The Bro Code

by Elizabeth A. Seibert

  “Only if you do.”

  I let her think she had the last word. She pressed Start for “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll,” the easiest song in the game. Guess we were doing a practice round. Maybe it was because it was late/early in the morning, but Eliza played her guitar like a zombie trudges for brains. Jumping onto my knees and strumming like a total idiot to cheer her up, Eliza gave me a tiny laugh, not dancing back.

  I ended up beating her on the song by about 20 percent.

  “Nice work, Maguire. Looks like you’ve been practicing.”

  “Don’t mistake work for natural ability,” I replied. “Helps when you go easy on me.”

  I nudged her with my guitar.

  “All right, all right. I’ll give you a fair fight this time.” She dragged her fingertips through her hair. “Sorry, little distracted.”

  Same, sister.

  “You’d better,” I said.

  When we were younger, Carter and Eliza could not have been more different—Carter loved sports while Eliza loved arts and crafts; Eliza liked reading and relaxing in Ms. O’Connor’s flower garden while all Carter wanted to do was play soccer and video games. Carter always wanted to eat pizza and chicken wings, while Eliza wanted waffles and grilled cheese. On Friday nights, their fights over which movie to watch could last for a full hour.

  Most of those characteristics hold true to this day—but the O’Connor siblings’ similarities had evolved as well: they were total nerds who never scored anything less than an A-minus, they were absolute spitting images of each other with their blond hair and dark brown eyes, and their competitive streaks, however endearing, were absolutely never to be underestimated.

  She picked “More Than a Feeling” to be the next song. “Try and keep up, pal.”

  The power ballad’s slow rhythm echoed around us, and she kept it closer this time.

  “Slow songs make it harder to show off my mad dance skills,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Oof.”

  Eliza’s laugh mixed sweetly with the music, its falsetto register perfect for sarcasm.

  The notes sped up as we reached the guitar solo. While that should have called for more concentration, Eliza decided to throw me for a big, fat roller-coastery loop-de-loop.

  “Earlier,” she started, “when you said you’d go out with me if my date with Josh was sub-par . . .”

  The roller coaster plunged, deep diving straight to the ground, and my stomach dropped to my ankles like a complete wimp who’d gone on the ride only to impress the girl who’d never looked twice at him. Abort abort abort, my brain screamed. As if that would work.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you mean it?”

  I’ve been at a loss for words twice in my life: the first was three years ago when my dad decided I was going to start waking up hours and hours before school every day, and the way he said it made me realize nothing I could do would get me out of it; and the second time was two years ago when Austin told me he drinks pickle smoothies to make his hair shiny.

  This moment marked time number three.

  The good play here would be to punt: “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Something Carter mentioned bothered me. About you making sure Josh didn’t, like, give me a hard time. Just thought it would be weird if it were more than that and you weren’t kidding.”

  “Well, us dating isn’t really a possibility,” I replied. My legs shook as they tried to contain my awkwardness. If it wasn’t already abundantly clear to both of us, it felt like the time to clarify that I couldn’t ever have a non-platonic relationship with Eliza. The Bro Code was quite clear about that.

  Of course, I could not give a flick of the finger about the code or Carter or Austin or Josh and date her anyway; though to be honest, as much as I liked Eliza, I liked Carter more.

  “Carter was telling the truth, then? Not that I thought he was bluffing, I mean, he would totally do that.”

  “What else would you expect from Carter?”

  The song ended and Eliza’s guitar hung off her shoulders. She stuffed her hands into her pockets. The abrupt silence coming at the wrong time.

  “I’m glad it’s you looking out for me and not someone else.”

  Eliza’s whisper sounded like truth bubbling out of a cauldron of buried secrets. I’d left my phone upstairs, but if I could’ve made a bet, I’d have said it was around 3:00 a.m.—the time people tell only the truth.

  Three in the morning was when Madison had admitted to me that she was sleeping with other people because she didn’t want anyone to get too close. On another day, it was the time I’d told her she didn’t have to worry about that with me. Three in the morning also was the time at parties when whoever is still there starts discussing the mysteries of space and someone inevitably asks, Do you think we’re alone?

  “Josh kind of seems like the clingy type,” Eliza continued. “I might need you for an emergency.”

  “So you can avoid hanging out with him?”

  “Yeah. Occasionally.”

  “To clarify,” I touched my chin for dramatic effect, “you want me to help you avoid the guy you’re dating.”

  Eliza busied herself by turning off the video game equipment. Her hair caught the blue glow from the projector screen, making me want to joke that she seemed possessed. I didn’t.

  “It’s just . . .” Her voice emitted waves of anxiety. “I don’t know. He kept trying to make out with me all night, and he wouldn’t leave me alone after I asked, and he didn’t seem to want to take no for an answer.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell Carter,” said Eliza. “It wasn’t exactly that I didn’t want to . . . he got a little f’ed up and I didn’t want to, you know, take advantage.”

  The gigantic room began to feel too small. “Are you . . . okay?” Giving her a hug felt appropriate, but we’d had that weird conversation. And now this. And I had no idea if she wanted me to.

  “Yep. Thanks, Nick.” She yawned, solving the situation for me by brushing it off completely. “I’m glad we can be friends.”

  “Me too.” Staying friends meant taking the pressure off whatever it was I felt when I was around her. Which was nothing important. Or plain nothing? Friends was something I could do.

  “Hey,” I said as she turned towards the door, “is your shoulder okay? I could give you some stretches—I’m pretty much a stretching expert.”

  Whatever happened to her shoulder couldn’t have helped how she felt about tonight.

  She put a foot on the bottom of the stairs and leaned against the railing. “That would be awesome, thanks, Maguire. First, sleep.”

  “You got it, pal.”

  “Smell ya later, then.”

  Friends.

  RULE NUMBER 5

  A bro shalt not wake up before 11:00 a.m. on a Saturday.

  The clock read 10:07 a.m. Somehow, my legs felt relaxed and my mind felt as if I’d chugged six iced coffees—the main coffee a bro subscribes to.

  A whiff of cinnamon goodness drifted into my room, followed by the heroic scent of casually cooked bacon. I headed downstairs to find Carter and Eliza already sitting at their dining table.

  The O’Connors’ dining room matched the rest of their house in the sense that it was nothing like the rest of the house. While the kitchen was deep blue and filled with shiny metallic baking supplies, the dining room was a pale pink, with tiny teacups and artificial flowers scattered around the surfaces, as if it were straight out of one of those English country novels I was assigned in literature last year but didn’t read. (Austin would know what I meant.)

  I pulled out the dark wooden chair across from my best friend, but Carter kept his head parallel to his plate and shoveled in the golden-brown pancakes that his mom had whipped up before that gender-reveal shindig. She wa
s flippin’ (ha) good at pancakes too. Her banana pancakes were award-winning, if you count the certificate Carter and I gave her as a legitimate prize.

  Today’s were blueberry pancakes, some bacon links, orange juice, a fruit salad, and some variety of muffin that, as I sniffed it, made my mouth water and forget to care about what kind it was.

  Eliza wore her leggings and a plain long-sleeved shirt, with her hair in a messy braid thing. She frowned at her plate, which housed an architectural masterpiece of a syrupy waterfall and a bridge made out of bacon.

  “I forgot,” I said, “about your breakfast designs.” A few years ago she’d managed to build a replica of their house out of bananas and oatmeal.

  “Sound the alarms,” said Eliza, “Nick Maguire got up before noon.”

  “Don’t get too excited; I’m still trying to decide if I like this world.”

  “Maybe getting up early isn’t that bad.” She balanced some orange slices for a second bacon bridge.

  “Sleeping late means I will never run into morning people.” Grabbing an empty ceramic plate, I piled on the delicious foods and inhaled the treasure. If every morning were like this, I’d become a morning person.

  “What about you?” I said. “How did you sleep?”

  “I was having a good dream. I’ll take it.” She balanced a blueberry on top of her bridge.

  “A good dream? Do tell.”

  “You weren’t in it.”

  I leaned back in my chair, making the front two legs scrape and lift off the floor.

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “You were in mine.”

  She opened her mouth for a comeback, but her almost statement was interrupted by Carter choking. Eliza clapped her brother’s back until he caught his breath.

  “You really shouldn’t say things like that,” said Carter. “It’s too early for me to tell if you’re kidding.”

  He rested his back against his chair, finally looking up from his plate, and had calmed down to his usual relaxed self when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it.” Eliza abandoned her syrupy mess.

  Carter poked her bacon bridge.

  “She’s gross,” he said. “It’s ’cause you’re here. Our mom’s gone and she’s showing off.”

  I took a forkful of blueberry pancake, reveling in its buttery fluffiness. I continued with my mouthful. “I mean, girls are great and all . . . but wow these pancakes.”

  “Ew,” said Eliza, rejoining us.

  Austin casually sauntered in behind her, dressed in his soccer pants and his favorite hooded sweatshirt. Carter gave him a nod. The three of us always hung out on Saturdays, sometimes to play video games or sometimes to roll around town to see what trouble we could get into.

  “’Sup, boys?” Austin sat next to me, grabbing a muffin.

  I elbowed him hello. “Hear anything from Jamal?”

  “Oh yeah. He can’t get a beach permit until middle of September, so we gotta wait until then.”

  “Damn,” I said. “Better late than never.” I held out my hand for a fist bump. Austin, being a bro, of course returned it within the socially acceptable two seconds.

  “Jamal’s bonfire?” Carter’s plate clanged as he threw down his fork. “About that . . .”

  “You’re not bailing on us, are you, O’Connor?” Austin asked as if Carter were the only O’Connor in the room.

  “I can’t go back to BB. You guys know that.”

  Every year, our friend Jamal Sanchez threw this huge bonfire on the nearest beach. He usually timed it with the beginning of school, but we’d still have plenty to celebrate when the time finally came. Carter and that party, however, had a mixed relationship.

  With my mouth stuffed with pancake, I said, “Austin, did you hear something?”

  Austin looked about the quaint, pink room, cupping his ears. “It sounds like . . . can’t be. Is that whining about a party?”

  “Can’t be,” I said. “’Cause whoever it is must know we’re going to drag their sorry ass there anyway.”

  Austin shook his head. “That guy must be a real idiot.”

  “Probably thinks the sky is blue too.”

  “It’s clearly orange.”

  “More of a clementine today, in my opinion.”

  “Excellent point,” said Austin.

  Eliza sat back with her arms crossed, the tiniest trace of amusement on her lips. I made it my mission to make that bigger.

  “That guy’s probably such an idiot, he went to the dentist to get a Bluetooth,” I said.

  Austin’s chair scraped the floor as he tipped it back to match mine. “That guy’s probably so dumb, that when the judge said, ‘Order, order,’ he said, ‘Diet Coke, please.’”

  “I heard he broke his finger and tried to call Dr. Pepper.”

  “Oh no,” said Austin, “that wasn’t the same guy who asked his eye doctor for an iPhone, was it?”

  “Yep, and then he went grocery shopping at the Apple store.”

  “You’re both idiots,” Carter muttered.

  Eliza coughed. “Probably still thinks Bruno Mars is a planet.”

  I stood up. “That was one time.”

  “One more than the rest of us.” She took a long swig of orange juice, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

  “What’s the plan for today?” asked Carter, tired of us ganging up on him.

  “I’m free till like midafternoon, then I have to do homework,” I said. “Some stuff from AP bio I want to read, even though our boy here is doing an awesome job with the h-w.” I gave Carter a high five.

  Normally, a bro would never talk with his mouth full in front of a chick, but I had to make sure the guys knew my priorities for the day. Before, like, Austin could sketch up some five-hour plan to haze a varsity freshman with condoms and glitter glue that I wouldn’t be able to turn down.

  Not that that’s ever happened. Because hazing could get us kicked off soccer. This is purely a hypothetical, very specific prank that has definitely never been pulled off by me, Austin, or Carter. Perhaps by three guys who looked like us. They must have been handsome bastards.

  “Nick Maguire? Doing extra studying?” said Carter.

  “Yeah. I need at least a four on the AP test for Clarkebridge so—”

  “Same,” Carter said.

  “When’s your tryout?” Austin asked.

  “End of October,” said Carter.

  I groaned. Clarkebridge was the one college that Carter and I were both applying to. He wanted to do pre-med and I wanted to do something with exercise—still had a little bit of time to figure out what, exactly. We were both trying out for its soccer team.

  A fun hobby of ours was to try to not think about whether Clarkebridge had room for both of us, because statistically, it didn’t.

  “Want to take some cupcakes for studying? I think my mom left a couple,” asked Carter. It was a well-known fact that Carter was the best of us. Sometimes how big of a bro he was still caught my cold, sarcastic heart off guard.

  The answer to whether I should take mouthwatering, somehow still low-calorie cupcakes, was always yes. Of course, calorie counts didn’t matter to us bros, unless a bro was on the wrestling team and had a weigh-in to obsess over. No, the low-calorie mattered because it enabled a bro to be a flirtatious hero when he delivered a chick (or another bro, if he swung that way—a bro supports all bros) with a much-needed, flawless dessert. Naturally, the cupcakes were vegan, organic, and gluten-free.

  Just kidding, cupcakes can fit two of those categories. Please not all three. Brownies? Sure. Actual cake? Maybe. Cupcakes are where we draw the line.

  “Okay.” Austin’s phone vibrated on the table. “I made us plans. We’re ballin’ at noon.” He addressed me specifically. “Which means you boys have fifteen minutes before we have to leave.”

 
I eyed the stack of pancakes still left on my plate. “Is that like a hard fifteen or . . .”

  “We can’t let those sixth graders get the courts first.” Austin grabbed one of my bacon slices, crunching loudly. “And Joshy can’t get there till 12:15. It’s on us, gentlemen.”

  “Daley’s joining?” Carter did nothing to hide his dismay.

  Eliza stood and gathered the empty dishes, starting to carry them into their kitchen. My mouth went dry.

  “Yeah, two-on-two,” said Austin. “Try not to fight over being on my team.”

  “That’s cute.” Carter rose, stretching to remind us that not only was he an inch taller than Austin and me, but he was about fifteen pounds of solid muscle heavier. As bros with extremely fragile egos, that gesture was 100 percent like throwing down the gauntlet.

  I stood up too. “Peace out, Girl Scout,” I said to Eliza. “See ya in gym Monday, bright and early.”

  “Super looking forward to it,” she replied, flipping her braid to keep it out of the syrupy plates. She vanished into the kitchen and I exhaled.

  Stop, Nick.

  Besides Straight Cheese ’n’ Pizza, North Cassidy embarrassingly lacked in the entertainment department. On the nice days, however, we could use what the town leaders, or whatever they’re called, referred to as “the concourse,” but the cool kids knew as “the intercourse.”

  I mean c’mon, they totally set that one up for us. Dared us, even.

  The con-/intercourse consisted of overmanicured grass, metal bleachers, and plastic turf that caused more ACL tears than it was worth. The recreational area sat beside the high school and the town’s athletic track, football fields, softball fields, soccer/lacrosse fields, basketball courts, tennis courts, and swimming pool. The space had one asphalt basketball court, with smelly, mosquito repelling lights to illuminate it at night. The closest courts after that were a twenty-minute drive to the next town over—and those didn’t have mosquito lights, so you’d get a lot of bites playing there, though maybe reduce your risk of cancer.

  Unless there was a school event, the fields and courts were first come, first served—especially for tennis. (Not really; I just wanted to make that pun.) We dribbled onto the basketball court minutes before a gang of rather large middle schoolers was dropped off by their parents.