Butter (21 page)

“And now you promise,” I said.

“Promise what?”

“Say, ‘I, Tucker, swear to keep my mouth shut about Butter's website, no matter what.' ”

“What do you mean, ‘no matter what'? You swore—”

“Yeah, Tuck, I
did
swear. And I've never broken a FitFab oath, have I?”

Tucker swore to keep my secret, and I believed him.

When I finally released his hand, it was red from my tight hold. Tucker rubbed the hand and looked up at me with an edge of doubt in his eyes. “You've never broken an oath,” he said.

There's a first time for everything
.

“And neither have you,” I reminded him.

Tucker nodded. “Right.” He kicked a loose bit of gravel across the parking lot and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Well, I guess this is it.”

“What?”

“I'm off to BI in a couple of days. Our house is all boxes and dust bunnies.”

“You better stay in touch so I can tell if you're going all Stepford on me,” I said.

He laughed. “I will. And you stay in touch too, so I can tell if—if, y'know …”

“If I'm suicidal?”

He shrugged.

“It's cool, Tuck. I'll be in touch.”

We said good-bye with a high-five that turned into an awkward hug and a mumbled “Take care.”

Then Tucker was gone, and I was headed to the grocery store to load up on food for my last meal. I wanted to be prepared,
just in case Tucker broke his oath and I had to get the job done in a hurry.

I knew, deep down, there was a chance I wouldn't go through with it—that I wouldn't be able to hurt Mom like that, that I'd get scared and chicken out, or that it flat out wouldn't work. But with two days left, I sure as hell wasn't going to let anyone make the decision for me.

I spent most of the next day locked up in my room playing the sax and checking the website. Trent and Parker had sent me a few private e-mails through the site, with various ridiculous plans on how I might somehow touch Anna's boobs at Parker's party. They hadn't forgotten their promise to help me cross that item off the bucket list.

A few of the e-mails made me laugh: Parker starts a food fight; I get whipped cream in my eye and stumble around blindly until I fall forward, hands out in front of me, right onto Anna's chest. In another scenario, Trent starts an old-fashioned game of spin the bottle and rigs the bottle with a weight to make it land on Anna. I had zero faith that Trent even knew how to do that, but it gave me a chuckle anyway.

Other e-mails from Trent and Parker seemed to seriously
suggest that I just get Anna drunk or high and take advantage of her. I deleted those and stopped reading the incoming messages.

There was only one person online I really wanted to hear from, and she was there waiting for me—or waiting for J.P. I had been deliberately avoiding contact with Anna. I just didn't know how to play my part after our conversation at the mountain. I couldn't separate my two Annas anymore, and I was scared I'd slip up and say something revealing. But now I couldn't resist logging in as “SaxMan.” I missed J.P.'s Anna. I missed our Internet banter, the warm feeling I got seeing she was online and the way she always called me …

Handsome! Where have you been?

I hated opening with a lie, so I kept it vague.

Holidays and family and all that. Been swamped. How's your break going?

Not so great. I don't suppose you know anything about writing persuasive papers?

So she still hadn't finished her comp final. I jumped on the opening.

You have homework over vacation? That blows, babe. Wish I could help, but I'm not much of a writer. Don't you have friends at school who can look it over?

Anna took the bait.

Well, this one kid was going to help me, but I think he was more interested in me than my paper.

I bristled.

What do you mean?

It's no big deal. Just the day we were supposed to work on my paper, he took me to this sort of “secret” spot in the middle of the desert, like he thought we were going to make out or something.

I had to close my fingers into fists to keep from typing out a protest in reply. She made it sound like I took her there to maul her or at least slobber all over her. All I had wanted to do was show her something.

Anna typed again.

Nothing happened, obviously. It was just weird. And I had to be nice about it, because I needed his help with my paper, but then he started talking like he knew me, and it just got a little creepy.

I punched the laptop, one key at a time.

Sounds like you've got a stalker.

Don't be jealous, Anna teased. Trust me, I'm not interested. He's … BIG.

My breathing sped up, and I fought the urge to explode on Anna over the Internet. I coached myself to be J.P. before I typed, to try to say something casual or funny.

Big? Like big hands, big feet, big …

Gross. I mean he's huge, like one of those people you see on TV who can't get out of bed or leave their house.

I glanced over at my king-size bed. That sounded like a pretty good idea right about now—just crawl into bed and never come out.

Sorry that fat ass freaked you out. What a loser.

I meant it. I was a loser, and I was sorry—sorry I'd ever expected more from Anna, sorry I'd allowed myself to actually
like
Trent and his friends, and above all, I was sorry that despite the ways they'd let me down, I
still
craved their approval.

He's not a loser. He's this really nice funny guy, and everyone likes him. He's just obese. I feel bad for him.

Her pity was worse than her disdain. My chest burned.

Anna went on.

But I wouldn't like him, fat or thin, because I already have you.

Oh yeah? What if I'm huge too?

Yeah right, like you can be fat and play all those sports.

I could be covered in zits, or have one arm or three eyeballs or something.

I expected a quick, laughing response, but Anna did not reply. I'd scared her.

You want to ask me for a picture again, don't you?

Another pause from Anna's end, then,

Nope. I'll see for myself soon enough. Just a little over 24 hours to the big reveal!

Just 24 hours until the one-armed, zit-covered triclops crashes your friend's party!

Now I was sure I had her laughing.

Tough to play the sax with one arm. But even if that were all true, I'd still call you handsome. Any guy who writes a song for me and plays it the way you do is sexy no matter what.

God, I wished that were true.

I promised Anna I'd see her tomorrow night and signed off.

It wasn't until I'd closed my laptop and pushed it aside that I
realized it was probably the last online conversation we'd ever have. No matter what happened the next night, Anna would never forgive J.P. for standing her up. The day I'd promised to meet her on New Year's Eve, I had been so desperate to keep her attention, to drag the farce out just a little longer, that I'd put our relationship up for collateral. And now fate was coming to collect.

I brushed the laptop with my fingertips and imagined it was Anna's warm skin I was touching. I allowed myself just a few seconds of fantasy—that I really was J.P., a good-looking success story about to seal the deal with a serenade and carry the girl off into the sunset. Then I said a silent good-bye and turned away from the computer.

I spent the rest of the afternoon carefully stacking the goods for my last meal in my closet and camouflaging them under dirty laundry and an old sleeping bag. That night, I popped a sleeping pill alongside my insulin shot, but my eyes were still wide open when the digital clock next to my bed flipped to midnight.

Twenty-four hours to go.

• • •

All of a sudden it was New Year's Eve. It felt like no time had passed since I'd posted my plans for the world to see. It was just as if I'd done it the night before, except when I woke up, the whole world had changed. Not a day had gone by, and yet everything was different.

And the differences started as soon as I got dressed.

It was just a notch—just one tiny little notch—but it nearly
turned me upside down. I pulled my belt around my massive middle and discovered the hook slid past the well-worn, stretched-out hole where it usually rested and slipped into the next circle down. I had lost a notch on the belt. That had to be at least an inch or two off the waist.

I went searching for a mirror—because I had long since stopped keeping one of those in my room—and found a full-length one in my parents' bathroom. I
did
look thinner, maybe even below four hundred pounds. But then again, I wouldn't have been surprised if my mom bought those lying mirrors that made you look skinnier than you really were.

Distrusting Mom's mirror, I rushed back to my closet and dug into the deepest, darkest corners where all of my “before four hundred pounds” clothes were getting dusty. I pulled on an old striped rugby shirt—too tight in the chest; I stepped into a pair of pants with an actual zipper and button fly instead of an elastic waist—the button strained against the hole; I grabbed a sweater, a collared shirt, pajama bottoms, and an old T-shirt. Other than the belt, everything fit just as snug as ever. I threw the clothes back into my closet with force, not bothering to hang a thing.
How many damn pounds does a guy have to lose before he can feel good about it?

Mom let me eat breakfast in my room, which was convenient, because I could toss out the waffles, jam, and other sugars and starches I'd been trimming from my diet for the past few days without her making a fuss. I nibbled on some bacon and pressed my greasy fingers to the keyboard of my laptop. Anna was not online—either still sleeping or already getting
ready for the party, I figured. Without the Anna distraction, my fingers tiptoed over the keys and logged on to my website, almost subconsciously.

My curser slid over to the comments section of my last post—the final menu.

The first few comments were all from Parker, mostly gloating over bets he'd already won. He'd guessed the items on the final menu pretty accurately.

Most of the comments weren't about my menu at all, though. Somehow, my site had become the chat forum for Scottsdale High students in general. This is where they came to dish about whatever gossip was hot at the moment, and today that meant Parker's party. The chatter was all about what to wear and how much to drink and who would be the designated drivers. A few people mused about whether I'd show up at the party, until Trent left a comment assuring them I
would
be there and that the moratorium on discussing my last meal would be in effect at the party, just as it had been at school.

Except he said it something like:

And nobody bugs Butter about this to night. The guy deserves a party. There's still a gag order. Get it? A GAG order?

Any lingering hopes I had about Trent's sincerity finally evaporated.

In the next dozen comments about Parker's party and New Year's resolutions and who was hooking up with whom, there
were only two about me. One was from good ol' predictable Jeremy:

I still say he's not going through with it.

And one was anonymous:

I think he just might.

I closed the laptop. I wondered which one of them was right.

A kid in a camouflage hat lolled in a tall archway, checking his phone. He kept lifting his gaze up to me then back to his cell with his eyebrows scrunched together. Two blond twigs stood next to a big-screen TV, alternately cupping their hands as they whispered into each other's ears. Every once in a while, their eyelashes fluttered in my direction. It seemed everywhere I went at Parker's party someone was watching me, talking about me.

It was probably just nerves making my imagination run wild, but I felt exposed. Eyes were everywhere, and the DJ's thumping baseline drowned out voices, making it all too easy for me to make up conversations in my mind—conversations all about me. Even Parker was staring at me.

Wait. That one I didn't imagine.

He caught my eye from where he was hovering next to the
DJ stand across the living room. He mouthed something I couldn't make out, then made a grotesque show of cupping at his chest as if he had breasts. I rolled my eyes and shook my head. He started a new game of charades, yanking his head in an awkward pattern, jutting his chin first at me, then at something to my right. I followed the path and spotted the second target of the funny chin thrust.

Anna was sandwiched between two groups carrying on their own conversations. She rested her elbows on the sprawling marble countertop of an island separating the kitchen from the living room and swirled a shot glass full of something dark and thick.

I was at a loss for what I could possibly say to Anna after our encounter on the outcrop, but Parker was watching, so I made my way to the kitchen island.

“You finish that paper?” I asked her from the other side of the counter.

She leaned deeper across the marble and put a hand to her ear. “What's that?” she shouted.

“Your paper. Did you—never mind.” I waved a hand and pointed to her shot glass. “I thought you didn't drink.”

Anna's forehead wrinkled. “Why would you think that?”

Great. I was being creepy and talking like I knew her again.

“The bowling alley. You said something about alcohol and calories. … ”

“Oh yeah.” Anna looked at the shot glass in her hand and hiccupped.

I wondered how much she'd already had to drink.