1
The first time attending a real college party full of football players was bound to be intimidating. But it’s definitely more so when you arrive wearing a pig nose and a shirt that says “Papa Pig’s Pizza Palace” across the front of it.
I stand at the door to the swanky house, holding boxes of hot pizza, and wondering what horrible stuff I must’ve done in a past life to end up in this karmic hellhole. Hellhole factor, the first: Football players. They’re the actual worst, so far as I can tell— all smashing beer cans on foreheads and smelling-like-old-socks and full scholarships for being good at hitting people.
Hellhole factor, the second: Pizza. I don’t even like Papa Pig’s pizza. It’s basically 90% grease, and the smell of it gets in my hair and clothes for days after I work a shift.
Hellhole factor, the third: Parties. I’m not really a party kind of girl. I’m more of the coffee shop, bookstore, quiet night with Netflix type.
But here I am, heading up to a college football party, delivering twenty-seven large boxes of Papa Pig’s pizza (their regular order, according to my boss). I lug the warming boxes out of my car and up the steps— I’m pretty sure they weigh more than I do, but like hell am I making two trips. The house is one of those totally re-done craftsman bungalows that probably has a thousand more rooms than you’d expect based on the street view. There’s a wide wooden front porch covered in rocking chairs, and the whole place glows with the light pouring from every window and the glass storm door. It’s probably a million dollar home— most of the houses that sit right across from the school’s north campus are. At Berkfield University, though, parties in million dollar homes are just Friday nights for the football team.
Must be nice.
I take a deep breath, trying not to let the exertion show as I finally reach the porch. I drop the warming boxes onto the ground, adjust my pig nose, and ring the bell.
“Pizza! It’s here!” a thick, heavy voice shouts. There’s a sea of people inside, girls in short dresses filling up the hallways and guys leaning against the walls or man-spreading on the wide staircase. The voice belongs to none of these— it belongs to a bro who muscles his way through the crowd, grinning at me. He’s got his phone ready.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. He grabs the door and swings it open.
“Thanks— hey, we need some people for the picture,” the guy shouts over his shoulder. “Come on, come on, let’s do this so we can eat!”
A few girls from the hall cut their conversations short and walk toward the porch, glossy lips and heels so high they seem physically impossible to walk in. “Can she come in? It’s cold out there,” one of them pouts, rubbing her arms. I want to point out that if she was wearing more than a glorified washcloth in September, she might not be cold, but I resist.
“Yeah, she can come in,” the guy who answered the door says, like I’m an actual pig that needs to be cleared before entering the premises. He pushes the door farther open, and I grab the pizzas to hoist them inside. No one makes any effort to help, as they’re too busy arranging themselves by height for the photo. I’ve just gotten the warming boxes in when they’re satisfied, and they usher me over to the place of honor, right in the center of a pack of four supermodel-gorgeous girls and a number of chiseled, broad-shouldered guys.
“Alright, ready? Say, “Go Razorbacks”!” the guy who answered the door calls, and a flash goes off as he takes a photo. I’m pretty sure my eyes were closed.
“Do we look cute?” one of the girls asks. “Can we redo it if we don’t?”
“You all look great,” the door guy says, and slaps her playfully on the ass. She giggles and scampers away. The girls begin to delve into the warming boxes, pulling out pizza and announcing repeatedly that this is their “cheat day”, like they need to have a formal excuse to eat Papa Pig’s.
“I just need you to sign the receipt—“ I say, reaching inside my short apron for the pad.
“Yeah, yeah, hang on, let me get this loaded,” the door guy says. He taps around on his phone, uploading hellhole factor, the fourth, to social media— the photo he just took, with the hashtag #ImAPapaPig. Doing so earns you free cheesy bread. That’s right, folks: My dignity is worth sacrificing for free Papa Pig’s cheesy bread.
I didn’t know all this when I took the job, for what it’s worth.
“If you could just sign here,” I say, again pushing the pad toward door guy. He’s snorting, adding filters to the photo that make the other girls look cuter and highlight my pig nose.