The Bro Code

by Elizabeth A. Seibert

  “How’s the tutoring going?” I asked Carter. “Madison a good student?” They had been on two more tutoring dates since my chicken fiasco. Madison moves fast.

  Carter flipped the page in his math textbook, too in the zone to hear me. I was putting the finishing touches on our Freud chapter outlines for AP psych. Austin had blown through his AP history responses and was now playing against himself at air hockey.

  “You would know.” The wink in Austin’s voice was evident without even looking up from my notebook.

  “Haha,” I replied. “You know, Freud says humor is a way to deflect repressed thoughts.” I tapped my psychology book. “Maybe he’d say you’d want to ‘tutor’ Madison.”

  Austin threw the air hockey puck in the air, spinning to catch it behind his back.

  “Isn’t he the dude who said we’re all in love with our mothers?” said Carter, because that got his attention. “Do people still take him seriously?”

  “Oh, I can wholeheartedly agree that I’m in love with Carter’s mother.” Austin grinned, giving the air hockey table to the two kids waiting.

  Carter swatted him with his notebook.

  “How’d you finish history so fast?” Carter said, “We’re going to fail again, aren’t we?”

  Austin slumped into our booth, his back squeaking against the leather. “You know what they say, man: Cs get degrees.”

  Austin held his hand out for me to fist bump, which I halfheartedly returned. Something else that Freud, the outdated genius had written, intrigued me.

  “Oh yeah?” Austin took my textbook, intrigued that I ignored him. “What now . . . oh. Interesting.” He cleared his throat and read, “Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.” Austin gave me a funny look. “Something you want to tell us, Nicky?”

  “Shut up,” I took the book back, looking anywhere but at Carter. “Like Carter said. Dude’s weird.”

  “I don’t hate that point, though,” said Carter, “about not being able to express things. Especially when it’s because of some trivial social norm.”

  “Please. Explain. I love a good debate,” said Austin.

  “Nah,” said Carter.

  “Jerk off.”

  “Well, like, what about the Bro Code?” I asked, my hands starting to shake underneath the table. This was it—maybe my one chance to bring this up organically and get their reactions.

  “Exactly,” said Carter.

  Oh no. Exactly? I continued, “Suppose one of us was super into Hannah, right? Except we can’t try anything because of Robert. Or the whole dating Eliza thing. Like did you feel repressed by that rule, Austin?”

  Two theoretical, non-topical examples. (Not that I was into Hannah. But continuing with my theme . . .)

  Austin yawned. “I ain’t got no time for no rules.”

  “I can’t talk about this,” Carter muttered.

  The two kids playing air hockey, a boy and a girl, began to jump up and down, arguing about whether a point counted.

  “You guys have never felt stifled by the Bro Code?” I pushed. “What does that mean?”

  “Probably means you’re gay,” Austin deflected.

  “Aaaaand Austin’s buying,” said Carter.

  “Every freaking time,” Austin groaned. Coins clinked onto the table as he pulled his wallet out.

  “CBR, please,” I said.

  Austin gave me a thumbs-up and trotted to the counter to order our chicken bacon ranch (a bro’s favorite pizza after pepperoni). A few years ago, Carter decided it was his civic duty to get us to stop making homophobic comments as jokes. Whenever one of us used one they owed the rest of the group food or game tickets or whatever. Austin still had them in his arsenal for when he couldn’t think of any better jokes. I basically never paid for food.

  Carter gulped from his water bottle. “So, Madison,” he continued. “Girl is a Piece. Of. Work. She spends the whole time talking about you. Legit, I feel like some kind of Nick Maguire expert witness and I’m being interrogated or something.”

  “Sounds about right,” I said.

  Austin rejoined us with a neon table number. He resumed his position of slumping as far down as he could go.

  “Last time,” said Carter, as if the conversation could, in fact, take another turn, “she asked about my dating life and what it would take for me to grow a pair and ask her out already.”

  Austin startled. “Wait what?”

  “I know. I do not understand that girl.”

  “. . . did it work?” Austin asked.

  Carter shrugged. “If anything, it made me feel sorry for her. Like I should help her more.”

  He was sorry for her . . . I could work with that.

  “Good job doing community service,” I said, “We can’t all be like you.”

  “My sister needs a ride soon,” said Carter, “if you’re offering.” He frowned at the math textbook. “I’ve really got to do this.”

  “I could use a ride,” Austin joked.

  “Now you owe us mozzarella sticks,” Carter said. “Chop chop.” He turned to me.

  “She needs to go to the mall to pick up fashion show dresses for Friday. Pretty sure they close at nine.”

  Another babysitting task from Carter. Thank God for the fashion show.

  “Sure, no prob.” I went back to my homework like it was nothing, and my knee wasn’t bouncing against the table leg. “Tutoring must’ve been awesome, though. Spending three hours talking about me . . .”

  Standing up to order more food, Austin stole the Red Sox cap off my head and threw it across the room, near to where Chef Pizzeria was giving us the hairy eyeball.

  “If I’m not allowed to make dick comments, neither are you,” Austin declared, though I knew he’d just been looking for an excuse to throw my hat. Austin hates the Red Sox more than I hate the Yankees, and we’d developed a sort of hat rivalry.

  “You want to die, Banks? You’d better watch it. Remember, I know where you live.”

  “Be still, my beating heart.” He pretended to check his phone, disinterested in my threat.

  “Yo, what time is it?”

  “It’s 6:21,” said Austin, “If you want to get Eliza, you’re officially running late.”

  “Ah.” I grabbed my soccer jacket and threw my notebook in my backpack. “Sorry boys, time to bounce.”

  “Later, bro.” Carter sent me half a wave.

  I was about to walk out the door when Austin called out to me, “Hang in there, handsome,” his interpretation of Madison was spot-on. “Call me, okay?”

  I laughed. “Keep it in your pants, Austin, Jesus.”

  “I can’t, it’s too hard.”

  I heard him let out a whoop and the last thing I saw before I went into the parking lot was the appalled look on an older couple’s faces, passing me through the door. “Sorry,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

  My shopping excursion with Eliza started off okay. The nice part was that we got to drive through the unparalleled, yellow and orange autumn foliage. The not-nice part was that she gave me the cold shoulder most of the way to the mall, only speaking to ask why Carter wasn’t driving her, and to tell me I didn’t really have to come.

  “I wanted to,” I told her. “Shopping is my favorite.” Though we both knew that was extremely far from the truth—I avoid malls like the plague.

  “Awesome.”

  Honestly, how sarcastic she was made me like her more. Ten minutes later, I walked through the hordes of middle school girls, right beside Eliza, matching her stride for stride. She seemed to know exactly where we were going. Good. The last time I’d been to the mall was in the eighth grade, and I hadn’t really been there to look at clothes. Unless, of course, they were already on a high school girl.

  Everything was exactly h
ow I remembered it—sociologically, anyway. There are three kinds of girls who go to the mall: girls who look like they came from the gym, girls who stare down every boy they see, and girls who look like they can’t wait to get out of there. With a bright blue running jacket, Eliza fell into category number one. It happened to match the shirt underneath my black windbreaker. Color coordination-wise, we went well together.

  “Let’s start here.” Eliza stopped in front of a bright store that was all windows. “This is my favorite place.” Really? I followed her into a loud, crowded room. Upon entry, my olfactory senses were struck by the overwhelming smell of candy apple perfume. And this is why I never shop.

  I made a mental note to ease up on my spray deodorant.

  “Hey, Eliza,” a deep, masculine voice said.

  Eliza waved towards the manchild working as the cashier. “Hi, Dylan!” She shot him my favorite of her smiles and gestured to me. “This is Nick.”

  “’Sup?” Dylan gave me a nod. I returned it and took in the cashier with one, swift glance. He was about Eliza’s height with jet black hair, and he looked too old for high school.

  I watched the way Dylan was watching us, and how a few (only a few, but a few nonetheless) of the females among us made sideways glances at him and not me. For once in my life, I didn’t have a perfect record. That Dylan manchild-person had game.

  Eliza’s fingers grazed my jacket. “Before you say anything, Maguire, yes. I come here often.”

  “I can see that. What’re we looking for?”

  Eliza perked up. I guess she liked that I wasn’t lingering on Dylan. “I need a long dress and a short dress. Formal wear. I’m going to pick some out, and you can tell me what you think.”

  “Cool.”

  Eliza started at the rack immediately beside us and did that thing every girl does when they look for clothes—walk past something, feel it, take a few steps, feel something else. Honestly, no one should ever take the first thing on a pile of clothes. Everyone and their mom has touched it.

  I could not figure out how the store made its money. The outfits on mannequins looked like wedding dresses in a horror movie, and the colors reminded me of the leftover lollipop flavor that no one wanted. Wait a second . . . a really short, slick black thing hung in front of me. I smirked. I could picture Eliza wearing only that.

  “Yo!” I called across the store and held it up for her. Eliza and two other women shook their heads at me.

  “That’s a slip, Nick. No.”

  “Your loss. That would have been great.” I immediately spotted another. “Hey, what about this one?”

  Eliza came over. “Nicholas James Maguire. Behave. That dress would leave everything hanging out. But you already knew that.” She wasn’t scolding me, though. More like wishing it had been anyone other than me who’d driven her that day. “Nick,” she added, “If you do a good job, I’ll buy you a treat later.”

  “Like a prize?” Smart girl. “What kind of prize?”

  “Anything you want.” At that, she turned and went back to looking for dresses. Anything I wanted. Outstanding.

  However, she could not have been clearer: she didn’t trust me to pick out a good dress. Challenge accepted.

  When Eliza found me again, purple, gold, blue, and red fabric dripped over her arms. Those were supposed to be dresses?

  “Ready?” she asked.

  Was I ever. “I got you some more. I didn’t know your size, though. I got a couple of different ones.” I handed her the hangers I’d collected, with short, sparkly dresses and long, dark ones. I’d clearly stuck to a theme.

  “These are actually . . .” She thumbed through them, nodding with appreciation. “These are great. Thanks, buddy. Nice work.”

  “It was nothing, really.”

  Eliza punched my shoulder. “Get over yourself.”

  “Never.”

  She led me to the dressing room, and I sat on the bench outside that dug into my butt.

  “This is like one of those scenes in a rom-com, huh?”

  “What?” I didn’t know what any of those words meant.

  “A rom-com,” she called back. A rustling came from inside the dressing room—the sound of a woman struggling with her clothes. All of a sudden, the nearby flyer about food court smoothies seemed especially interesting.

  “Like either the girl tries on stuff with her supernerdy, wacky best friend to get ready for some dance, and there’s a pop-song montage over it, or she tries on stuff with the future love interest, and there’s nothing there yet, but it’s the exact moment when he falls in love with her.

  “You know.” The door clicked open. Reading about mango-pineapple deliciousness would have to wait. “27 Dresses, A Cinderella Story, The Duff . . .”

  She wore a long, yellow dress that followed every curve she had.

  Oh boy.

  “I’d be like the nerd, right?”

  Eliza laughed. “You think you’d be my best friend?”

  I put my hand on my heart, pretending to be wounded. “Right in the chest.”

  She twirled.

  “I like it. Final verdict: a solid seven out of ten.”

  Eliza studied her reflection. “You know, you’re right. This is a seven.” She stalked back to the dressing room.

  “How do I sign up to judge Project Runway?” I called. “Think I have what it takes?”

  “I don’t think anyone has what it takes,” she shouted.

  The next time she came out, she wore a dark blue dress with some lace stuff and straps that wrapped around her shoulders.

  “The other one was better.”

  “Really?” She smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt. “I guess. This is something my grandma would wear.”

  I nodded, drawing in a full breath of air. Honestly, that girl could wear anything, and that fact was making my job both easy and hard. The yellow one had been better, though.

  “Try on one of the ones I found.”

  “So you’ll stop asking.”

  She left me once again and I pulled out my phone. The geniuses at ESPN should win an award for coming up with score-checking features on their app—perfect for situations like these. As I was looking up which baseball teams had the best chances in the World Series, a string of shrieks and swears came from the dressing room.

  “Ow, no,” Eliza cried.

  I jumped up, pausing, unsure if I was allowed to go in there and help her. I guessed not . . .

  “Eliza?”

  “It’s my shoulder,” she shouted. “Lifting dresses over my head popped it again. Damn it. Oh, gosh, ow.”

  What was the appropriate move here? From my self-taught obsession of how to prevent shoulder injuries, I—in theory—knew how to fix it. Did I volunteer to help her? Or would she think I was being a perv?

  Luckily, she answered that for me.

  “Would you be able to help? You can stretch it out, right? Nick, please, I think I pulled something.”

  “Sure, but you should probably go to the ER. In case it got dislocated.”

  I entered the women’s dressing room the way a burglar robs a jewelry store: you know you shouldn’t be there, and you’re afraid of accidentally touching something and setting it off. I hadn’t been in many dressing rooms in my life, other than the occasional trip to buy new jeans or whatever. From what I’d seen of men’s dressing rooms, this place was comparable to the Four Seasons. It had white saloon-style doors into each room, and was decorated with tall orchids, smelling like them too. Bottles of water stood on a gleaming white dresser, below a picture of that lady from that movie.

  One dressing room door was closed, which I knocked on.

  “Do you want me to come in?”

  “Yeah. I still have that dress on. Couldn’t get it off.”

  She opened the door and I rushed in before an
yone, God forbid, saw me. Her right shoulder had swelled to the size of a softball, double her left shoulder. Her dress swept the floor.

  This dressing room was not meant for two people, and it made a series of me bumping into either Eliza or the wall. There was only enough space for her to flail her arms around and try to get the clothes on. Which meant we were back to standing too close to each other. Again.

  If Eliza was thinking about that, her face didn’t show it—at least not from what I could gauge from my occasional glances in the mirror. Mostly she winced, probably thinking about how much pain she was in, not about my hands on the bare skin her dress had left exposed.

  “Has this happened before?”

  “Couple times. Carter usually just pops it in and I ice it.”

  I traced the bump on her back. Her inflamed shoulder was peppered with goosebumps, but relaxed where I touched it. This was no “pop it back in”–looking injury, but if that’s what she wanted, I could try.

  “Lift your arm, like you’re trying to touch the ceiling.” She stretched it and I pushed down. The curve of her back tensed, then flexed. Getting there.

  “I really shouldn’t be doing this,” I said. “You should get a physical therapist. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

  “No,” she said as I started to release her arm, “this is helping.”

  “Can you reach your arms behind you? Interlace your fingers.” I pushed the top of her back away from me. “I’m going to pull.”

  Eliza followed my directions. I’d hardly touched her arms before she gasped, wincing. I let go, but she shook her head.

  “Keep going. It’s starting to feel normal, hold it there.”

  “Fifteen seconds,” I said, rubbing her hand with my thumb.

  Eliza nodded. Her cheeks flushed as I counted.

  After about six seconds came a tiny crack.

  “I think that did it,” she said.

  Her arms shook back to her side.

  “That was awesome, Nick. Thanks.”

  I examined the tops of her shoulders. Less swollen, but her right shoulder was still dangerously contracted. I slid my hand from the base of her neck to the small of her back, checking to see which part of the shoulder might be her issue.