Read Online Butter by Erin Jade Lange - Free Book Online Page A

plane’s exit stairs because the rails were pinching my sides.
    I opened my eyes and finished:
    If you can stomach it, you’re invited to watch … as I eat myself to death.
    â€”Butter
    That probably would have been enough—just a little website out there among the millions—a clue for one or two classmates to find or something for a stranger to sympathize with. But even after unloading into cyberspace, my anger had not diminished. In fact, it bubbled over and poured right into the comments section of that piece-of-shit Scottsdale High “most likely” list.
    I tried to post a link to my site, but the blog wouldn’t allow anonymous links. I knew I couldn’t comment as “SaxMan” without blowing my cover with Anna, so I created a new handle, “Butter,” and posted my morbid invitation.
    Then I went back to ButtersLastMeal.com and added this quick postscript:
    Menu to be announced, but I can tell you right now—it ends with one full stick of butter.

Part 2
    A carton of eggs
    An extra-large anchovy pizza
    A stack of pancakes
    An entire bucket of fried chicken
    A package of uncooked hot dogs
    One raw onion
    A jar of peanut butter
    An extra-large box of cookies
    An entire meat loaf
    A tub of ice cream
    And one stick of butter

Chapter 9
    There’s something about waking up the morning after you decide to kill yourself. There’s this kind of expectation that skies will be gloomy, the air damp, and the sun blocked out—some kind of environmental sympathy, you know?
    So I have to say I was a little offended by the sunshine glaring through my blinds at seven a.m. that Friday. I mean, I know we only get about five days of rain a year in central Arizona, but couldn’t the universe just do me this one favor and spit out a couple clouds?
    I groaned and covered my face with a pillow. If Mother Nature didn’t believe me, no one would. I could already hear the whispers behind my back—
a cry for help
. Gross. I didn’t want anybody’s help.
    Mom’s voice followed three short raps on the door. “Breakfast, baby.”
    Seriously. When was she going to stop calling me baby?
    When I’m dead
, I thought. Then I hauled myself out of bed and joined my parents in the kitchen.
    Mom hadn’t been able to reach me last night through conversation, so she was apparently giving it a shot with food instead. She loaded my plate with extra bacon and topped my eggs with so much cheese I could barely see the scramble underneath. I noticed she was still blackballing the sugar, though. There wasn’t a pancake or pastry to be seen.
    I intended to down my breakfast and go back for seconds. After all, no need to stay on the diet now. But somehow, for the first time in I can’t remember how many mornings, I didn’t have an appetite. So I picked at a couple pieces of bacon and settled my stomach by adding some 7-Up to my orange juice.
    Mom tried not to notice, but I could see her eyes flickering toward my plate as she talked to Dad. Her obvious concern needled me with a splinter of guilt—small, but powerful enough to split me open if I let it.
    I focused instead on how much better off she’d be without me, once she’d dealt with the loss. She could save a ton of time in the kitchen for a start, making breakfast for just her and Dad. And they would fight less, since, from what I could tell, all their fights were about me.
    I knew Mom wouldn’t see it that way at first, but Dad would help her get there, because deep down, Dad would probably be relieved. I felt strangely grateful for my dad right then, for his distance from me. It would be an immense benefit for Mom when I was gone. The thought cheered me up, and I swalloweda couple more bites of bacon before excusing myself to get ready for school.
    â€¢ • •
    â€œExcuse me. I’m sorry.”
    â€œIt’s fine. After you.”
    â€œNo, it’s okay. I didn’t