Butter by Erin Jade Lange

greeting.
    â€œHey,” I replied and echoed, “what’s up?”
    â€œNot much. Just saying hey.” The boys smiled and took their usual seats.
    That turned out to be the first of many hellos and friendly back slaps that day. At lunch, a kid from Jeremy’s table even gave me a complicated handshake, which I tried to return without looking like too much of a fool. Others at the table waved and said hello like they knew me—hell, like they were
friends
with me.
    One kid pointed at my lunch bag. “Save some room.” He winked and said it in such a friendly way, I actually found myself smiling back.
    Twisted.
    Only Jeremy sneered at me. Clearly, he still wasn’t sold on my story.
    Trent and Parker’s story about the website being a prank, on the other hand, was a big seller. Kids seemed to be buying that one all over school. In between the smiles and waves, I saw plenty of eye rolls and heard mutters of “liar” and “some joke”everywhere I went. One of those comments came as I left the computer lab, from a boy standing with the soda machine girl at her locker. I glanced from his face to hers, expecting to see the same angry expression she’d worn the other day. Her eyes were narrowed at me, her lips twisted into a sideways pucker, but it wasn’t anger there on her face. It wasn’t even pity. It was something more … thoughtful, like she was trying to look right through me.
    I pretended not to notice and pushed my way through the crowded hall and away from her probing stare.
    I’d always thought the lines of popular and unpopular at school were blurry, but by the end of the day, I could see a solid divide between those
inside
Trent’s circle of trust and those on the outside. It gave me a strange sense of satisfaction knowing that this time, I was one of the insiders. But I was still unhinged by how many supporters I seemed to have. How many people had Trent and Parker’s password?
    I got my answer that night when I was finally alone with my laptop. Mom had made me join them at the table for dinner, but somehow I still wasn’t hungry. Then she had made me take out the trash and help sign family Christmas cards. I finally lied and said I had a lot of homework to do, so she’d let me escape to my room.
    I signed online and went straight to the site before I could get distracted by Anna.
    Holy.
    Shit.
    ButtersLastMeal.com had exploded—more than
two hundred
new comments. I devoured them. Whatever appetite I had lost for food I gained for Internet attention. I was hungry, hungry, hungry for Web hits.
    Most people commented anonymously, but a few boldly used their names. I recognized kid after kid from school—mostly juniors and seniors, and all, without a doubt, somehow associated with Trent, Parker, and Co. There were still some disbelievers, but no one threatening to tell or trying to stop me. Everyone wanted a piece of my last meal. In fact, a hundred or so comments in, I realized just how true that was.
    It started with toast. Someone thought I should have a little bread with my butter and suggested I add it to the menu.
    That’s all it took to light the fire. Suddenly, it was comment after comment of food suggestions, each one a new ingredient to add to my morbid recipe for death. A fruitcake here, a pile of mashed potatoes there, and the occasional crackpot suggestion, like chocolate-covered crickets.
    At some point, I started jotting down foods on a pad of paper. I picked the items that would be easy to collect ahead of time and hide from Mom, things I wouldn’t have to cook. I was halfway through writing “box of candy canes” when the pen froze and my hands grew clammy.
    What am I doing?
This was sick. This was sick and demented. And I didn’t even
like
candy canes!
    I dropped the pen and put my fingers on the keyboard. I had to end this. I had to write a new post copping out of this whole mess I had