Both of my parents sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by take-out boxes and soy sauce. There were two Chinese places in our town. One of them was pretty good, and the other was cheap, deep fried, and just the right kind of salty. My parents ordered from the cheap place in one situation: they were stress-eating.
“Hi,” I said.
My dad sat with a pile of bills in front of him, which he read in between bites of crab rangoon. My mom held her head in her hands, with a full glass of white wine in front of her. An actual calculator—like real-life, not on her phone—was next to the wine.
“This why you ditched us at practice?” I asked.
“You’re lucky we saved you dinner,” my mom said.
“Are you guys going to tell me what’s going on?”
My dad kept his focus on the stack of papers while my mom shook her head. “Everything’s okay. Your college applications are going to cost more than we expected.”
“Quite a bit more,” said my dad, “though Clarkebridge will totally be worth it.”
I eyed the greasy take-out boxes. Long brown noodles sat in a puddle of oil with some squashed green beans.
“So, yes, this is why you left us all at practice?”
My mom pointed to an empty plate and chopsticks, under the bills she worked on.
“Easy, tiger,” she said. “We’re doing this for you.”
The lady should really get an award for her ability to guilt-trip me. Then again, maybe that’s what moms are for.
The other take-out boxes made the oily noodles look gourmet.
“Do we have any other food?”
“Not really,” said my mom. “Want to take a trip to the store?” She had her wallet in her hand about five seconds later, already ushering me out the door.
“Get bread and whatever you want. Not anything too crazy.”
“Okay,” I said.
She closed the door with a loud click.
Interesting . . . my parents didn’t usually try to get rid of me. Nor did they let me buy whatever I wanted for groceries.
Chocolate chip cookies for dinner it would be.
Knee-deep in the bread aisle of the local grocery store, I searched for the perfect loaf. Bad timing. Parents and nine-to-fivers filled the place with their evening shopping and jostled into me like it was Black Friday. A guy who was five inches taller than me and easily twenty pounds heavier studied the bread beside me, and I almost lost it. I could only imagine having to wrestle him for the cinnamon raisin kind.
“Hey, handsome.” Her voice dropped its trademark line. Madison looped her arm through mine and tapped her chin. “Hard decision, isn’t it?”
“What do you want, Madison?” She wore tight jeans, a leopard-print tank top, and a black leather jacket. The heels of her combat boots clacked against the linoleum floor. “Kinda dressed up for picking up eggs and milk, huh?”
Madison pretended to look offended, even as the dads pushing around kids in unnecessarily big, space-hogging strollers swung past us.
“Who said I wanted anything? Maybe I’m happy to see you.”
“If that’s what you’re going with . . .”
“I need your help with something,” Madison whispered. “I’d call you about it but now that we’re here . . .”
Restless anxiety crept into my lungs, as if she were about to deliver the news I feared most. “Did you take a test?”
“No. Maguire, I’m not pregnant.”
Her hushed whisper got more than a few looks from the parents that passed by.
“Okay . . .”
“Is there a girl you like?”
“I haven’t liked anyone since the second grade, Madison. You know that.”
“Nice try.”
“Joke’s on you,” I avoided her answer, “’cause I’m actually trying to focus on myself right now. You know, find myself before going off to college. I’m thinking of taking a gap year with the monks.”
Madison started to protest my sarcasm but was interrupted by my bro from another hoe.
“Whaddup, Mags?” Carter’s grocery cart squealed down the aisle, followed by Eliza. Because apparently the entire town had received an exclusive invitation to buy groceries at the same time, which was now. I stepped away from Madison and she took her ringed fingers off my shirt. Carter, like me, still donned his sweaty soccer clothes. Eliza had on her volleyball sweatpants.
“’Sup, man.” I pounded Carter’s fist.
“What’s up, Madi?” he asked. Good call. Madison loved being the center of attention.
“Stocking up your lime supply?” I said to Eliza while they chatted.
“Maybe. I’ve heard having a citrus-scented locker is the thing this year.”
She still wasn’t going to admit to it.
“I heard that too.”
Eliza leaned back against their shopping cart and put one of her sneakers on its bottom rim. Even under the flickering fluorescent lights, she still looked pretty cool.
“You know, for a moment there, Maguire, I’d almost forgotten about your reputation. You certainly know what you’re doing, don’t you?” It wasn’t a question. And it didn’t come with the usual admiration or praise that other guys, or even girls, gave.
“Comes naturally.”
“Good for you.” Eliza crossed her arms defensively, as if protecting her heart.
“No way . . .” I smirked. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“You’re not funny.” Oh. My. God, I stopped breathing. She is.
Be cool, Nick. As casually as I could, I reached behind her to pick a bread loaf off the shelf. I didn’t care what kind it was; I needed it to mess with her.
“Lucky me,” I said, trying not to get caught up in the lightheadedness from standing a breath away from her.
Eliza’s fingertips brushed against my arm, warning me not to get too close. I instinctively glanced at Carter. He had his back to us.
“You wish.” But she wasn’t pushing me away. If only Carter were not, literally right behind us.
A little old lady somehow managed to shove herself into the middle of the action. “Damn kids,” the woman swore as she reached for the shelf between us. “Move out of the damn way. It’s not rocket science.”
Eliza took that as an opportunity to step back. “Whatever, Maguire.” She flipped her ponytail and pushed their cart into her brother. “Let’s go! Olivia needs her chocolate chips.”
Whatever, Maguire. If there were a Chick Code, this would be one of the rules: at all times, a chick must be harder to read than War and Peace written in Dothraki.
When it came to the secret language of the Chick Code, I liked to think I was an intermediate. Not a total novice, but there were things I’d never be able to understand. Such as the obsession over pumpkin spice. I mean, it’s cinnamon, allspice, cloves, and sugar. Why is that so special?
“Lates.” Carter clapped me on the back. As quickly as they’d appeared, the O’Connor siblings vanished into the crowd of dads with strollers and moms carrying two gallons of milk.
“Haven’t liked anyone since the second grade?” Madison mused. “Yeah, right.”
“That’s correct.” Suddenly the list of ingredients on whatever loaf I’d picked up to mess with Eliza (which turned out to be quinoa, tomato, and spinach—not my best cover) was the most interesting thing in the world.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire.” Madison crossed her arms.
For half a second, I debated whether to play dumb. Even if Madison told the whole school, or performed whatever trick she was about to blackmail me with, everyone knew that Eliza and I were just friends anyway, and Madison was blatantly dramatic—there’s no way Eliza would pick up whatever nonsense Madison was throwing down. Carter on the other hand . . .
“What do you want?”
Madison
grinned like a cat trapping a mouse, plus extra Cersei Lannister vibes. Like, right now we were just shooting the breeze, but in a few moments she would burn the place to the ground.
“Spill,” she said.
“Fine.” I pulled her to the corner of the store where they sell flowers. The floral section? Not sure its technical name.
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“Not sure you get to set the terms here, Maguire.”
“Madison.”
“Fine, fine.” Her dark hair perfectly framed her evil smile. “Fine. What’s the deal with Carter’s little sister?”
“Before you get any ideas,” I said, “I’m not like—I don’t.”
Madison tapped her shoe on the floor, emphasizing every clack. She was going to make me say it.
“It’s not a big deal. She’s . . . cute.”
Really stinking cute.
That was the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I wasn’t going to admit to Madison any more than that, because I wasn’t going to admit to myself more than that. Carter would . . .
“You’re such a wimp.” Madison frowned, bored.
“Thanks.”
“I swear, you wouldn’t know what to do with an emotion if it climbed into your purple boxers and bit you where the sun don’t shine.”
“Then why did you ask me if I like anyone?”
“Oh.” She adjusted her top, as if she’d forgotten why we’d started down this road. “Because I like someone. Don’t worry. I didn’t catch feelings for you. That would be tragic—no, I need insider info.”
Uh-oh. Heat rose to the tips of my ears. Insider info applied to two bros. Maybe it would include Robert or Jamal.
“Who?” I asked.
Madison made an act out of sniffing the flowers around us. “I can help you, you know. If you do really want to go out with her.”
“I’d do fine on my own, thank you.”
She moved from sniffing bouquets of flowers to a pot of something purple.
“One wrong move with that girl and you’re toast,” she said. “You’re going to have to, what’s that word . . . try? And there’s even something you can do pour moi.”
“Jesus, Madison, what is it?”
“Carter.”
The blood drained from my face.
“He’s the only guy in school who’s never looked twice at me. I’m shooting for a perfect record. If you can help me get Carter, I’ll help you get Eliza.”
I couldn’t believe I considered her proposition, even if only for a moment.
“I stand by my natural wit and charm,” I said.
“In that case,” said Madison, “I can’t wait to tell Carter about your nighttime swimming adventure with his sister moments after you hooked up with me. Obviously, I won’t get to tell him about it as soon as I’d like, but inevitably . . .”
She did not.
“It’s not worth it, Madison, sorry. I don’t like her as much as you think I do, and I don’t need to do this.” Good talk, I thought to myself. You’ve got this totally under control.
“No, Maguire,” she said. “You do. You just don’t know it yet. I gotta go get milk.”
Madison saluted me, then sauntered off into the distant aisle seven.
I was caught in the crowd milling about, the loaf of bread heavy in my hand, but not as heavy as her ultimatum. The little old lady who’d interrupted Eliza before now examined flowers on the shelves opposite me. A little boy wrestled his sister for a box of cereal a few feet away.
It felt funny to imagine that, for these people, the most important thing for them to think about was whether to make spaghetti or burritos for dinner.
Whereas I’d completely lost my appetite.
RULE NUMBER 8
A bro shalt not back down from spicy foods.
My appetite came back for lunch the next day, however, when I sat with Carter and the rest of the soccer team at our usual super-long table in the back of the cafeteria, as far away from the teachers as possible. It was right against the dirty windows that bore a close resemblance to the back of my Mustang, that time I’d gotten three layers of mud caked onto it from that shortcut in the woods between Carter’s and Austin’s houses. We’d taken it after Austin got grounded for shoplifting deodorant and had broken out of his room to play the new Nintendo game with Carter. The hangout went later than we’d intended, and I’d booked him back to his prison. It ended up not saving any time, however, since my car got stuck in the mud and we had to push it out. The things we do for Nintendo and deodorant.
Most people at Cassidy High ate lunch in the cafeteria, but the geeky nerds and cool nerds ate in the library—probably the only rule they’d ever broken. All of the cafeteria’s walls were windows, which meant the room was either megahot or wear-hats-inside-but-not-ironically cold, depending on if the sun came out. Since Cassidy High wasn’t that big we had a handful of cliques, which, despite my classmates’ extreme desires to be nonconforming, could be identified by a key clothing item: bros had hats, hoes had something neon, hipsters had flannels, overachievers had scrunchies or crazy-short socks, the people into anime had colored streaks in their hair, the freshmen had braces, rebels had faded jeans, cool underclassmen had black jeans, hot girls hadleggings, the normals had Converse, marching band people had hoodies, artsy-fartsy kids had supercolorful glasses, theatre kids had business casual, geeky nerds had graphic tees, cool nerds had bad posture, and secret nerds had whatever name-brand quarter zip was in style.
See? A handful.
I approached my table, where Carter and Robert were diving into their peanut butter and jellies. The cafeteria buzzed with the usual mix of unsubstantiated yelling and tone-deaf gossip. Sweat had already started to congeal on my back from the sun’s sadistic sheen, boiling the room and reminding me, yet again, of impending global warming.
“Hey, Mags . . .” Carter greeted me. “You in for the fashion show?” He pointed to a single sheet of paper under his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It had two columns and a lot of lines with people’s names on them.
“What happens if I say no?”
“Yeah, right,” he said.
Every year, the Parent Teacher Association hosted a fashion show to fundraise for their organization. Ms. O’Connor, as a hardcore volunteer, always enlisted Carter to get representatives of the male gender (me) to sign up. Super-not-optional.
“When is it?”
“Two weeks.” He scribbled my name down. “My mom’s getting the rental tux place to donate suits.”
“Your mom is ridiculously on her game,” Robert said from across the table. “She should run for president.”
“She’s overqualified.”
Robert sighed. “And a woman would never get the votes. She should! But she won’t.”
“She will if you vote for her,” said Carter.
I threw up my hands to mediate. “Guys, it’s not even 12:30.”
Luckily, my phone lit up with a new notification. Text message from Madison: You first.
I gulped.
She sat by the small (exclusive) table closest to the door with the other, overly dramatic senior girls, and held my gaze for three impossibly long seconds.
Fine.
“Oh hey, Carter,” I said. “You still need tutoring hours?”
“Is the National Honor Society still up my ass? Yes. Yes it is.”
“Right,” I said. “The National Horror Society. So, Madison, you remember Madison, the girl you’ve known since sixth grade, talked to her yesterday—”
“Sounds familiar.”
“She requested your help with trig.” Maybe setting up a tutoring date was totally lame, but that was me thinking on my feet. Anything to keep her from flipping out.
Carter dug through his sandwich like I’d asked him for the time of day. Not good. If he
wasn’t even secretly into her, then this would take ten times longer.
“This week is kind of full,” he said.
Uh-oh. If he didn’t want to even tutor her then things were going off the rails before we’d even started.
“But I can do next week. Can I have her number?”
Phew. “Thanks, man.” I texted him the details. “I hope she knows where the library is.”
“Right?” he laughed. “Nah, it’ll be fine. I think Madison’s smarter than she pretends to be.”
Okay . . . I picked at my school-bought lunch of watery lasagna and cold peas. The lasagna I could eat. The peas would come in handy for throwing at freshmen later. Carter stashed his phone in his pocket. Across the room, which was bustling with hungry students taking their seats, Madison smiled down at her phone.
Moving right along.
As expected, the day that Carter was finally set to tutor Madison was the day the real drama started. Unexpectedly, it involved me.
An unknown number called as I hit the locker room after practice. One time, Matt Damon called my mom anonymously to campaign for some senator, and I got him to say, “How do you like them apples?” Now I always answer spam calls.
“Talk to me.”
“You have a really weird way of answering your phone,” Eliza replied.
“How do I not have your digits?” I strained to hear her over the banging from the football team shoving each other into walls.
“There were a lot of creepers blowing up my texts. It was easier to get a new number.” She didn’t sound like she was kidding.
“Sorry about that. I told Carter the prank calls were a bit much.” There was a long pause on the other end. “Did I lose you?”
The boys’ locker room, with its stone walls and cracked tile flooring, basically needed a hoard of canned goods and it would be an instant bunker. The last time someone had good cell service there was when the school was built . . . somehow only a few years ago.
“Still here. Well for that, since you basically owe me, can you come help me make curry?”
Was I being punked? A quick scan of my immediate area turned up zero hidden cameras.
The Bro Code Page 9