The Bro Code

by Elizabeth A. Seibert

  The Bro Code

  Elizabeth A. Seibert

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Rule Number 1

  Rule Number 2

  Rule Number 3

  Rule Number 4

  Rule Number 5

  Rule Number 6

  Rule Number 7

  Rule Number 8

  Rule Number 9

  Rule Number 10

  Rule Number 11

  Rule Number 12

  Rule Number 13

  Rule Number 14

  Rule Number 15

  Rule Number 16

  Rule Number 17

  Rule Number 18

  Rule Number 19

  Rule Number 20

  Rule Number 21

  Rule Number 22

  Epilogue

  The Bro Code

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Dedication

  This book is for the girls who aren’t allowed to read this, for anyone reading past their bedtime, for giraffes, S&B, A&M, M&D, Mr. Dog, everyone who was/is/will be a total dork in high school, for me, and for you.

  And for Kevin, who really didn’t want to be mentioned.

  Dear Nick,

  What keeps sticking out is the first thing you said to me: Tell me I’m wrong.

  I wasn’t so special, though—you made everything about you.

  It happened during the sultry summer right after Carter and I moved here, the kind where Olivia made us wear sneakers to play in the coarse sand by Bonfire Beach so our feet wouldn’t peel off, and your bangs were perpetually plastered to your forehead.

  Carter and I had it easier than most new kids because we had a trampoline and a pool. Still, when you came over, you always went straight for Carter’s soccer ball. From after lunch until Olivia called for Carter to set the dinner table, you’d pretend the trampoline was a goal and Carter was to defend it like it was extra time in the World Cup. You’d score, clap your hands to focus, and want to go again. I hope this rings a bell for you, Nick, because that’s how you got to be Carter’s best friend.

  On the afternoon you first spoke to me, Carter transformed muggy July into a barbeque with ice-cold watermelon and corn on the cob. You invited the sixth graders to our yard without asking, which was the boldest move ever. One of them brought water balloons and you lined us up in the sticky grass for a toss-off: everyone would get a partner and throw a balloon back and forth until it broke.

  There was an odd number of participants and you declared that I, the fifth-grade girl, should be the one to sit out. I wouldn’t, according to you, be able to throw as far as everyone else.

  “I’m telling,” I’d said.

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  You had a perfectly straight face, but the delight in your eyes still gave you away.

  For whatever stupid reason, you starting a water balloon fight stirred up warm fuzzies in my ten-year-old heart (whatever). You had dirt in your unkempt hair, a chin that dripped with water, and a stupid grin that felt like it was just for me. I was toast.

  It didn’t matter. When school started, you’d hang out at any and every girl’s locker except for mine. (I know this part sounds familiar.) You played with the girls’ hair and they shrieked back, and you loved them for it. Though I get that’s nothing compared to what Carter did.

  I’d really hoped, Nick, that six years later you’d be different.

  That one’s on me.

  I’m writing this so you can remember. You have a choice. Things with Carter aren’t as black and white as they may seem. Whatever you decide about the life or death of your Bro Bible, the holy script of mankind, the hallowed creed worshiped by geeks, athletes, and every guy in between—the ever-sacred Bro Code . . . this one’s on you.

  You’ve heard my thoughts on your situation. You know I know what you’re about to do.

  Tell me I’m wrong.

  —Eliza

  RULE NUMBER 1

  Bros* Before Hoes.

  *Any bro shalt be referred to only as “bro**,” “dude,” “man,” “amigo,” or “homie.” A bro is never a “peeps,” “pal,” or “stand-up guy.” A bro shalt be a bro forever until the end of time.

  **“Brother” may be used in some circumstances. Never ironically.

  Contrary to what you might have heard, I didn’t sleep with Eliza O’Connor. Did I want to? Have you seen her? Could I have? Have you seen me? But I didn’t, even though people will tell you that I did, because I attend high school with a bunch of world-class trolls. They’ll regale you with other gossip about me too, some of which is true, like the prank I pulled on Mr. Hoover (the purple in his hair wouldn’t come out for a week), and most of it is somewhat true, like I once picked up a girl by walking up to her by the concession stand at a football game and saying “No.” (I actually said, “No, we haven’t gone out before, and I vote we change that.”) A few of the stories are definitely not true. And me sleeping with Eliza O’Connor is one of them.

  Some dudes will claim I’m the one who started the rumor. I wish I had—it’d have way better details than whatever version you heard. If you find out who did, hit me up, tell them to meet me out back where we can handle this like grown-ups. I do know how it started—not at Jeff Karvotsky’s party, like everyone thinks. It really began a few months earlier, as most rumors do: with a bunch of stupidly hot people eating pizza.

  It was a Wednesday afternoon and I played air hockey in Straight Cheese ’n’ Pizza with half of the senior class, soaking up our last first day of school together. We’d ordered fifteen greasy pizzas and unlimited soda. Our haul was scattered across the countertop bar, pushed-together wooden tables, and a few booths lining the dining room, near the arcade games and infamous Chef Pizzeria. Chef happened to be a life-sized copper statue of a guy in a fancy hat tossing a pizza in the air. And yes, he was absolutely the crowning glory of a Cassidy High School senior prank every single spring. (Most recently, he’d been taken to our school’s roof and dressed up in a mustache and wig to look like our principal.)

  Cassidy High, of course, was the high school in North Cassidy, Massachusetts. It was the kind of school where the science team got more funding than football, and there were just enough kids for us to avoid being a regional high school. My classmates and I knew everything about each other, from who farted in music class back in third grade to who farted in biology class this morning. North Cassidy was where we’d all get married, stay forever, and then our kids would be friends too. Except me—I was holding out for a soccer scholarship, but that was a long shot anyway (pun intended).

  “Yo, Nick! I want to hear that ghost story again,” Robert Maxin, the only senior on the soccer team who had never kissed anyone, called to me.

  “Promise not to pee your pants this time?” I said.

  Robert sat on a bar stool at the counter and had spun around to face the rest of us. He held a slice of pepperoni that was so greasy it dripped onto his lap. He wiped it, staining the jeans his mom had just bought him. Robert was an obvious choice for this year’s ‘best dressed’ yearbook superlative.

  I winked at the girl on the bar stool beside him: Hannah Green, the brunette beauty, and one of the few cheerleaders at Cassidy High with straight As. Robert wanted me to tell the ghost story (about how our high school was haunted and one of the teachers turned into a vampire at night) as a last-ditch effort to keep her sitting next to him, but I was occupied with trying to keep my undefeated air hockey record.

  Austin Banks, the man, the myth, the legend, and pa
rt of our bro trio, lasered the air puck at my goal like this was the most important game of his life. It wasn’t, but Austin always played that way.

  “Trying to hit a man when he’s distracted . . .” I said. My shot glided back with expert spin. Before Austin could register what had happened, the puck clanged sweetly into his metal goal.

  “Ten to nine. And the crowd goes wild! Ahhhh.”

  “Whatever.” Austin adjusted his thick, black frames and pulled up the hood on his Cassidy soccer sweatshirt, despite the still summer weather outside. Austin was also famous for wearing basketball shorts after a snowstorm. We all have our things.

  “Good game, Nick.” Austin held out his fist to bump mine. We slid onto plush, red seats in the nearest booth, across from the third member of our bro triumvirate, the bleached-blond Carter O’Connor.

  If Austin were LeBron James, Carter would be Michael Jordan—the OB (Original Baller). ’Course, you’d have to ban soccer everywhere but on Pluto for Austin or Carter to switch to basketball, but we’re trying to make OB a thing so I use it whenever I can. Our mothers are very proud.

  Carter had taken over his half of the six-person booth with a calculus textbook and a notebook’s worth of scattered paper. He leaned over them, tapping his pen absentmindedly between his teeth. He’d colored them blue only the one time.

  “Yo,” I said, “You find your x yet? ’Cause I’m pretty sure she ain’t coming back.”

  Austin snorted. “Hey, are we getting pizza soon—”

  “Dude, this is no joke,” interrupted Carter, “We’re going to have to actually do homework this year. Guess I’ve got math.” He scribbled an answer in a fat notebook. With his pen. Because Carter believes in himself.

  “No fair, you got math last year,” said Austin. “I ended up with fifteen essays for Ms. Peterson. Which was really forty because I had to do them times three so they’d all be different.”

  “I’ve definitely got math.”

  “Not it.” I touched my nose. “Quiero español.”

  “Dibs on AP bio,” said Carter.

  “AP psych,” I added, “Which leaves you, Austin, with . . .” Carter, still head-down in his (our) homework, chuckled as I paused, “English and AP history. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Dicks.”

  We divided our homework load every year so one person would do it for the three of us per subject and it wouldn’t take as long. It worked because we were legitimately always together: same sports, same classes, same irresistible personalities . . . we had a lot in common.

  Austin slumped in his seat and surveyed the restaurant. Straight Cheese ’n’ Pizza was awesome because not only did it have the best pizza, grilled cheese, and mozzarella sticks (the owners were the true geniuses of all things bread and cheese) that Massachusetts suburbia could supply but it also had free arcade games and a legit jukebox. Austin observed the different cliques of our classmates, who were segments of the popular kids wearing slightly different clothes, and laughed at Robert’s wild hand gestures as he tried to retell that ghost story about our biology teacher. Hannah had tightly crossed her legs and smoothed her printed skirt as far down as it would go. Austin grinned like he was watching videos of people falling down on YouTube.

  “How long you think it’ll be before Hannah comes over?”

  “Two minutes,” I said, “Shorter if he tells her about when we went to Build-A-Bear.”

  “Poor guy. Does not know how to talk to girls.”

  “You two should give him lessons.” Carter turned a page in his textbook.

  “Jesus Christ,” I replied so loudly that the guys closest to us looked over, “we said we’re sorry about Sarah, okay? Get over it.”

  “I am over it,” Carter said.

  “You can’t blame us for daring you to get with her and then get mad when it’s actually easy.”

  “I said I’m over it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The shift in the restaurant’s atmosphere was palpable—most people, especially those sitting in the booths nearest to us, now stared, letting their pizza get as cold as this conversation. Whispers replaced the whooping and hollering, and even the statue of Chef Pizzeria seemed to eavesdrop nervously.

  “Woohoo, go Owls,” said Austin.

  That got a few laughs and soon people were back to minding their own damn business. Cassidy High’s mascot worked every time.

  Carter’s phone vibrated on the table. Because all mobile forms of communication between bros occur in the sacred group chat, it had to be a girl.

  “Who’s that, then?” Austin asked.

  Carter pushed Austin’s arm off him. “My sister. My mom has an event again. Eliza’s going to eat with us. Hope that’s okay, dude.”

  “She’s your sister,” Austin said, as if someone had asked him if he wanted vanilla cake or vanilla cupcakes. (Trick question, chocolate or bust.)

  The Bro Code clearly states that a bro will never date his friend’s sister. Austin, however, is the absolute boss and Eliza does what she wants anyway, and Carter had little say when they dated two years ago. It ended badly, I hear—I don’t know what happened because Austin can’t say a word without Carter stepping in to defend his sister’s honor.

  “Maybe she forgot about it,” I suggested. Whatever “it” was . . . Eliza had spent all last year in Australia as part of some foreign exchange for dorks. She’d gotten back last week and had (so far) been too busy with her friends to bother with us nerds.

  “Whatever.” Austin stomped on the carpet as he went to track down a pizza. He returned shortly with a fresh-out-of-the-oven pie, a basket of semi-warm mozzarella sticks, and none other than Hannah Green.

  “Hey, guys. Robert told me about when you all went to the mall together.” Instead of looking at me, her eyes were pinned on Carter. “I’d love to see the teddy bear you made some time.”

  Austin cleared his throat, half choking on pepperoni. That had been an amazing line on her end. But Carter was a bro. He stuck to the code. He’d never take another bro’s girl.

  At exactly that moment, a jingle signaled the door to the restaurant swinging open. Cue the fanfare, because in walked the girl.

  She had the same bleached hair as Carter. She’d grown since the last time I saw her, and she had a perfect Australian tan. Because of course she did.

  Carter scooched to make room for his sister.

  “Hey, Hanns,” Eliza said, dropping her book bag on the floor, “you eating with us?”

  “Sorry,” Hannah replied, actually sounding apologetic, “already have a ton of homework. Summer’s def over.” She waved good-bye to us. Mostly to Carter.

  “Thanks for letting me come, broskis.” Eliza reached for a pizza slice. “Olivia and her buttercream frosting have currently taken over our house. I barely got out before it became a true hostage situation.”

  We were getting even more stares from our classmates than when I’d made my outburst. Though Eliza, in her extremely normal white V-cut shirt and comfy leggings, pretended not to notice.

  “Look at it this way, now you get to see me,” I said.

  “Same old Nick Maguire, huh?” Eliza asked.

  “The one you know and love.”

  “Dude, stop,” said Carter. Eliza whacked his shoulder. She met my eye a moment later, catching me watching her for a second too long.

  Austin drummed the table with his fingers and asked what we were all wondering: “Did you bring us any?”

  “What?” She turned to Carter, who was back to his (our) math homework.

  “Cupcakes,” Carter answered, “same old Austin Banks too.”

  Ms. O’Connor, whom Eliza referred to as Olivia (and whom Carter merely called Mom), was the most popular mother at Cassidy High School, if not the entire town. After her cupcake start-up was featured in the Boston Globe as the area’s cutest si
de hustle, Ms. O’Connor went all in. From the comforts of her next-level professional kitchen, she catered events all over the Northeast. Austin and I were big fans of her work.

  “Ah.” Eliza leaned back against the cracked leather cushion. “Yes, let me check my bag for the four dozen cupcakes Olivia donated from her fundraiser to these hooligans.”

  She gestured to our classmates, who now sat on the tables and played pizza crust football. (A game like paper football, but with delicious carbs.) Austin slowly ducked to glance under the table—just in case. Her blue bag rested against her neon running shoes with no cupcakes in sight.

  The lights dimmed to signal the evening atmosphere.

  “How was Australia?” I asked.

  “Awesome. Good to be back, though. I never want to see another kangaroo again.”

  “In that case, Carter,” I said, “you should probably leave.”

  “Burn.” Austin coughed.

  “Good one, Nick. Real wit right there,” Carter replied.

  After inhaling her slice, Eliza stood to go talk to her other friends. Apparently, she was too cool for us now. Good for her. “Thanks for the pizza, guys,” she said, “Cool glasses, Austin.”

  Austin’s glasses had been the talk of North Cassidy when he got them a few months ago. Scared of sticking contacts in his eyes and paranoid of becoming a classified dork, Austin went around without wearing them for a year after they’d been prescribed. After Carter and I refused to let him drive anywhere anymore, Austin picked out the most hipster frames he could find, which girls claimed perfectly matched his brown eyes. He should not have been worried. He’d gotten them a month before celebrities started wearing glasses exactly like his, and now they were popping up around the whole school. Austin’s ego would never be at risk again.

  Austin barely waited for her to be out of earshot. “Hardly recognized her, dude. Can’t believe it’s only been a year.”

  “I know.” Carter shuddered. “Josh Daley asked her out yesterday. A month ago he didn’t even know who she was.”