do.â
Yeah right
.
âAw, who am I kidding?â She smiled. âNobody worries more about their little ones than mothers.â
Little ones!
I could have laughed if I hadnât been concentrating so hard on showing no emotion at all.
Her smile faded, concern clouding her delicate features once again. âYou okay, baby?â
I nodded once more, and finally she released me to my room, where I took up my usual post in the overstuffed chair, laptop perched on my wide middle. Only this would be no usual bedtime Web session. I wasnât even going to talk to Annaâor at least, I was going to try really hard not to. Fortunately, she wasnât online, and I could focus on the task at hand, before I lost my nerve.
⢠⢠â¢
Setting up a website is easy enough. Get a free domain name, search the Internet for a premade page format, copy all thecomputer language mumbo-jumbo into your site, then start tinkering. It took me less than fifteen minutes, and by the time I began typing on ButtersLastMeal.com , I felt committed, like there was no turning back.
The first words came easily. All I had to think about was that photo someone had snapped of me in the cafeteria, of all the eyes that were
always
on me at lunch, of kids I didnât even know spewing shit that wasnât true online.
I couldnât control the kids at school. I couldnât control my parents or my weight or my life ⦠but I could command the conversation online. I could make sure the only things people said about me in cyberspace were the things I invited them to say. And if I could control that, then that would be all that mattered.
The first words flowed from my fingertips:
You think I eat a lot now? Thatâs nothing. Tune inâ
I checked a calendar, and my eyes fell on New Yearâs Eve; it was exactly four weeks away to the day and perfect for so many reasons. First of all, come onâthe last day of the year? Thereâs poetry in that. It was also the day before that stupid airline started charging double for seats; I didnât mind missing that. New Yearâs Eve gave me plenty of time to say good-byes but came up soon enough that I couldnât talk myself out of it. Best of all, it was the night I was supposed to meet Anna.
Now I would never have to know what would have comenextâAnna hurt that I stood her up, Anna breaking up with me, Anna moving on.
I typed furiously.
December 31 st , when I will stream a live webcast of my last meal. Death row inmates get one. Why shouldnât I? I canât take another year in this fat suit, but I can end this year with a bang.
I hesitated. What was I expecting from this? Pity? Attention? Would it have some dramatic impact? Or would I just come off as some pathetic crybaby?
You
are
a pathetic crybaby
.
I swallowed and closed my eyes. The cafeteria flashed there under my lids, then my motherâs faceâI tried not to think of her gentle smile, her strong hands, her familiar humming. The pictures came faster: Doc Bean, the Professor, Tucker, my dad, Anna.
Anna
. Her tan skin and blond hair swam into my vision, eclipsing everything else. I thought of her waiting alone on New Yearâs Eve, of her confused expression when I spoke to her at lunch, of her perfect lips and blue eyes and her forehead that I would never kiss the way my dad kissed my momâs.
I thought of preachers who said suicide damned you to hell. I thought of heaven and how it must be a place made of smooth desert rock with tundra that blocked out the city lights and clear skies with a perfect view of the moon and a saxophone and a body that never got too tired to play it.
I thought of those damn airline seats and how even two of them wouldnât be enough for me, and thatâs why we always drove everywhere and why the one time we flew to New York it was on Dadâs company jet, and Dad was
still
embarrassed by me when I had to squeeze all the way down the
Yeah right
.
âAw, who am I kidding?â She smiled. âNobody worries more about their little ones than mothers.â
Little ones!
I could have laughed if I hadnât been concentrating so hard on showing no emotion at all.
Her smile faded, concern clouding her delicate features once again. âYou okay, baby?â
I nodded once more, and finally she released me to my room, where I took up my usual post in the overstuffed chair, laptop perched on my wide middle. Only this would be no usual bedtime Web session. I wasnât even going to talk to Annaâor at least, I was going to try really hard not to. Fortunately, she wasnât online, and I could focus on the task at hand, before I lost my nerve.
⢠⢠â¢
Setting up a website is easy enough. Get a free domain name, search the Internet for a premade page format, copy all thecomputer language mumbo-jumbo into your site, then start tinkering. It took me less than fifteen minutes, and by the time I began typing on ButtersLastMeal.com , I felt committed, like there was no turning back.
The first words came easily. All I had to think about was that photo someone had snapped of me in the cafeteria, of all the eyes that were
always
on me at lunch, of kids I didnât even know spewing shit that wasnât true online.
I couldnât control the kids at school. I couldnât control my parents or my weight or my life ⦠but I could command the conversation online. I could make sure the only things people said about me in cyberspace were the things I invited them to say. And if I could control that, then that would be all that mattered.
The first words flowed from my fingertips:
You think I eat a lot now? Thatâs nothing. Tune inâ
I checked a calendar, and my eyes fell on New Yearâs Eve; it was exactly four weeks away to the day and perfect for so many reasons. First of all, come onâthe last day of the year? Thereâs poetry in that. It was also the day before that stupid airline started charging double for seats; I didnât mind missing that. New Yearâs Eve gave me plenty of time to say good-byes but came up soon enough that I couldnât talk myself out of it. Best of all, it was the night I was supposed to meet Anna.
Now I would never have to know what would have comenextâAnna hurt that I stood her up, Anna breaking up with me, Anna moving on.
I typed furiously.
December 31 st , when I will stream a live webcast of my last meal. Death row inmates get one. Why shouldnât I? I canât take another year in this fat suit, but I can end this year with a bang.
I hesitated. What was I expecting from this? Pity? Attention? Would it have some dramatic impact? Or would I just come off as some pathetic crybaby?
You
are
a pathetic crybaby
.
I swallowed and closed my eyes. The cafeteria flashed there under my lids, then my motherâs faceâI tried not to think of her gentle smile, her strong hands, her familiar humming. The pictures came faster: Doc Bean, the Professor, Tucker, my dad, Anna.
Anna
. Her tan skin and blond hair swam into my vision, eclipsing everything else. I thought of her waiting alone on New Yearâs Eve, of her confused expression when I spoke to her at lunch, of her perfect lips and blue eyes and her forehead that I would never kiss the way my dad kissed my momâs.
I thought of preachers who said suicide damned you to hell. I thought of heaven and how it must be a place made of smooth desert rock with tundra that blocked out the city lights and clear skies with a perfect view of the moon and a saxophone and a body that never got too tired to play it.
I thought of those damn airline seats and how even two of them wouldnât be enough for me, and thatâs why we always drove everywhere and why the one time we flew to New York it was on Dadâs company jet, and Dad was
still
embarrassed by me when I had to squeeze all the way down the
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