The Bro Code

by Elizabeth A. Seibert

  Josh Daley? I wanted to scream. Josh Daley and I had been on thin ice ever since he tried to get me cut from soccer in sixth grade.

  “That kid is such a tool,” I said.

  “She shot him down, thankfully. That’s not going to be the end of it, though.” Carter took the last bite of his pizza as a few families with super little kids entered the restaurant. Normal people’s dinnertime meant our afternoon was ending.

  “Sorry, man,” Austin said.

  “You’re in a bunch of Josh’s classes, right, Mags?” Carter asked.

  “A couple electives, since we procrastinated taking them. Wish I could skip, but the lame school board calls that ‘truancy.’”

  “Same gym class?”

  “You know it.”

  “Yeah, Eliza’s in some of those too,” Carter continued, “Do me a favor and make sure she’s all right.”

  Austin reached for the last slice of pizza but withdrew when I made the same move—no questions asked. Generally, a bro is free to take the last slice of, well, anything. But while I’d been talking to Eliza, Austin finished the mozzarella sticks, so I had dibs on the pizza.

  “Nick?” said Carter.

  “She’s going to be fine, dude,” I said, “but sure.”

  I would have given away my last slice to keep Josh Daley away from her. Be cool, Nick.

  Looked like I’d be attending class after all.

  As if I had a choice.

  RULE NUMBER 2

  A bro shalt not get “out” in dodgeball.

  Two mornings later, it was the third day of my fourth and final year of torture, otherwise known as high school. My Mustang gently clanked as it came to rest in our favorite parking spot: last row, last space in the student lot before the neighboring baseball field. Whoever had come up with the idea to end an outfield right at the parking lot was an evil genius—every time a player hit a home run, it could fly right into some kid’s windshield—which turns out to be an extremely effective way to stop students from loitering after school.

  Mr. Hoover, the morning hall monitor, was for sure going to give me a tardy slip. Even though the school day had started ten minutes ago, I still stopped to rest my head against the steering wheel, a soft buzzing making my thoughts fuzzy.

  Last night’s sleep had been a frenzy of kind-of worries and almost solutions. There were too many things to think about, from my stupid psychology homework to how super annoying my dad was to the possible extinction of bananas and how devastating that would be to pancake breakfasts everywhere.

  The student parking spaces were in the back of the high school, and the faculty lot was in the front. Only upperclassmen had spots, since you needed a license to get a permit, but that didn’t keep freshmen and sophomores from hanging around the rear entrance with their disgusting smoking and worse gossip.

  Seeing them, I groaned and forced the sticky car door to creak open, wincing as the muggy August air welcomed me to hell. My backpack weighed on my shoulders as if trying to prevent me from taking another step.

  “It’s my backpack’s fault.” Yeah, Mr. Hoover would give me two tardy slips if I’d tried that one.

  The sun hid behind damp clouds, which made the school’s “Go Owls!” graffitied brick walls and fractured sidewalks stick out even more. You’d never guess the entire building had been renovated three years ago—glistening hallways, no more fluorescent lighting, and alarms that’d go off if you tried to leave through emergency exits. A handful of students loitered around the back staircase, greeting me with fist bumps and “’Sup, Maguire?”

  Their puffs of grassy weed hung in the muggy air like sad balloons. Holding my breath, I nodded back and hurried past them, careful not to get any whiff of it on my clothes, or Coach Dad would run me extra hard for a month. It had never occurred to the teachers that students would start smoking that early in the morning, though you’d get suspended on the spot if you tried it in this same exact location a few hours later.

  As I reached the top of the dank, dirty staircase, the door clicked open and crashed into my shin. This would’ve hurt, except all my years of soccer had shot those shin nerves ages ago.

  “Oops,” came the voice of Madison Hayes. Her rosy perfume did not mix well with the smoke, making me cough when she stepped closer.

  If someone were to say I was “in a relationship,” it would be with Madison. We were the total opposite of official, though we’d been known to have some PDA that could rival any other couple, Instagram relationships included. Madison was cool about it, though, and didn’t make “us” to be a whole big thing. The few times we did talk to each other, it was mostly complaining about our families.

  Madison pushed her chest into mine and trapped me against the rusty railing. Her wavy black hair tossed itself onto my shoulder, sending shivers down my arms as she pulled back.

  “Long time no see, handsome,” she said.

  I cleared my throat. “Yo.”

  “Nick Maguire, don’t ignore me.” She put her foot out, somehow filling an entire doorway with her crystal eyes and stick-thin stature.

  Despite the heavy humidity, she wore an oversized sweatshirt and cut-off shorts. Other (probably jealous) girls often said that Madison tried too hard to look like she wasn’t trying hard. I had it on good authority, however, that the sweatshirt was intended to cover up whatever, um, teeny tiny little hickeys might have, uh, appeared on her neck a few days before.

  “Madison . . .” I said, “I have to get to class.”

  “Wow, ease up.” Her cheeks flushed pastel pink, which was her favorite bait to hook me with. “Ummm, want to do something that’ll make you feel better?”

  “And miss gym?” Her rosy scent had swirled out of reach, making me long for more. “You bet—” I stopped. “Wait no, can’t. Gotta do a thing for Carter.” My two new besties were in gym class, so I didn’t really have options. She frowned and I patted her on the shoulder, swiftly sidestepping her before she had a chance to work any more voodoo.

  Eerie emptiness, dirty-mop streaks, and the lingering odor of tuna sandwiches greeted me as I entered the government-funded underworld. Being late, I realized everyone else was already in class. It was me and . . . “Mr. Maguire!” Mr. Hoover, the middle-aged, balding hall monitor, called out.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to make him disappear. Had to be worth a shot—anything was. His loafers squeaked on the wet floor until he stopped in front of me. I opened my eyes to see a familiar yellow slip in his hands.

  “Three slips in three days. And this is only the third day of the school year. Someone get this kid a medal.”

  “Genius observation.” I jammed the slip into the back pocket of my jeans. “I can see why they made you the hall monitor.”

  Mr. Hoover sighed. “I thought we were past this, Nick. See?” He gestured around the vacant hallway. “There’s no one out here to impress. It’s no wonder you can’t respect other people, you don’t even respect yourself.”

  This is why he can’t get a girlfriend. Although he was the man with the detention slips, I couldn’t help myself. “Whoops, meant to say, genius observation, sir.”

  Mr. Hoover ripped another slip with one smooth flick of the wrist. “And we have ourselves a winner. See you after school, Mr. Maguire.”

  “Looking forward to it.” The paper’s sharp edges stung when I crumpled it in my hand. Coach Dad was not going to be happy.

  Luckily, the first fifteen minutes of gym class account for the time it takes to change, so I jogged onto the gleaming indoor basketball court having barely missed a thing.

  “Move along next time, Maguire.” Ms. Johnson, the gym teacher, swatted my shoulder blade and marked me “present” on her clipboard. Ms. Johnson is like thirty-five and used to play Olympic volleyball. She legitimately teaches us sports things, likes her job, loves kids, and doesn’t really care about the rule
s. In conclusion, Ms. Johnson is a straight-up hero.

  I went to stand with my boy Robert Maxin and, unfortunately, Josh Daley. He somehow managed to always be on the periphery of my friend group. Because of this, as per the rules of high school, he got to metaphorically “sit with us.”

  Where there are rock stars there are groupies. What can you do?

  “Mags,” said Josh, “you seen O’Connor’s sister?” An irritating pain shot up my side as he nudged me and nodded to where Eliza and her friends sat on the bleachers. They were who Austin and I called “cool nerds.” As in, nerds who weren’t “hot” but had great personalities? He probably still wasn’t her type.

  Right?

  “Don’t let Carter hear you say that. Hey, how’s it going with HG?” I changed the subject to Robert’s favorite topic: Hannah Green.

  “Too soon to tell.” Robert put his hand over his heart. “Talking about it will probably put a curse on her and our firstborn child so . . . maybe don’t?”

  Douchebag Josh almost doubled over, laughing so hard Eliza and her friends looked our way. I shuffled my sneakers, wincing. Chill, Nick. What kind of universe did we live in where Douchebag Josh was getting to me?

  Tweeeeeeeeet. Ms. Johnson blew her whistle to start class, gathering us under the bright stadium-style lights. “All right, gang. It’s Friday, which means . . .”

  Oh, heck yeah. Fridays were for dodgeball, and dodgeball meant absolutely dunking on freshmen at 8:00 in the morning.

  “Maxin, Daley, y’all are captains,” said Ms. Johnson. “Alternate choosing guys and girls. You know the drill.

  “Mags,” said Robert, high-fiving me.

  No surprise there, since the Bro Code states that a bro must be a ride-or-die dodgeball fanatic. I embraced that rule to the fullest. Robert was able to choose Eliza before Josh could, and she waited next to me.

  “How come you were late?” she asked. She wore an old cotton tank top that said, I need my space, with a picture of the NASA logo. Cute.

  “Selena Gomez forgot to roll over and wake me up.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Truly.”

  She watched Josh line up his team. He gave her a tiny wave. The gym’s stale air, suddenly, felt overwhelmingly stuffy.

  “My dad went extra hard on my workout this morning,” I admitted. “Didn’t feel great after.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Absolutely not. “Nah.”

  “Nick—” Eliza brushed my elbow. Thankfully, that’s when Ms. Johnson blew her whistle and it was time to play. I followed Robert to the back of the court and ignored the goosebumps sprouting under my baggy T-shirt.

  Honestly . . . yeah, I was that guy in dodgeball. Every time I picked up the ball and nailed someone square in the chest, a kind of weight lifted off my body, until all my stress and negative thoughts had transformed into endorphins and empowerment, like I could do something. Dodgeball can really cheer a bro up, am I right?

  Don’t hate us ’cause you ain’t us.

  My team won two games in a row. It wasn’t until the third game that Josh personally targeted me, whipping fast ones right at the moneymaker. A true compliment. While I ducked to keep my nose from being broken, a sophomore on Josh’s team arced a big, fat rubber ball right into my knee, in what should have been the biggest upset of the week, except they followed it up with a string of outs for my team. Robert got out, and then a few other kids, and then Eliza, until finally the only person still in was this five-foot freshman named Stephen Ross.

  He was up against the entire other team.

  “Here we go, Steve!” I shouted. I’d never really talked to Stephen before, and admittedly, I did not know much about him besides the fact I’d umpired his baseball team once.

  I took my time on the bench as an opportunity to lie on the dirty floor and lift my legs. A smooth strain stretched my hamstrings. Ever since freshman year, my dad got me up way before any teenager should reasonably be conscious to run extra soccer drills before school. Still acclimating to being back in “school mode,” the sessions left me extra slow-moving in the mornings and my muscles super stiff. I could practically feel the tiny tears in my calves begging me to rest, wanting to properly build themselves up again. Yeah . . . no way was that happening. You’d think my dad would prioritize stretching, since he’s had his share of soccer career–ending injuries, but he didn’t want to stand around and wait for me to stretch out my adorable butt.

  My mom and dad were not the most open books, but they were particularly tight-lipped when it came to my dad’s injury. Over time, I’d gathered that it happened between his junior and senior years of college, right before he was eligible for recruitment to the majors. It had to do with his knee, and although it led to him becoming a teacher, father, and coach . . . he’d probably still say it ruined his life.

  Eliza was the closest person to me on the sub bench. She cheered for her friends on Josh’s team, and I had to shake off a dizzying vertigo when I heard her voice—as if hearing a ghost.

  I leaned against the metal bleachers. By this point, Stephen had gotten most of the other team out and a few of our team back in, which was a treat, since the cacophony of smacking rubber balls helped me relax.

  “Nick, what’s a good shoulder stretch?” asked Eliza. She flexed her arms in front of her. Like Carter, Eliza was tall and lanky, her upper body strong from playing volleyball. Ms. Johnson had recruited her for the school team while Eliza was still in middle school and would’ve excused Eliza from gym all month if she’d caught the tiniest whiff of a possible shoulder injury.

  “That looks pretty effective.”

  She stuck out her tongue.

  I laughed. “No really though, that’s what I would do.”

  Eliza studied me, trying to discern if I was bullshitting her. Fair. “Thanks, pal,” she said.

  Literally anytime.

  I left gym class with a productive energy. In fact, I’d almost completely forgotten how hard my dad had pushed me that morning and my half conversation with Eliza until I had to attend detention.

  Before I could submit to Mr. Hoover’s cruel and usual punishment, however, I had to find Carter and let him know I wouldn’t make it to soccer practice, which brought me to Mr. Hoover’s health and nutrition classroom exactly one minute late.

  “Can’t even make it to detention on time. Definitely a great look for your college applications,” Mr. Hoover greeted me from his steel desk.

  Like Mr. Hoover had any pull over my applications. Geez. He was the least important teacher in the school. Which is definitely why he takes his sad, boring life out on me.

  Mr. Hoover proceeded to give me an hour-long lecture about the importance of being on time and how I was being disrespectful to him, my teachers, my classmates, and the rest of the school when I “arranged my priorities around my own sleeping schedule.”

  Then he made me clean his whiteboards. All six of them, multiple times, until they were pristine enough to perform surgery on. For his own sadistic sense of enjoyment.

  After six hours of school and additional purgatorial suffering, my sorry ass finally made it back to home sweet home. It was only a ten-minute drive from school, but with the detention and then an extra workout afterwards, I arrived well after dinnertime. Hopefully my parents would have saved me some food.

  My Mustang squealed into the gravel driveway and I winced. Could I have drawn any more attention to the fact that I was home two hours later than I was supposed to be? Only my mom’s antique vehicle was parked, but impending doom still filled my stomach. My engine puttered off and I took a deep breath. It was time to channel my inner ninja.

  With stealth-mode activated, the gravel cracked as I gingerly stepped to the tiny, unkempt back porch. I entered the back hall, where the leftover scent of spaghetti sauce sent a rumble up my stomach. When I thought it was safe
for me to jog up the back stairs, the back door’s latch made a shrill click.

  “Look who decided to come home,” a tired voice came half a second later. “Let’s talk, Nick.”

  I couldn’t treat my mom like I’d treated Mr. Hoover, no matter how many lectures she gave. No matter how many punishments I received. That was my resolve after she’d started working even more hours for my inevitably too-high college tuition: I wouldn’t make things harder for her.

  Instead, I tiptoed around her, trying to avoid conversations like the one we were about to have, and she found ways to have them anyway.

  “What’s happening?” I entered our messy kitchen—with several chocolate chips long lost under cabinets and a pot with spaghetti sauce drying on the sides—to see her already in her bathrobe, hot tea at the ready. My mom and hot tea were like peanut butter and banana, or like Oreos and Jell-O shots: next-level iconic. If I ever saw my mom without her soothing, peppermint herbal tea, I’d initiate DEFCON 1.

  She motioned for me to take the hot seat on the other side of the magazine-covered table. “Where’s Dad?”

  “The Maxins’.”

  Right. Robert’s house. Our dads, just two bros, reclined in front of whatever game was on, with cold ones and mini-pizzas—this is what I pictured whenever someone mentioned the American Dream.

  “Which is lucky for you,” my mom continued, “because you get the lecture from me.”

  So lucky.

  My parents had lived in the same house since before I was born. Essentially, they’d bought it as a starter house (apparently that’s a thing), but then decided that having one kid (yours truly) was enough and stayed put. I didn’t mind because I wasn’t at home much. Our house being small was probably the main reason why I stayed out. The second reason? Carter’s house had junk food.

  Nonetheless, it meant that when I sat across from her, every line on her once beautiful skin was basically right in my face. Most of these lines existed because of me.

  “Sorry, I know I said I wouldn’t get detention this year. I was late and . . .”