several cows to make that damn jacket.

• • •

I spent the rest of the weekend online, toggling back and forth between “SaxMan” and “Butter,” talking to Anna and keeping an eye on the website. Trent and Parker seemed to be right about the password. The criticism and concern had dropped out of the comments, and apparently the guys hadn't “spread the margarine” too far and wide yet, as new comments were few in general.

I closed the site and signed in as “SaxMan,” hoping to find Anna's name in my friends list. I saw Tucker's instead.

Hey, skinny.

I imagined Tucker's easy laugh as he replied,

Not yet, but I'm working on it.

Not working on it too hard if you're online. You playing one of those games where you get to be a troll priest or some shit?

I didn't blame Tucker for role playing. I sometimes wanted to escape into one of those games myself.

What if I am?

I bet your troll wears a little red bikini and a hair bow.

No way! The bikini's green with polka dots.

I laughed as I typed.

Dude, you need to get out more.

Nah, I just need to get out of Arizona.

And go where?

I was still laughing until Tucker replied.

And what he wrote had me instantly out of my room and into my car, aiming for his house.

The institute? Was he kidding?

I hit the freeway and pushed the BMW to its limit. Everyone from FitFab knew the institute was like a factory. Fat kids went in, robots came out—if they came out at all. Plus, Chicago was so damn cold!

Okay, let me back up a minute. The institute is like boarding school for fat kids, in a far-off land called Chicago, which—to the FitFab campers—may as well be Transylvania, because unlike other kids, whose campfire stories were about forest monsters and ax murderers, our ghouls were the teachers at the institute. It was like year-round fat camp without the arts and crafts or the smell of pine trees. It was the place you got shipped off to when fat-camp counselors couldn't help you and your parents could no longer stand the sight of you.

And Tucker
wanted
to go. Or so he claimed. I couldn't believe it. I had to hear for myself, in person. In fact, I was so skeptical that as I pushed the accelerator toward Tucker's house, I was already planning a rescue mission. I would put that plan into action at the first sign that Tucker's mom was forcing him into this. I'd distract her with questions about homeschooling or baking or her holiday decorations. Hell, I'd sit on her, if necessary. Then I'd slip Tucker my keys so he could take my car. I was pretty sure the BMW could outrun Tuck's mom's station wagon.

I pulled up outside Tucker's place in central Phoenix. I'd only been there a few times, but I was reminded why we didn't get together much outside of FitFab. Phoenix and Scottsdale were right next door to each other, but sometimes they seemed like two different planets. I had forgotten that Tuck's house was a little small, a little run-down. Looking at it, a question suddenly occurred to me. How could Tucker's mom even afford the institute? Words like “grants,” “scholarships,” and “endowments” rushed through my brain, so I could push aside the question of affordability and focus on the task at hand.

I surveyed the scene—no men with straitjackets milling about. It seemed safe to knock on the door.

Tucker answered, his face wrapped in shock. “Butter!”

There was a pretty critical, but widely ignored, fat-camp rule that you shed your unflattering nicknames at the door, especially if they were in any way derogatory about weight. But inside our cabins and out of earshot of the counselors, we let the nicknames fly. Somehow, “Butter,” “Moose,” and “Chubs” didn't
sound so bad when they fell off the lips of another teenager carrying around a couple hundred pounds of extra weight.

“What are you doing here?” Tucker asked, pushing open a screen door to let me in.

“Are you kidding? I had to make sure my laptop wasn't broken. Something's wrong with my incoming messages. I got one from you saying you're going to the institute.”

“I
am
going.” Tucker shuffled his feet. It was a fat-kid move that looked funny on him now that he'd lost so much weight. I noticed he also still walked with his feet too far out to the side, like he was making room for thighs that weren't there.

“Tuck, the institute is for lost causes and rejects. Look at you! You're
doing it
! All on your own, you're doing it!” I let Tucker lead me to a couch in his living room, but I didn't let up. “When I saw you at Doc Bean's office, I wondered if you'd even be back to FitFab. And now you're going to Chicago? You don't need them and their mind control and their fat-free
everything
—”

“Butter—”

“And them controlling when you eat and sleep and who you talk to and what you say and—”

“Butter, stop!” Tucker's hands were balled into fists. “The institute's not like that.” I tried to interrupt, but he cut me off with a stiff wave of his hand. “I'm serious. I went there to visit. My mom and I checked it out, and it's not as bad as everything we heard. They are pretty strict about diet and exercise and weigh-ins. They'll actually kick you out—no refund—if you miss too many gym sessions without a doctor's note. But other than that, it's just like school.”

“Like
boarding
school,” I corrected. “What about the curfews and the dorm advisors who go through your room every night, taking snacks and stuff away from you?”

“It
is
like that if you board, but um … I don't qualify for boarding.” Tucker dropped his fists and went back to shuffling his feet. “That's only for the severely obese students. I'm too … I'm not big enough.” He looked at me. “So my mom and I are moving there, to Chicago.”

“What? Where are you going to live?”

“With my aunt, just for a while, until my mom finds a job.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. Listen, Butter, I'm serious about losing weight, and I've been having a hard time staying on track lately, so I could use the help. But it's more than that.”