chapter one

Looking out over the party, it was obvious.

I was a king.

Sure, I technically shared the apartment with three other guys, but everyone knew who was in charge here. Everyone knew who was making their college experience fucking rock.

The music? The infallible party playlist I've cultivated since high school. Nothing but bangers, no notifications enabled on my laptop, no way to stop this train.

The drinks? Cooler of beer, bottles of wine, and pitchers of cocktails made by yours truly. No BYOB necessary, no cash at the door, no nothin'.

But what I was most proud of: the food. What college party has food?? Mine. The best. The one's you'll remember forever. That'll always stick to you. With you, I mean.

"Jason!" A tiny voice penetrated the party-din. "Oh my god, I haven't seen you in forever!"

I reflexively smiled and opened up for a hug as I racked my brain for the name of this curly-haired imp. I stalled.

"Holy shit, I'm so glad you're here, where have you been?!"

"Prague, remember, I did the semester exchange, I just got back!"

Prague, Czech Republic, illustration program, sophomore year sculpture classes, Naomi.

"Naomi, you didn't tell me you were leaving the country!" She brightened at hearing her own name in my mouth. She batted at my arm.

"Of course I did!

"Were you drunk?"

"Maaaaybe." She took a comically large sip from her cup, which she promptly dribbled down her chin when she couldn't help giggling at her own joke. Time to laugh with her. The playlist transitioned into Dancing Queen and everyone cheered, rushing to the dance floor. Naomi raised her hands over her head and cheered, as did I, but my eyes were on her midriff as her top lifted with her arms. My suspicions were correct: she'd lost weight.

Time to go.

"It's so good to see you, please drink something, we have WAY too much punch!" She lifted her cup in two hands like a proud child.

"I'm doing my part!"

I slipped around her, headed to the kitchen. There was no reason to spend more time on her. Any progress was lost after that semester in Prague, the chain-smoking capital of the world. I had other crops to tend.

Rounding the corner into the crowded kitchen, I spotted a shock of red hair by the food table. Right where I'd left her an hour ago. Sidling up against the wall, I slid behind my greatest success and my worst failure in deep debate.

"But you're only saying that because you grew up with no boundaries, your parents didn't, like, instill a sense of discipline at a young enough age!"

Crunch. "Okay that's so not true, I know, like, fuckin' tons of people who have messy rooms, and they're parents are total control freaks." Crunch.

Haley and Brittany. Inseparable since they roomed together freshman year. Brittany the one emulating Marilyn Manson, over six feet in her combat boots, glaring her overly-lined and shadowed eyes at Haley, emulating the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man stuffed into a pair of jeggings. Haley's bright bangs shifted back and forth as she plowed through the last of the tortilla chips.

Crunch. "And just because you have a clean room doesn't inherently make you, I don't know, like, healthy or superior- oh hey, Jason!"

"I don't mean to interrupt, sounds pretty serious."

Brittany smiled at me- a rare sighting.
"Oh yeah, super serious."

They both started college at around the same weight. But Brittany was a natural grazer, and dining halls are a dangerous place for cattle. She enjoyed the Freshman Forty so much, she decided to make it an annual event. The result shone with sweat before me: nearly three hundred pounds of pale blubber, seemingly unaware that her enormous ass was peeking out of the top of her pants.

Crunch. "I'm going to the bathroom, be right back."

She tugged up her pants before heaving herself further into the house to find the bathroom. I stood corrected- she was aware of what was happening, just powerless to do anything lasting about it.

That left Haley and I alone, or as alone as you could get in a house as packed as this. I call her my worst failure because, by all means, Haley should be twice as big as Brittany. If Brittany was a grazer, Brittany was a bona-fide binger. By the cans littering the table, I could tell Brittany was at least on her second six-pack. Sure, her stomach was bloated against her weird gothy top, but I had been fooled by that bulge for three years now. I knew it wouldn't stick. Brittany belched unapologetically.

"How clean is YOUR room?" she launched at me, looking and sounding more drunk than she did a moment ago.

"Immaculate, but you're not allowed to ask for proof on that."

She downed her can of beer, and tossed it at me.
"I'll have to check it myself."

I caught the can easily, smiled at her, and before she could try to flirt with me anymore, I was out the door to the back porch, tossing her empty can in the growing recycling bin. I was instantly greeted by a cloud of smoke and a loud chant:

"CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"

If I was the King of Parties, my roommate Chris was the King of Beer. But while my title was undisputed, Chris's was challenged constantly, like a wild west gunslinger. Chris and his challenger, a beanpole freshman with sandy blonde hair stood facing each other, beer upside down, with a key in their other hand.

"GO! GO! GO! GO!"

But it was over before it started- because anyone with half a brain knew you didn't challenge Chris to a shotgun competition. Faster than the eye, the can was punctured and the contents safely stored in Chris's gut before the freshman could spill half down the front of his shirt.

"WHO WANTS SOME?! LET'S GO! JASON!"

"HELL YEAH!" I shouted back as he wrapped me up in a bear hug. His swollen form eclipsed my own as I was lifted into the air as cheers cascaded around us.

Chris never failed to make me smile. Whether it was a dumb joke, his own goofy grin, or else his ever-ballooning form. The boy had poor impulse control, a trait I was well aware of when I asked him to room with me two years ago. A country boy from a small town, he had never had access to the luxuries of the city, and he became known to be the life of any party. And why wouldn't he be? Handsome, charismatic, loud, and lovable; he distinguished himself early as someone you wanted at your party. It was only under my roof did that larger-than-life act catch up with him.

I made breakfast, I had doughnuts in the kitchen, boxes of mac and cheese, ramen, easy-to-make food, always stocked up, always waiting to be grabbed- but moreover, I oversaw the transition in his lifestyle. I suggested the switch from Bud Light to regular Budweiser. I volunteered to drive us to McDonalds so he could ramble off a 10-item order. I called in the pizzas when he started getting cranky at night. Combine that charisma with an inability to turn down food and beverage, let rest for nearly two years, and you get a very puffy young man.

His wardrobe never really upgraded with his size, so currently, he was stuffed into an old graphic tee that was permanently revealing his underbelly. His doughy upper arms were pinched at the sleeve, riddled with stretch marks, as if his shirt sleeve was causing all those marks.

He set me down after his tits had squeezed all the air out of my lungs.

"Where the hell have you been!" he shouted in the general direction of my head.

"Making sure everything's stocked up!" I shouted back.

"You gotta do a shot with me!"

"Hell yeah, I just gotta check on something!"

He staggered to the side, putting a hand against the porch railing.
"Awww come on, you're always checking on something!"

"It'll be just a second!"

"Okaaaaay." He found another beer, and lost interest as someone offered him a cigarette.

I slipped back inside, quickly stepped through the new argument of recently-returned Haley and Brittany (one bag of chips had been polished off, now the Doritos were under attack), and made my way to the stairs overlooking the living room dance floor. The throng was right in the middle of Come on Eileen, dancing like beautiful idiots. I leaned on the bannister and took in my work.

Damn near everyone who regularly came to these parties was looking . . . fantastic. I saw too-heavy tits slung up and down in ill-fitting bras, a sea of love handles swaying side to side, potbellies embossed into polos and button-downs, all of them fat, happy, and getting fatter.

I spotted Naomi dancing with Will, a sweet tooth who was confident enough to approach a girl, but too vain to notice his butt had almost doubled in size in six months. Naomi hand held her cup with one hand, while the other was forcing a sandwich of two pizza slices down her throat. Maybe there was still hope there.