chapter 3

As the semester geared up for finals, they drifted into their schoolwork, noses buried deep in papers and exams, until suddenly it was early June and Claire was going home for three weeks, where her parents quizzed her incessantly on her studies. Feeling cramped and desperate to get out of her parent’s house, she spent many afternoons wandering around her home town that now seemed not only sleepy and dull, but unbearably humid as well.

Only a couple of her high school friends were still around; one, like her, visiting home from college, the other working part-time at the local Derri-Delite. They managed to get together for a couple hangouts and a few trips to the river for a swim to escape the heat. Her friend from the Derri-Delite, a rotund fry cook named Steve with a beach-ball gut that hung over his swim trunks, had unceremoniously tossed his shirt aside before jumping into the cool, clear water. He must be pushing three hundred and fifty by now, Claire thought to herself, eyeing his burgeoning belly as he splashed around. When she was younger, she remembered having a crush on him; he’d been plump, even back then, and his assets were undeniable. But now, sitting by the river in her bathing suit, she realized that not only had the big city made her town seem small. Rory had made Steve, the fattest guy she’d known before leaving for college, seem barely chunky, at best.

The morning before she flew back, Rory had sent her a text – he knew a guy who knew a guy who was having an Independence Day party, and was wondering if she’d like to come. She’d never said yes to anything faster in her life, and now, here she was, sweating with a throng of college students in someone’s overcrowded living room. At some point, apparently, there would be fireworks, and she didn’t want to imagine all these people out on the back lawn at once. Where the heck was Rory?

Two burly jocks, beers in their hands, shoved their way through the crowd, knocking her aside. Claire stumbled over the carpet and landed half on the edge of a white couch and half on a confused, drunk-looking couple, who squinted at her in the dimness as liquid dribbled from her cup. She apologized meekly and rolled back upright, brushing herself off and abandoning. The room seemed to be growing hotter by the minute, and suddenly she felt trapped, wanting nothing more than a breath of air that wasn’t stuffy and laden with alcohol. The front door seemed so far away across the heads of the crowd, its glass panels glittering from the antique street lamp embedded in the lawn. She made her way towards it as best as she could, pushing her short body through tight circles of people and towering football players. She was nearly to the foyer arch now, which was strung up with garlands and pennants. The door beyond disappeared for a moment behind one of the jocks that had knocked her over earlier, then reappeared, but now the glass panels were blocked by some kind of massive shadow. Claire pushed herself out of the edge of the crowd at the same time as the door opened, and there stood Rory.

He was bigger.

Claire had last seen him a week before finals, and it seemed impossible that he’d grown as much as he had in the two months that had passed. But there he was, a red jersey pulled taut over his colossal midsection, which was so huge and sprawling that it spilled out the bottom, curving low in an arc of pale skin. He started to push his way in through the doorway, but Claire waved at him, and he pulled himself back out onto the porch. Claire followed, shutting the door behind her. The music and chatter inside cut out, and a fresh breeze rolled in out of the dark night air. Claire took a deep breath.

“It’s, uh…”

Rory chuckled. “Crowded?”

“Yeah.”

“I was worried it might be.” He looked inside through the window, at the throngs of people gathered inside. “You… you wanna do somethin’ else?”

Claire shrugged. “Beats being in there, I guess.”

“Y’know, they do fireworks down at the waterpark. Real big ones.”

“What? You wanna go to the waterpark?”

“No, no.” Rory smiled, and his cheeks dimpled. “They fire ‘em off from a field nearby, and there’s an access road there. You can see right up close.”

“That sounds kinda cool.”

“It is. They’re really big ones, too.”

“Well, how’re we gonna get there?” Claire paused. “How’d you get here?”

“My dad’s truck.” He pointed his thumb at the street, where, amongst all the other cars, squatted a dusty old pickup. “He’s letting me borrow it for the summer, which is pretty cool of him. So, is that a yes for fireworks?”

Claire gave a friendly smile. “Why not?”

“Alright.” He stepped down from the porch, putting his arms out for balance, the entirety of his tremendous body swaying in response, the rolls on his sides bouncing, and began his laborious trudge down to the road.

“You mind if we stop at my place first?”

Claire shook her head. “Nah, that’s all right.”

“I just figured… huff… we could use snacks and… huff… you know. Food.”

They passed through the gap in the hedge that led to the sidewalk, Rory turning sideways and lifting his arms to clear the greenery, his belly catching on the twigs. At the truck, he took a moment to lean against the hood and catch his breath. Claire hauled herself up into the passenger seat - a fair climb, at her height - and took a surreptitious glance around the cabin.

It was quaint, but roomy. The driver’s seat looked a bit flat, no surprise there. She turned to look at the back seat - or, rather, would have if she could’ve seen it. Covering the floor and rising up over the cushions was a mountain of fast food bags, plastic soda bottles, crushed pink donut boxes, bags of chips, chocolate bar wrappers - it was almost too much to take in at once. She turned back to the front just as Rory opened his door, hoisting himself into the seat with a groan. First he swung his weighty leg up under the wheel, then leaned in with his rear. Despite the truck’s size, it tipped prominently with Rory’s weight, and Claire steadied herself against the door. The top of his head barely cleared the roof, and from side to side, he took up a full two-thirds of the width of the cabin. His hips spilled out over the central console, against empty cups, pushing Claire up against the door.

Rory twisted around a bit to look down at her.
“Sorry about the mess… haven’t had the time to clean this thing in a while. You got enough space?”

She nodded, and Rory grunted in approval before pulling out into the street. His flabby, warm side - doughy, fuzz-covered rolls packed into the fabric of his jersey - bounced with every rough patch of road. As the drive went on, Claire leaned gently into the mass of man next to her, the top of her head barely grazing his shoulder. After a couple miles, her arm, which was trapped under the side of Rory’s belly, began to tingle with numbness, and she worked it free before realizing there wasn’t any place to rest it besides his gut, which she did without hesitation. Rory continued tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along to the radio, and Claire settled in for the ride, welcoming the wall of softness. Now and then the song on the radio would end and, in the moment of silence, all that could be heard was Rory breathing, heavy, in and out, and the rustling of junk wrappers in the back seat.

Eventually, they pulled into an alley that led to a parking lot behind an apartment block. Claire hopped out of the truck and suddenly realized that she could see her own building, and if the tree canopy on the opposite side of the alley wasn’t so full, she could probably look right into her room. She’d known Rory had lived nearby, but this wasn’t even half a mile.

It then dawned on her that she’d never even been to Rory’s apartment. He had always come to her place.

“Comin’ in?”

She turned to see Rory already standing at the front door of one of the building’s units, his eyes on her. Claire nodded and made her way across the messy strip of grass between the lot and the building. He unlocked the door and pushed it open and, turning sideways, lumbered inside. Claire followed.

It was a small place. Not dingy or messy, but small. The living room was large enough only for a single, weary-looking couch opposite a television. It sagged precariously around the middle, its cushions flattened by what Claire assumed to have been years of usage. The kitchen shared its space with a dining area, large enough only for an oven, a sink, a refrigerator and a few cabinets. Like the truck, piles of plates and wrappers had accumulated in various places; atop counters, tables, shelves. It wasn’t messy, per se, but she was given the distinct impression that he spent more time eating than he did tidying up after himself. In the back, down a short hallway, were two doors - one for the bathroom, the other for the bedroom. As Rory gave her the tour, Claire caught a glimpse of a queen-sized bed that seemed to sag even further than the couch. As she looked around, Rory waddled over to the kitchen and started opening cupboards, his hands rustling through the shelves in search of calories to fill his stomach.

Claire indicated the bathroom.

“Do you mind if I…”

Rory glanced over at her, his mouth already full with of potato chips. “Mrrfh?” he grunted. “Oh, yeah, g’head.”

The bathroom was as simple as the rest of the place, barely enough room for a toilet, a sink and a shower. Claire wondered for a moment how Rory managed to maneuver himself in such a tight space, and the thought made her heart flutter. She relieved herself and took her time washing her hands, glancing around, and her attention was immediately drawn by the huge square of red fabric hanging next to the shower. That couldn’t be a towel she thought. No way. But it had to be, it couldn’t be anything else, as vast and expansive as it was.

Shutting off the tap, she was about to open the door when she noticed something else – a heavy-looking slab of metal on the floor beneath the sink. Pulling the scale out, she stepped on it and a little readout on the digital display lit up – 108 pounds. Not bad, she thought to herself, tracing a hand along her slight curves, her flat stomach.

On a little shelf above the sink, Claire spotted a pad of paper with a neatly written list of data, dotted with what appeared to be strains from greasy fingers. The top line read: Jan. 23 - 558 lbs. She scrolled furiously down the page, numbers blurring in front of her eyes, her breath quickening, her face becoming red. The puzzle pieces slid together in her mind, and she could hardly believe what she was seeing.

The final entry was on the bottom of the page. July 3 - 645 lbs. Next to it was a little drawing of a pizza slice.

Claire’s heart stopped.