Boone is still on the couch in his underwear. There’s a new Mountain Dew bottle on the floor and more candy bar wrappers. Another McDonald’s bag has been added to the mix, and a milkshake container has spilled over onto the coffee table.
“Boone? What the hell?” I survey the carnage.
“Sorry,” he murmurs as he leans to the side, flying a spaceship on the TV.
“Do we have a vacuum?” I ask Reece when he waltzes into the den. “Boone has some cleaning to do.”
“What am I, Martha Stewart?” Reece asks.
I grimace as I wave my hand at Boone. “The sophomore is a pig. All he does is eat and play games. We’re gonna get roaches with this kind of mess.”
Boone pops up, dropping his smirk and his controller. “Did you say . . . roaches?”
“Yeah. Big ass crawlers. Six inches long,” I tell him.
He shudders from head to toe.
I huff. “That got your attention, huh?”
He nods. “I hate those fuckers. They’ve got laser eyeballs and razor teeth, well, not real teeth like we do, but they bite. My mom put one in a jar with no food or water and it lived for three whole months. She told me if one bit me and sucked my blood, I’d turn into one. I believed her until I was like, ten. I legit have nightmares about them crawling on my junk.” He cups his groin. “You sound like my mom, bro, asking me to clean up. I miss her.”
Boone has three settings: hockey, video games, or chatterbox.
He shakes his head as he kicks the McDonald’s bag. “I guess I got a little out of control this weekend. Summer camp was great, but now I’m nervous. Taking Z’s place on the line? Man, that’s a lot.”
“I get it.” There’s a feeling of responsibility on all of us since we won the championship.
“I’ll just, um, pick all this up and take out the trash, yeah?” he says as he snatches one of the candy wrappers and sucks out the extra chocolate.
“Good idea. Glad you thought of it,” I reply dryly.
He looks between us. “Anything crazy ya’ll are scared of?”
Reece shrugs. “Bugs don’t bother me, but I don’t care for thunderstorms.”
Boone picks up the Mountain Dew, opens the cap, and sucks down a drink. “Serial killers bother me. I’ve watched too many documentaries, and those Ted Bundy types are so random. My uncle lived out on a farm in the seventies and someone stabbed him inside his house. The police think it was Bundy. A man fitting his description was camping nearby. Have you noticed that most serial killers live in rural places? I mean, Sparrow Lake is sort of isolated. Lots of woods, farmland, and lakes. Perfect places to dump a body.”
I chuckle. “Rural Minnesota Killer. Sounds like a good show idea.”
“Dude. Don’t even,” Boone replies with a wince.
Reece pops me on the arm. “Eric here has a thing about bananas. Called them the demon of the fruit world.”
I start. “What? When?”
He nods. “You said it one night when you were trashed. Something about your brother and you.”
I lift my shoulders in a shrug.
Boone narrows his eyes at me. “Come on, spill. Did you choke on a banana as a kid? Did it get stuck in your throat? Was it that mushy feeling, like a slug?”
My lips twitch. “You’ve had too much Mountain Dew.”
Boone cocks his head and gives me a knowing look. “The smell, right? The freaky strings?”
“No.”
“Are you intimidated by their girth because your dick is small?” Reece tosses in.
“No,” I say, exasperated.
They cross their arms.
“Tell us the truth,” Reece says.
I throw my hands up. “Fine. When I was five or so, I went to bed and there was a long curvy thing under my covers. I screamed and Kurt came in and said it was a python, that he’d seen it outside earlier. Then he pushed me on top of it, and I could feel it moving under me on the bed. Turned out it was a bunch of bananas he’d put under my covers.” I can still see his lanky form bent over laughing in my room. “He was crazy like that. Fun. Anyway, I hate bananas. I’m not scared of them.”
“Demon of the fruit world,” Reece reminds me and I chuckle.
A few minutes later, Boone has taken out the trash and is loading the dishwasher with green, fuzz-covered dishes. I’ve vacuumed, and I’m about to head upstairs when Reece catches me by the arm.
“Hey, how was the test?”
“Not good,” I say on a sigh.