Austin, Carter, and I had left early, and we didn’t get to witness any of it. Right after Eliza had pulled me into the ocean and we’d returned to the beach, I dug out my phone from the sand to see I’d missed an emergency phone call from Austin. The police officer had, in fact, remembered Carter, even without the coconut bra. Dripping wet, I had to drive them home before we wound up in jail. Or worse, juvenile counseling classes taught by Mr. Hoover at 8:00 a.m. on Saturdays, which were what my parents threatened me with if I ever did drugs. They didn’t realize that having to get through those would make me depend on drugs more, but I appreciated their efforts.
When Monday came, I stood in Cassidy High’s freshly mopped hallway with Robert, trying to remember my locker combination. The faint scent of limes wafted towards me, which I tried to ignore.
It’s the cleaning products, Nick.
“What about you, Mags? Was Madison telling the truth?”
I stopped. Why would Madison want to tell anyone what happened? Until I remembered that of course she would lie about it.
My locker’s rusty dial squeaked with every twist. “Depends on what she said—”
I never found out, because the metal door of my locker swung open to reveal the messiest wreck in the history of the school.
“Holy . . .”
Robert’s laugh filled the hallway. “Oh . . . shizzers, bro.” He patted my head. “Hoover’s gonna smoke your tunnel.”
It didn’t occur to me to ask for clarification. Mr. Hoover, and how many detentions he might give for ruining not only my locker but his self-esteem as the hall monitor who’s supposed to prevent these things, didn’t register in my mind at all. Nope. As I gawked at the twenty-ish cut-up limes, precariously thrown among my late homework and gym clothes, with a begrudging awe and respect for such a perfect prank, someone else invaded my every thought.
Eliza tiptoed towards us like she’d learned how to time an entrance from freaking Mission: Impossible.
“What’s that?” she mused, pointing at what was no doubt her handiwork. Lime juice dripped onto the floor, creating a sticky puddle smack in the middle of the senior hallway. “You’re teaching everyone to make limeade? Ew. Maguire, didn’t anyone ever tell you that show-and-tell is for third graders?”
“In that case, O’Connor, what’d you bring?” I tried to keep my eyes locked with hers, rather than check out her appearance. Because if I had checked her out, I’d have noticed her wearing a skirt that perfectly traced the curves of her hips, rather than her usual jeans. I’d have to wonder what the occasion was. I’d have to wonder if it was me.
“To be honest,” I said, “I expected better.”
“Dare I ask to what you’re referencing?”
“This prank’s been done before. Three years ago, when Carter and I filled Jenny Martin’s locker with crickets.”
“I dunno,” she said, “I think it’d be pretty crazy to pick out eighteen of the juiciest limes available, slice them all into thirds, and then forgo precious sleep to get up early and stuff them in some rando’s locker that happens to have Carter’s birthday as its combination.” She wiped imaginary dust off my shoulder. “I’d never have time for that. This is some serious dedication.”
Yes, my combination was indeed Carter’s birthday. A bro never forgets another bro’s special day—that was my way of remembering it. Which, given how long it took me to open my locker this morning, wasn’t going well.
Robert watched the scene in front of us, looking more dumbfounded than Austin had when he’d realized cupboards are called cupboards because they’re literally boards you put your cups on.
“How’d you know there were eighteen limes?”
“Same way your mom knew it was your dad’s kid growing inside of her.” She hiked up the backpack on her shoulder. “Lucky guess.”
She shrugged, turned, and walked away.
Our fellow students gingerly passed by, avoiding the sticky juice dripping onto the floor. I emptied my locker, not sure how to even begin cleaning this up. The lime aroma was overwhelmingly sour, yet sweet at the same time.
“Why is every girl on the entire planet and most likely the whole universe into you? I swear they are programmed to gravitate towards you,” said Robert. “It’s like you’re the Earth and they’re the moon; they revolve around you all the time. Except you’d actually be Jupiter because you have way more than one moon.”
I wiped my fingers on the locker next to mine and closed the door. The mess was a problem for future-Nick. Not to be dealt with right now.
“Eliza likes Daley, bro,” I said. “Try to keep up.” Robert trudged next to me as we avoided the kids staring at us and headed towards our first-period class, AP history.
“I am caught up,” he said, “And she doesn’t. She dumped him after the bonfire. I thought Carter would have told you?”
My cheeks flushed. “What? What happened?”
“Dunno. All Josh said was that she didn’t want to go out with him anymore. She didn’t tell him why, though it’s pretty obvious. She must have met some guy at the party. Guess it wasn’t you.”
We got to history and I slid into my scratched-up desk with its dumb, attached chair. I could’ve guessed Eliza would want to break up with Josh. I didn’t think she’d do it right after we were together. If she were any other girl, I would be wracking my mind for the perfect line—some way to ask her out before anyone else did.
Even though she’d “made herself available” moments after I could have kissed her, and even though I’d really wanted to, Eliza wasn’t another girl. If there was going to be anything there it had to be real. Not little laughs or flirty sass.
Well.
Damn.
I didn’t get a chance to talk to Carter until soccer practice that afternoon. He and I were the two captains (obviously) and one of our responsibilities was to lead warm-ups while my dad set up our drills. We had to do that, and then we had to make sure that all the underclassmen looked up to us for our charm and wit. As we jogged around the field, I panted next to him.
“I hear Daley is no longer a problem.”
“Technically,” Carter spat on the grass. “But I don’t trust that guy.”
“Eliza’s a good kid, though. She’s not going to let him do anything to her—”
“Josh doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who cares about consent.”
His tone crushed me as he picked up the pace. When Carter was upset, he ran. Sometimes, after a full soccer practice, he would even do a round loop from his house to my house, which was at least four miles away. I liked to shout at him out of my window, “Run, Forrest, run!” He usually didn’t hear me. That was probably a good thing. Carter hated to be made fun of.
Which was exactly why I did it.
Tweeeeet. Coach Dad blew his shiny whistle and pulled us into the center of the soccer field. I braced myself for what was coming. My dad had a strict attendance policy, and I’d been tardy to school again last Friday, which meant yet another detention from Mr. Hoover. I swear that guy just wants to be my best friend or something.
My dad’s unwritten policy stated that if any player had to miss any practice for anything short of a family emergency, their punishment the next time they came was a full practice of sprints. Our goalie, Mike Dawson, even had to do sprints when he went to the orthodontist to have his braces fixed. As a result, people missed practice less often than I wear the color pink.
“Maguire,” he called to me. He called us all by our last names. God forbid that he treat me any differently. “We missed you on Friday.” My dad pointed at Austin. “Banks, what do we do when we miss practice?”
“Shuttle suicides for three hours, Coach,” Austin mumbled. He had to wear contacts for soccer, which he hated. Even if he’d been wearing glasses, however, he wouldn’t have been able to meet my eyes.
While he was c
oaching, my dad was Thanos-level no-nonsense. Even with the glaring knee brace over his track pants.
“Didn’t catch that,” Coach Dad shouted.
“Shuttles, Coach!” Austin shouted. “For three hours!”
Shuttles were an exercise that should really be called “run like you stole something and don’t throw up.” Three hours of it was really three hours of nonstop sprinting. It was the kind of drill that separates the men from the boys. Ten years ago, one of my dad’s players had rolled his ankle during the shuttles. My dad made him finish the practice, and he made him do jumping jacks after every set to strengthen his bones.
“Where were you, Maguire?” Coach Dad continued to publicly stone me in front of team, as he would’ve for any of us. “While the rest of these ladies were finishing their first week of grueling hell? What were you doing?”
“Detention.” At that point in time, I didn’t really care that the man could have legitimately eaten me for breakfast and washed me down with a swig of unicorn blood. Sometimes he went too far to seem like a tough guy.
“And is that going to happen again?”
“Are you going to call us girls again?”
I was met with silent stillness. My teammates studied the soccer balls at their feet, while buses blew by, taking the more fortunate students home.
Not yet used to our Shakespearean soccer saga, the varsity freshmen huddled closer to Carter, who dug his cleats into the grass, soaking in the sun and waiting for the storm to pass.
One . . . two . . . I counted in my head the time it would take for my dad to answer.
“Gentlemen.” He patted his clipboard. “Good news. Practice today is optional, apart from Maguire, who is going to do his punishment sprints right now.”
Was he kidding? I hadn’t even given him that much backtalk.
“Anyone else is welcome to join him, though I wouldn’t recommend it. Tomorrow we’re scrimmaging the girls’ team, and it would be a shame to lose as badly as we did last year.” At that, he turned on his heel like a middle school drama queen and headed to open the locker rooms.
So, not kidding.
Thanks a whole dang lot, Dad.
Determined to complete the workout, I jogged to the other side of the field. The soccer field was next to the baseball field that was next to the high school, and it comprised part of the intercourse’s facilities. The football team practiced a few fields away, as did the girls’ team and the field hockey team. Lots of witnesses if I were to fall over, puke, and die.
“Yo.” Austin hustled to catch up. I’d made it to the midfield line. “Thought you could use some company.” He kicked the side of my cleat. “I dunno why you don’t quit and stick it to him.”
“Because screw him,” I replied. Austin and I had had this conversation before, and I couldn’t deny that it would be a power move.
I had threatened Coach Dad with quitting before. About two years ago, during a rare family dinner. My mom had even ordered a pizza.
You’re not quitting soccer, my dad had said.
It’s not fun, I’d said. I’d been eating broccoli, I remember, because my mom wouldn’t let me eat the pizza until I’d finished my veggies. That night, it meant I didn’t get to eat any pizza.
I highly doubt that. My dad had already finished his broccoli and was taunting me more with every bite of his pizza.
It’s not. I don’t like always getting singled out at every practice.
I embarrass you?
No one else has a dad who pushes them this hard.
That you’ve seen.
Other people’s dads let them quit things. Like when Austin was taking Mandarin. Or when Robert was taking piano.
You’re not quitting soccer.
I have to quit eventually, right? Not like I’m going pro.
Nicky—My mom had started to say.
I’m not. I’m going to get an overuse injury before that’s even possible. Like Dad.
That had gotten them quiet. I’d patted myself on the back, happy to have perfectly orchestrated making my parents speechless—as is the job of any high schooler. I’d expected my dad to let me quit right then. We can all guess that’s not what happened.
Okay, said my dad.
Okay I can be done?
Okay you can be done when you have an overuse injury.
Seriously? That’s what it would take? Me getting a horrible injury so you’ll listen to me?
We are listening to you, my mom chimed in, finally.
That’s seriously what I’d have to do to get out of soccer?
Wouldn’t recommend it, my dad had said.
Because then I’d have to live vicariously through my superstar son? I’d raised my voice, but my dad simply sat there, chewing his pizza, as calmly as ever.
Because you’d miss it too much.
Instead of quitting, I’d resolved to stick it to him by being better than he ever was. It wouldn’t be enough, however, to break any of his personal records, like the number of goals he’d scored during his high school soccer career (138), or his percentage of completed goals (45 percent).
I had to shatter them.
“Ready to start? Where is Mags . . . ?” cooed Austin.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You’d better be,” said Austin, “Now we’ve got to do this stupid workout. You’re such an idiot, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re still an idiot.”
“You’re still ugly.”
Austin hit me with his forearm. “Still an idiot.”
That continued until we reached the goal line. I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it on the grass. For the beginnings of fall, it was a hot, sunny afternoon. We didn’t all have a Brazilian side of the family, like Austin did. Some of us had to work for our golden-brown tans.
Even though he was half Brazilian, Austin didn’t call himself “black” or “brown,” though he did have that tan during the summer. Austin’s mom had been born in the United States after his grandparents moved to Massachusetts from Brazil, and she had given up trying to get Austin and his brothers to celebrate Brazilian traditions. Austin was super into tacos, which he considered close enough. Carter liked to remind us that Americans invented the version of the taco Austin loved so much, and that they were more Mexican anyway, but to be honest none of us really knew. Also, Austin had always resisted learning about Brazil because he didn’t want to be one of the “token diversity” guys at school.
Austin threw his shirt on top of mine. “Too bad there aren’t any girls around.”
“I could call your mom,” came Carter’s voice.
More of the team jogged with Carter, coming to do the workout. The grass squeaked as they ran. Not one of them was complaining.
“There’s no way you’re running by yourself, man,” said Carter. “Although if you ever get another detention, I swear on the lives of every single member of my family I will kill you.”
“I will too,” Jeff Karvotsky, a freshman on the team, called out.
“Piss off, Karvotsky,” Carter said, “I already called dibs.”
I looked between them. “Do you boys want to take this somewhere else?”
“Hell yeah!” Jeff shouted back. “I can take him.”
Carter swatted at him like a pesky fly. Carter was about seven inches taller than Jeff, and he was, without question, the strongest person on our team. Not one of us could take Carter. Not even me.
“All right, boys.” I placed the toe of my cleat on the white, chalk line. “Three hours of misery starts now.”
The others tore off their shirts and lined up. The overwhelming scent of fifteen sweaty teenagers was in the air before we’d even started.
“If you need to stretch,” I said, “stop and stretch. There’s nothing heroic about a pulled hammy.”
“Can we start now?” Jeff Karvotsky called out. “Faster we run, faster we’re done, ya know?”
“Everyone can start except Karvotsky,” said Carter. “Ready? One . . . Two . . . Three . . .”
For the next three hours, I focused on one idea: my dad’s stupid girl comments. I had no idea why today of all days the comments had gotten to me. Was I being hypersensitive? Maybe. Sprinting until I puked would be way easier than figuring it all out. No contest.
We finished the workout and clapped each other on the butts, as bros do. Carter and I led the stretching circle that followed, making sure the guys were thoroughly taking care of themselves, from stretching their heads, to their shoulders, to their knees, to their toes. Knees and toes.
On the way back to the locker room, Carter, Austin, and I each took turns throwing blades of grass at Jeff’s sweaty back. It could have been the endorphins, but I felt more content than I had in a long time, including being with Eliza. Something about soccer stirred that up.
“Thanks, dudes,” I said. “Glad I didn’t have to do that by myself.”
“You’d have done the same for us,” said Carter.
“By the way,” Austin added, “you’re still a total idiot.”
“Um,” I feigned confusion, “that’s not what your mother said last night.”
Austin kicked my ankle.
Carter gave me a fist bump.
Jeff Karvotsky still didn’t notice the garden on his back.
And that contented feeling, like I truly belonged somewhere, lasted until I got home.
The stench of the messy kitchen hit before I walked in, and not in the good way, like when you overfill your blender and your peanut butter protein smoothie explodes into the heavens and you try to make a fun game of catching it in your mouth as it drips from the ceiling. Super fun.
The Bro Code Page 8
