After about an hour of trying to study for my Spanish quiz, I give up. I am no more prepared than I was when I first cracked the book open. I pull out my phone, scroll through my contacts, and press to dial Casey.
“What up, fool?” he answers. I hear Eli in the background. It’s a Sunday night—they’re playing video games.
“Not much. Paige is moving out,” I say, rubbing my eyes. They’re so tired. I’m tired. I lay in bed last night and stared at my ceiling for five hours until I had an excuse to get up and leave the house.
“Dude, come over. We’re playing Madden. Madden makes everything better,” Casey says.
“I don’t really feel like hanging out with you and Eli and playing video games, Case,” I say, leaning back in my chair, propping a foot on the table.
“Cool, and bring us sandwiches,” he says, hanging up.
I smirk because I know he heard me. I’ll go even though I don’t want to, and he knew I would. And I’ll probably have a better time there than here. Casey is good like that.
After a quick pass through our kitchen, I decide I’ll have to stop by work because we’re out of everything. I catch a glimpse of the orange cooler, still sitting on the counter in the corner. I grab it on my way out the door. Stopping by the metal trashcan by the curb. I toss it in, then hop in my car to go to the store and make my best friend a sandwich.
By the time I get to Casey’s, he and Eli have moved on from video games to watching one of those reality shows on MTV. I toss him his sandwich and put three more on the table in front of us. Casey looks up at me, holding up four fingers.
“I know what you like, but I wasn’t sure what Eli liked. I made one of each,” I say, letting my body flop into the yellow easy chair that I helped Casey move in when he found it on the side of the road. It’s quite possibly the most disgusting chair in the world. It’s also the most comfortable.
“Sweet,” Casey says, leaning forward and picking up a second sandwich.
“Dude, I made one the way you like it,” I say as he unwraps both sandwiches in his lap.
“Every sandwich you make is the way I like it. And I’m fucking hungry, yo. I’m eating two,” he says, taking a bite of the roast beef first, then wiping the mustard from his mouth along his sleeve.
“You’re a goddamned animal, and it’s more like you’re eating for two,” I say. He laughs with his mouth full, the yellow mustard and lettuce dangling from his lips, then flips me off, and continues to munch on his sandwich.
“Thanks, Houston,” Eli says, leaning forward and picking up the remaining two sandwiches. He opens one a little then looks up at me.
“That one’s ham, the other one’s turkey,” I say.
“Cool,” he says. He picks the ham. I grab the turkey from the table, but I don’t unwrap it. I’m not even close to hungry. We’re watching a guy on TV try to put out a fire on his pants. Casey finds it hysterical.
“Oh hey, since you’re here. Can you see what’s wrong with this?” he says, shoving a stack of magazines off his laptop, then lifting it and handing it to me. He gets mustard on it, but just wipes his finger over the top, then licks his finger clean.
“It’s amazing you live with Eli, and not a girl,” I say, wiping the top of his laptop clean with the bottom of my shirt. Casey is incredibly smart, but his social skills are a little lacking.
“Eli finds that offensive,” Eli says, his mouth full now. I hold up a hand in apology. His attention goes back to the guy on fire, who is now sitting in a baby pool filled with water. How is this my life right now?
“What’s going on with it?” I say, flipping it open and noticing the hundreds of windows that seem to have taken over his screen. “Ahhhh, nevermind. Virus.”
“I think it’s those porn sites,” he says through his bite.
“You think?” I laugh. I switch modes and go to work on the back-end of his computer—glad I have something to distract me for the next thirty minutes.
By the time Eli and Casey are done with their food, I have his computer back to normal. I should really start charging him, considering the amount of money I’ve saved him.
“All set, man,” I say, sliding his now-working computer over to him on the coffee table.
“Beautimus,” he says.
I lean back in the dumpster chair and stretch my hands behind my head, pulling my neck forward. Eli clears away their trash before heading to the door, slipping on a pair of shoes without his socks. I don’t get how people can do that. It just makes shoes smell.