“Damn.” Two weeks ago, we’d found a family of six baby bats flying around. It had been cool, kind of like a vampire family was living there.
“I know. They could’ve come in handy. It’s okay, though. I saved the dung beetle from Austin’s birthday party.”
I high fived him and we set to work. Once the musty, rodent smell wears off, the attic’s really not that bad.
“Dude.” I opened one of the less dusty-looking cardboard boxes. “This it?” I held up the biggest Super Soaker I had ever seen in my life. It was easily a foot and a half long and the tank looked like it could hold about three liters of water. I had to carry it with two hands. “You know how much waterpower we can get with this thing?”
“I think we have to test it and see,” Carter said.
And so it began.
Ten minutes later, we stood inside Eliza’s bright orange room with our equipment. Eliza’s room was decorated like an artist’s studio, since she was the “creative type.” Carter knew better than to go anywhere near her artwork. Tonight we’d rewired her computer monitor so every time she clicked her mouse the screen would change colors, and we’d filled her sock drawer with flyers for foot fungus cream.
But the joya de la corona was the alarm clock we’d stored under her bed: we’d set it to play the Beatles’ “Help!” at 4:00 a.m. and we’d hooked it up to Carter’s water gun so that if she tried to pull it out from underneath her bed, she’d get drenched.
“This isn’t too mean, is it?” I asked.
“Nah,” said Carter, “she’s been having trouble with the jetlag. This is the perfect way to restart her system.”
I considered this and decided to agree with him. There was no better cure for sleeping issues than a splash in the face. Joking, of course, but we had to justify this to ourselves somehow.
“This is going to be epic,” I felt like an eight-year-old boy again. It was my second favorite feeling of the evening, second to earlier when . . . stop, Nick.
Carter kicked the water gun securely under his sister’s bed. “You know, I bought two more Super Soakers . . . want to let them taste the fresh air?”
“Definitely. Those guns need us.”
We raced to his attic, forgetting to be quiet for his mom. Carter pushed me against the thin railing and I almost tumbled down the stairs, but it was all worth it when we reached his grassy yard and turned loose the rusty spigot to fill neon orange tanks the size of my forearm.
The O’Connors’ heated pool remained uncovered for probably the last weekend of the year. We kicked off our shoes and socks, since there was a good chance we’d end up in the water. Neither of us cared if our shirts or sweatpants got wet, but shoes take forever to dry. Plus, I had these fresh blue Nikes and if those got ruined my life would be over.
It was well past nightfall, but Carter and I knew every inch of his backyard. In good form, we waited for both our weapons to be filled with ammo before commencing in battle. The second I screwed the plastic cap onto my tank, Carter tore into the blackness where he’d wait to either hunt or be hunted.
I stepped suspiciously towards the pool—if he wanted to jump out at me, he’d have to reconcile with the water. A warm breeze rustled through the trees, stirring crickets and spooking squirrels, who scurried on the bark and gave away that Carter was not, in fact, hiding in a tree.
The concrete edge of the pool dug into my knees as I crouched and listened for movement. If Carter could’ve blasted me there, he would’ve, which meant he had to be somewhere out of reach . . . shadows squared against Ms. O’Connor’s favorite hydrangeas, right before the white picket fence that separated their yard from the neighbor’s. One of the bushes’ shadows stretched longer than the others.
My brand-new, not-yet-broken-in trigger cut against my finger, and my ears strained as I closed on the bushes. Breathing so quietly that the squirrels wouldn’t be able to hear, I sprinted to attack. I shot water in front of me, splashing as I ran to the yard’s edge. As I narrowed in, I realized the long shadow hadn’t been Carter, but a shovel resting against the flower buds.
“Any last words?”
Carter’s gun scraped the back of my neck. I weighed my weapon—it felt light, probably about a quarter tank left. Digging my bare heels into the dirt, I spun to face him before he completely drenched me.
“Nice try,” said Carter. As if I were caught in a rainstorm with a personal black cloud, Carter dumped his tank over my head. Cold dripped from my chin to my ankles, even as I shot a few revenge squirts.
Violent. Totally unnecessary. And great.
After two more rounds of that (best out of three and Carter won all of them), we ended up covered in the world’s record for mosquito bites. We defrosted some frozen pizzas and sat pooling puddles in Carter’s kitchen. Our water guns took a well-deserved rest on the kitchen table.
The slow treading of tires in the driveway interrupted our haphazard dinner. I checked my phone. It was 10:35. The same time that Carter and I would have even arrived at this so-called party.
“She’s back early,” Carter said.
Taking it way further than necessary, as was his specialty, Carter grabbed his Super Soaker and stomped down the driveway. Josh’s pickup had barely rolled past the curb before he shut off its headlights. Carter scowled, squinting to no use as he tried to see inside.
“If she’s not out in the next three seconds I’m going over there to slash his tires.”
“Chill, bro,” I said. “Be cool. On my lead.”
Channeling our inner ninjas yet again, Carter and I slunk to Josh’s truck. It blocked the streetlights so I couldn’t see what I was doing, but I soon heard a “good-bye,” and the closing of a door, and then the car slowly drove away.
“Go!” I shouted. Carter and I opened fire on the back of it, using all of the water left in our guns. Josh squealed down the street faster than I could call after him, “Night just got real, Daley!”
“What are you doing?!” A silhouette stormed over to us. “Are you kidding me right now? Oh my god, you guys. Grow the hell up!”
“We’re sorry,” I said, because I knew Carter would be at a loss for words. “It was an accident—”
“Nick Maguire!” Eliza cut me off. She came closer and my stomach sank—her white shirt clung to her, dripping and soaked. If she hadn’t been mad at me, I’d have enjoyed the moment.
“Go away.” She scooped up two fists of dirt and threw them at our faces.
>She had great aim. Carter surrendered his water gun on the pavement. I did the same and we slunk into his house. I hadn’t felt this bad since the time we accidentally-on-purpose destroyed the model of the solar system she’d been working on for two days. We thought it would be more realistic if the solar system had been ravaged by Darth Vader’s Empire.
I now see why she was upset about taking that to school.
“Whoops,” I said.
“I think my mom put fresh sheets in the guest room for you.” Carter shuffled his feet. “Your stuff should still be there.”
So, we weren’t going to talk about Eliza. Perfect.
I puttered to the guest room, past the white wallpaper etched with silver sunflowers in the upstairs hallway. That wallpaper always made me think of the time Eliza had told Ms. O’Connor it was the ugliest thing she ever saw, and Ms. O’Connor had replied, “It’s a good thing you never saw your father naked.”
Carter denies that conversation ever took place.
The light was already on in the guest room, probably from Ms. O’Connor double checking that I hadn’t left anything half-eaten in there after the last time I’d stayed over two weeks earlier. Right before the return of her favorite daughter. Even though they referred to it as the guest room, I was the sole person who ever used it—one of my old duffel bags with some extra shirts and a spare toothbrush sat permanently in the closet. We all pretty much
considered it my home away from home.
In addition to a bed so big and comfy it made my bed at home seem like a cheap sheet of sandpaper, the room was decorated with posters of golden beaches that said things like, “Namast’ay at the beach” and “Keep palm and carry on.” And it had bookshelves full of volumes with titles like The Arabian Nights and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
Instagram-worthy for sure.
Stripping off my wet clothes, I tossed them into a pile by the door and wrapped one of the freshly laid-out towels around my waist. I reached under the bed, feeling around the pristine, cobwebless carpet. If Ms. O’Connor hadn’t found it, there should be . . . yes. I pulled out a half-eaten chocolate bar. Score.
“Nick?” Eliza rapped softly on the door.
I jumped, tossing the chocolate onto the bed and quickly pulling on my Cassidy High soccer pants.
“What’s up?”
The door scraped open. Eliza had changed into fresh, comfy clothes. Her hair dripped onto her sweatshirt.
“Whoa.” She pointed to my lack-of-shirt.
“Sorry.” I pulled the towel around my shoulders.
That was one of the good things about playing soccer for Cassidy High: my dad put an extreme emphasis on his athletes’ physical being. The core abdominal muscles did not go overlooked. I liked to flex that when I could. Who wouldn’t?
“As long as I’m apologizing, I’m sorry about earlier,” I said. “I obviously didn’t think it through.”
“Josh deserved it. I was mad about my shirt, but apparently it can get wet, so not a big deal.”
She stood right in front of me and brushed some of the ground off my face. Her hands were freezing. I didn’t dare flinch. “Sorry for throwing dirt at you. Hope I didn’t get any in your eyes.”
“This is making up for it pretty well.”
“Great, I’m glad.” She took her hand away, which left my cheek somehow colder. She flipped her long, wet hair over her shoulder, filling the room with the scent of her cinnamon shampoo. “By the way, you owe me.”
“For the date? Can’t say I’m not flattered—”
“No. I found the present you left under my bed. You really haven’t changed at all.”
“Which one?”
“Funny.” She leaned against the door. “Need anything else for tonight?”
“Hey,” I said, before she could leave. “Want to tell me why Daley’s car deserved to be attacked?”
“Maybe when you’re wearing a shirt. Maybe.”
As the clock in the hallway rang eleven, Eliza slipped away, leaving me standing in her guest room with a wide, stupid grin on my face.
RULE NUMBER 4
The Dating Clause: If a girl matches any of the following criteria, she shalt be off-limits forever until the end of time: A) Was a bro’s ex-girlfriend; B) Your bro, or your bro’s bro*, specifically told you he wanted her; C) Is your bro’s sister.
*Does not apply to your bro’s bro’s bro, etc.
A couple hours later, even though I was lying on the most comfortable mattress in the world and my head rested against a pillow like a grass skirt in a tropical paradise, I still couldn’t fall asleep. My phone said it was 1:22 a.m. I had two unread texts from Madison. One minute later than when I last checked it. Two texts that would remain unread.
For the last year or so, I’d had trouble sleeping. It usually wasn’t as much of a problem when I was at the O’Connors’ as it is when I’m in my own house, but tonight it seemed like the sleeplessness wasn’t going to go away. It wasn’t like there were a million things on my mind either. Okay, I guess there was my mom freaking out at me, and Mr. Hoover, and Josh, and soccer-slash-my-dad . . . whatever.
I rolled out from under the sweat-covered sheets and rubbed my hand against the back of my neck, trying to get some of the knots out.
Except for my moans and groans, the house slept quietly—too quietly, like it was holding its breath for an adventure. Stop imagining things. Not every moment of your life has to be a goddamn action movie.
I did what I always do whenever this happens: I pulled on a wrinkled hoodie and dug around for yesterday’s socks, then I tiptoed across the creaky flooring to hit up the basement.
Second to Carter’s room, the seriously legit, totally soundproof basement was my favorite spot in their house. It had everything a guy could ever ask for: an IMAX projector, surround sound, a pinball machine, a pool table, and it even had these little chocolate pudding cups lying around. No lie.
Being the absolute man that he is, Carter lets me come down in the middle of the night to play with his toys. Toys, in this case, being defined as his movie projector. One of the benefits of being friends with Carter, besides that his refrigerator holds an endless supply of ginger ale, is his movie selection. It was as if every streaming service in the universe teamed up with the Library of Congress and decided to camp out in some random town in Massachusetts.
That’s better. Reclining on the leather couch, with the cool basement air weighing on my muscles and the remote, heavy in my hand, was way more my scene than a five-star guest room. The Dark Knight sat at the top of Carter’s movie queue, half-watched from two weeks ago. I pressed Play and pushed back against the squishy pillows, my back relaxing into all of the right places.
The possibility of sleep spiraled closer with every scene change, but right in the middle of Heath Ledger explaining exactly how he got those scars, my cushions shuffled under a new weight.
“Aren’t you living the dream?” Eliza whispered. In her old-school One Direction T-shirt and Cassidy High volleyball sweatpants, she couldn’t have looked cuter. I mean, more chill.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” I lowered the movie’s volume so I wouldn’t have to yell. “Why are you up?”
“Heard the movie from upstairs and had to come down.” She relaxed against the end of the couch, bending her knees to keep her feet from touching me.
“Haven’t seen The Dark Knight in forever,” she added.
“It’s your lucky night.” It made sense that Eliza would love Batman. All the cool kids do.
Eliza shifted from lying on her back to viewing the movie on her side. As much as I tried to turn my attention back to Christian Bale, not even Batman could compete with how close her mismatched socks (one pink, one yellow) were to my legs.
For the millionth time, stop, Nick. Anyone but her. She’s Carter’s smart-ass little sister.
Luckily, the nighttime basement masked the constant movement of my own feet, fidgeting as they tried to scratch the nagging itch inside my brain—which was difficult without magical powers. In case it wasn’t obvious by now, I’m not, in fact, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. No matter how much I resented my parents for being Muggles, it wouldn’t change the fact that if I ever went to Hogwarts, I’d probably be expelled for exclusively playing Quidditch and not studying. Ever.
Maybe I was magical after all, because ten minutes later, the riddle staring at me like a middle school crush cracked open. Sensing she had an audience, Eliza glanced over her knees, as if her sleepy dreams of calorie-free grilled cheese and no-limit credit cards were shattered by being pulled back into reality.
“What?”
The basement air felt warmer as I debated how to respond, when the truth was, she’d lied. Her room was on the second floor, and Carter’s told me their fabulous movie theater/game room/woman cave (since two-thirds of his household is female) is soundproof like seven or eight billion times. There was no way she’d heard the movie from upstairs.
“Never mind.”
If I asked her what she was doing awake, she would ask me what I was doing awake. Carter had mentioned earlier that she had a problem with jetlag. We’d go with that. Not that I was Sherlock Holmes or anything, but I was good at math; when it comes to putting two and two together, I can usually come up with a so
lid answer.
The credits soon rolled, and Commissioner Gordon’s final lines simmered around us. Familiar goosebumps sprouted on the back of my neck as I realized she was taking in every inch of my silhouette. A whirr came from the projector shutting itself off, encasing us completely in silent darkness. As eerie as the basement could have been, something about being there with her kept it from seeming like the start of a Twilight Zone episode.
Of course, there was still time.
“Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“Not asking.”
“Anytime.” My fingers tap-danced against my legs and the stillness around us grew louder. I could pretend my heightened senses were due to the darkness and it being well after 2:30 a.m., but I’d know I was kidding myself.
“You tired yet?” She asked.
I shook my head. “You?”
She sat up, pulling her pink and yellow socks away. “I’ll put the game in.”
“I’ll get the guitars,” I said, “And break.”
While Carter’s room was the main video-game arena, some games could be played only on the big screen. After I’d dug around for our equipment and Eliza forwarded through the credits, we stood ready with white plastic guitars slung over our shoulders. Guitar Hero has always been one of my favorite games, and Eliza and I played it together all the time—or at least we used to. Carter never really got into the whole “musical notes = points” thing, so when Eliza needed someone to show her how it was done, I taught her everything I knew.
Well, not everything. It’s not like Obi-Wan straight-up handed Luke a copy of How to Be a Better Jedi than I Am 101. Some things Eliza would have to figure out for herself.
The game characters we’d created when we were twelve still existed in the system. Eliza played as a pink-haired rocker chick and I selected a cool guy with a mohawk. Previews of the songs blasted as Eliza scrolled through our choices.
“You want a practice round?” I asked.
The Bro Code Page 4
