Butter (20 page)

Did she honestly not hear anything I just said?

“Tucker is
not
my friend. He's an asshole who won't return my calls.”

“Language,” Mom warned.

I turned to face her squarely. I was shaking with anger and no longer able to control my volume at all. “You don't listen to me! I don't want to go away!”

It stung to say that out loud, because it felt so true. I
didn't
want to go away, not to the institute … and not to heaven or hell or anywhere in between. I wanted to go bowling and talk to Anna and sit with people in the cafeteria and drive fast and jump off cliffs. I wanted all the life that had come to me only after I'd threatened to throw life away. And I wanted it unconditionally, without the suicidal prerequisite.

Oh God, something awful was happening. I could feel it coming right there in the line between lingerie and ladies' handbags. Tears pooled on my lower lids, and my lips quivered. I was about to lose it in front of Mom and all the other women crowded around us.
When did I become such a crybaby?

Mom saw the change in my face and reacted immediately. To her credit, she didn't ask me what was wrong or push the fight any further. She stepped out of line and marched straight
toward the exit, putting a hand on my arm to guide me alongside her. By the time we reached the car, she too was in tears, but she didn't say a word.

She was still crying when we got home, and of course, Dad just had to be standing right there in the driveway when we pulled up. He was unloading golf clubs from the trunk of his car, but he dropped them the instant he saw Mom.

“Are you hurt? Is everything all right?” He pulled her into a hug and caught sight of me over her shoulder. “What did you do?”

I actually turned to see if someone was standing behind me. Nope. Dad was speaking directly to
me
, for the first time in I don't know how long.

Me? What did
I
do?

A hot coal began to smolder inside my chest.

I only refused to be sent away, to be ignored, to be given up on.
It was one thing to be giving up on myself, but moms were supposed to believe in you to the very end.

The coal was now a little ball of fire, rising up into my throat. I wanted to tell him—to tell them both—about the nightmare that was the institute, about how kids came back not just with half their bodies but half their souls. I wanted to tell them it was their fault I got this big,
their
failure,
their
mistake to fix. But when I opened my mouth only these childish words came out, “She started it.”

Dad's face turned a fierce shade of purple, and he tightened his hold on Mom so much I could hear her whimpers turning into gasps.

“Go to your room!” he bellowed.

Gladly
.

And I did go to my room … where I grabbed my sax and walked right back out again.

“Where are you going?” Dad barked as I passed them on my way out the door.

I spun. Or rather, I did that little four-hundred-pound waltz that's required to turn around at my size. “Sorry. Are you talking to me?”

“Of course I'm talking to you!”

“Well, that's new, isn't it?” I hissed.

That seized him up a bit. I wondered if he was even aware of the fact that he'd stopped speaking to me, if it felt even a little strange to be addressing me directly. He spluttered, searching for a retort, but I didn't wait for it. I was in my car and pulling away before he finally found something to say. With the radio volume on high, all I could make out were his lips moving, issuing a punishment—or perhaps an apology.

Too late, Dad.
Way
too late.

It was still light outside when I parked in my usual spot at the foot of my mountain. I hauled the sax down the path to my outcrop and let the world disappear bit by bit. Every ray of sun that blinked out took something with it. First the saguaro dissolved, fading into the dark desert floor; then the neighboring hilltops turned black and blended in with the night sky. Finally, all I could see were the shrubs guarding my secret spot and the stars flicking on above.

That's when I began to play.

I howled at the moon for more than an hour. I'd love to say the set list was dynamite, like the night I played with the Professor, but mostly I played Anna's song. Over and over I played that song, until I got tired of the sound of it—sick of the taste of it.

I played it often enough that a few coyotes somewhere in the dark began to sing along. I had always thought of Anna's song as light and upbeat, but hearing the mournful howl of those coyotes added this little bit of sorrow to the tune that I hadn't known was there—buried somewhere between the notes. I lowered the key to match the coyotes' croons and slowed the pace. I controlled every note, every beat. It was perfect order in contrast to the chaos of my life.

All I ever wanted to do was take charge of what people were saying online and, sure, maybe make them feel a little bad about it. I never meant for my threat to truly be a swan song—just a loud note to catch some attention. But the whole mess had taken on a rhythm of its own, and it seemed like I was the only one who couldn't keep the beat. I was playing along with no idea how this tune was supposed to end.

• • •

I checked the website every day, faithfully updating it almost out of habit now. I hadn't heard from Trent or Parker since before Christmas, but they were there on the site—always present, keeping the comments going. Not seeing their easy smiling faces all the time made it harder to separate them from who they were online, these cheerleaders for my death. I had hoped for a phone call or an invitation to hang out over the holiday, but now I guess I was glad they were giving me space. It made it easier to do what I said I was going to do.

So I didn't reach out to them either. Instead, I reached for some memory of normal. After yet another Web update, I
went looking for Tucker online and found him on our usual chat site—the same one where I'd stalked Anna for all those months.

Hey Slim Jim. How many pounds you lose this week?

It was a moment before Tucker replied.

3 pounds.

Not too fast now. You lose too much, and BI won't let you in.

Another long pause from Tucker's end. Damn. Humor wasn't going to get me out of this one. I took a more direct approach.

Anyway, I just wanted to say I'm sorry.

The reply was fast this time.

For what?

For being a dick at the bowling alley and giving you shit about the institute.

Okay.

I thought about telling him Mom wanted me to go too, but I didn't want him to gang up on me with pointless encouragement. And I didn't want to get his hopes up that he'd have company in Chicago. So I told him something honest instead.

Gonna miss you, man.

You too.

I wanted to be happy I'd made up with Tucker, but the relief that washed over me felt heavy—like I'd tied up a loose end—one less bit of unfinished business keeping me from
my
business.

Tucker was typing again.

I don't get it.

Don't get what? I'm just apologizing.

No, I don't get why you changed your screen name.

I froze with my fingers over the keyboard, and Tucker's messages just kept coming.

I mean, when I saw “Butter” I knew it was you, obviously. But what was wrong with SaxMan?

The ice that had frozen my hands now gripped my chest. What a stupid,
stupid
mistake. All the care I'd taken to keep my online lives separate was on the brink of coming undone. I comforted myself with the fact that it could have been worse. I could have accidentally messaged Anna as Butter. That thought calmed me, and I quickly crafted a story for Tucker about creating a new handle to keep Mom from snooping on me online.

He seemed to buy it, and we moved on to making plans to
hang out one last time before he left for Chicago. I felt better after we'd said good-bye, but I vowed not to contact him online again. There wasn't much time left for Internet chatting anyway.

• • •

I was only too happy to run errands for Mom the next day, to get out of the house and away from Dad's silent watch over me. He'd been shadowing my every step, quietly daring me to upset Mom again and give him a reason to—I don't know what—punish me?
That would be something new.

I hit the hardware and video stores and was making good time, but when I left the drug store I saw something that brought my outing to a halt.

Tucker was in the parking lot, his car right next to mine, leaning up against the hood of my Beemer.

“Tuck? What's up?”

“You have something to tell me?”

Yeah, you need practice saying “hello.”

“Like what?”

“You tell me,” he said.

“Look, Tuck, I'm not really in the mood for games. I already apologized. I thought we were cool. If you're stalking me for—hey, how'd you find me anyway?”

Tucker looked down at his shoes. “I followed you.”

“What? From where?”

“From your house. I wanted to see where you were going.”

“Why?”

He snapped his head up to meet my eyes. “Hey, I'm not the one being interrogated here.”

“Interrogated? What are you talking about? Dude, I'm busy. Why don't you just spit it out.”

“Fine.” Tucker set his lips in a thin line. His freckles faded as his face turned pink. “I know about your last … about your website.”

All the blood that was filling Tucker's blushing cheeks must have been fading off of mine. I swear, I actually
felt
my face go white. I stuttered but failed to make actual words.

“Your new screen name.” Tucker answered the question I couldn't get out. “That ‘Butter' profile has a link to a Butters-Last—”

“Tucker, look—”

“What is that?” he blurted. “What do you mean,
last meal
? That sounds like—like—”

“I know what it sounds like.”

But Tucker finished his sentence anyway. “Sounds like you're planning to commit suicide or something.” He fell quiet on the word “suicide” and glanced around the parking lot, like it was some shameful thing, not to be overheard. The look made my fists clench.

“You don't understand!”

“Of all people, you think
I
don't get it? I've been there! You could have come to me.”

“Well, you were a little too busy rushing off to Chicago to get your brain washed!”

“This is
why
I'm going to the institute, Butter—because I've
felt that way. It's not just about getting better on the outside.” He gestured down his thinning frame, then stepped forward to point a finger sharply into my chest. “It's about getting better on the
inside
.”

I pushed his hand away. He moved it to my shoulder.

“Butter, you are stronger than this. You are a rock.”

“No!” I burst out. “I'm a
boulder
! Look at me, Tuck. I mean, really
look
.” I backed up a few steps to give him the full view.

He looked me dutifully up and down. “Looks like you've lost weight.”

Shit, he doesn't get it at all.

“Yeah, I have,” I admitted. “And I don't feel any different. I don't feel motivated like you. I don't feel stronger or thinner or better at all.”

Tucker shook his head. “I don't care. It doesn't matter how bad you feel, you're not doing this—this‘last meal' garbage. You're not going to kill yourself.”

“Of course I'm not,” I said, an idea clicking into place.

“But you said—”

“No,
you
said, Tuck.” My voice was steady now, my hands relaxed. “I never said you were right. That's not what the website's about at all.”

Tucker's face twitched with doubt, and I could tell I'd been right—he hadn't figured out the password. “Then what is it?”

I shrugged, all casual. “It was this idea I had, about one last binge before trying to lay off the food for real. It was stupid. I don't even update the site anymore.”

“So just delete it then,” he said. It was a challenge. He didn't quite believe me.

“I can't.”

“Then give me the password.”

“Nah, it's embarrassing. I don't want you to see—”

“This is bullshit,” Tucker said. He pulled out a set of keys and turned toward his car.

“Wait!” The desperation in my voice spun him back around. “There is something,” I said. “But it's not what you think. It's—it's something I have to take care of that I can't tell you about yet. That's why there's a password. It's not
ready
yet.”

“Something dangerous?” he asked.

“No,” I lied. “Just something I have to do for
me
. ‘Only I can make me better,' right?” It was a FitFab mantra I knew would get to him. I saw the tension finally escape from his shoulders.

He held out a hand. “Swear it.”

Damn.

That was the start of a fat-camp oath I really didn't want to take. No one broke a promise once they'd sealed it with a FitFab handshake. It was a childish tradition, but it was one I put stock in and didn't want to soil with a lie.

Then again, what choice did I have? I caught Tucker's hand in my own.

“Say, ‘I, Butter, swear I'm telling the truth and I'm not going out in some Internet side show. I swear to
work
on myself before I
give up
on myself.' ”

I repeated after Tucker, but when he tried to pull away, I tightened my grip on his hand.