The Bro Code

by Elizabeth A. Seibert

  “What?”

  He pressed a finger against his lips. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what—”

  “There it is again.” He scanned my few pieces of furniture. “Hang on, dude, why is your bed vibrating?”

  I rubbed my neck, unsure of how to explain what I’d done with my phone.

  Austin dropped to his stomach and crawled under my bed, prying my phone out of the makeshift fortress.

  “Well that’s just sad.” He tossed it to me. Fully aware of exactly what I’d tried to do. “If you had plans tonight, forget them. What you need is an intervention.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Austin had the same expression he’d had when he told me that the pickle smoothies he drinks to keep his hair shiny were more than marketing crap—as if he were the sole authority on such matters.

  “You’re almost eighteen, Nick. No girl is worth taping your phone at eighteen.”

  There would be no arguing with him. I couldn’t risk him asking who the girl was. If Austin knew I liked Eliza, he would definitely tell Carter, and that was something I wanted to do myself. Eventually. If I wanted to keep Austin from finding out about her, I’d have to humor him.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Great. I’ll tell Carter.”

  He paced across my bedroom floor, texting. Seconds later, a reply buzzed in his hand.

  “Carter doesn’t want to leave his sister home alone tonight so we’re going over to his house,” said Austin.

  “Why not? Eliza’s a big girl.”

  It was too ironic that my “intervention” would happen at the O’Connor residence, but I’d never point that out. Not in a million years.

  “Dunno. Do you need to grab anything?”

  The AP bio textbook lay unopened and abandoned on my bed. With a big quiz next week, I considered putting it in my backpack.

  “Nah. Let’s go.”

  I lounged, fully outstretched on Carter’s queen-sized bed, while he and Austin took turns driving each other off the road in their racing game. It was a two-player, which meant the winner of each race got to keep playing and the loser had to sub out. Which meant that Austin and I got to take turns against Carter.

  “See, Nick,” Austin said. “No girls, no drama, no stress. Pizza, video games, and music.”

  “Taping your phone to your bed?” said Carter. “Tragic. I mean, if that’s what you have to do to wait forty-eight hours, fine. Still, who’s worth not having your phone for two days?”

  If he only knew.

  “Thanks for helping me see the light, guys.” Four days ago, I would have agreed with them. Amazing how things change.

  “Hey, is your sister around?” I asked, trying to stay cool.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “She mentioned something about Josh Daley last night. Thought I’d check up on her, long as I’m here.” The lie was too easy.

  “I think she’s in her room. Be nice about it, though, I don’t want her running back to him.” More and more often, Carter slipped into the role of the overprotective brother, not that I blamed him. Carter would do literally anything for Eliza. He’d probably even die for her, which may seem surprising, considering all the pranks and crap we’d put her through over the years. With their dad gone, Carter was the one left to make sure guys didn’t break her heart.

  As I was about to jump off Carter’s bed, the faint scent of cinnamon wafted into the room.

  “Carter, did you want—” Eliza stopped short. “Hey, Nick. Austin.” Her cheeks flushed, matching her red volleyball T-shirt.

  The race cars came to a halt as Carter paused the game. “Sorry, forgot to say they’re coming. We still eating here?”

  “Sure.” She entered. “Olivia left us frozen pizza. I put only one in. Guess I’ll do another.” The only thing Ms. O’Connor loved more than cupcakes was frozen pizza—she left their freezer stocked full of it. That way, when she was at an event or with her friends, Carter and Eliza could fend for themselves.

  Carter’s comforter bounced as Eliza sat next to me. Already in her gray sweatpants, it appeared that she did not have plans for the night. Carter pressed play on his game and a second later went back to schooling Austin.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “We’re throwing Mags an intervention,” Austin answered as if he were talking about the weather.

  “You don’t say. What kind of intervention, if I may inquire?”

  “You tell her,” said Austin. “Acceptance is the first step, Nicholas.”

  “You sound like one of those self-help videos.” I turned to Eliza. “There’s this girl I can’t stop thinking about, and these two idiots claim it’s going to ruin my life.”

  I managed to keep a straight face. Eliza did too.

  “Yeah, who’s the girl by the way?” Carter asked. “You never actually told us. Not Madison, is it?”

  “Her name’s Ms. Banks or something?” I said.

  “You wish you were her type.” Austin flipped me off.

  Eliza swung her legs off the bed. “I’m gonna start the second pizza. You guys are starting to sound hangry.”

  Hangry was Austin’s worst mood. It was necessary to keep him fed before he reached that full-on Incredible Hulk situation. The last time Austin had been hangry, he’d called Robert a green turd, and I ended up driving to every burger place in a five-mile radius to find one Austin would eat at.

  “I’ll come.” I followed. “Since these guys aren’t sharing their game . . .”

  “Darn,” said Austin. “We were hoping you wouldn’t notice that I was supposed to switch with you two rounds ago.”

  “Now I get first dibs on pizza. Fair trade.”

  Once we were out of sight and on the way down the stairs, I snuck my arm around Eliza’s shoulder for a quick hug. Her arm wound around my back, and that same, energizing warmth from the night before caught in my throat.

  I’m definitely in trouble.

  “An intervention? Was that real?”

  “They’re reading me letters after dinner.” We entered the hot kitchen and Eliza pushed the door until it quietly clicked closed.

  “Gotta let the guys know the sitch is under control,” she stated.

  “Definitely.”

  She shook her hair into a loose ponytail, heading towards the fridge. I pulled my foot back to stretch my quad. That helped bring me back to the present moment, and out of thinking about what we could do with no one around to watch us.

  Sneaking around with Eliza made the OCs’ kitchen feel even bigger than usual—with hyperawareness of all the places we could get into trouble together. But her proximity also made the space feel much smaller.

  The paradoxes of the female kind.

  Eliza dug out the frozen pizza from the slews of ice cream, frozen hamburgers, and leftover cupcakes.

  “I was wondering if you were going to text me. Forty-eight hours is a long time.”

  “It is a long time.” I leaned against the wall. She didn’t seem upset.

  “That’s probably the point of it, though, right? To try to wear the girl down until she thinks you won’t call her and then when you do, she’s overjoyed?”

  “Something like that.” Something most girls don’t realize is that guys can play hard-to-get too, and it’s almost always on purpose.

  “Too bad your grand plan got ruined,” she said. “Guess now we’ll never know if I’ve thought about you as much as you’ve apparently thought about me?”

  Eliza slid the pizza onto a pan and into the oven. “Can you get that please?” She pointed to a pitcher on the top shelf.

  “My pleasure.” Five or so inches taller than her, I was happy to help. The smell of cheesy tomatoes spread through the room, but she’d taken out the first pizza already to keep it from burning.
<
br />   Eliza pressed her stomach flat against the sink, watching the pitcher fill. I moved to stand behind her.

  When she turned around, we collided against each other and she let out a surprised gasp. “Well played, sir.”

  “Thank you.” I trailed my fingers down her arms. Like the night before, her feelings were clearly displayed across her face.

  I pressed my lips against her nose, pausing there. Teasing her with how close we were to kissing again. Then I remembered that Eliza knew how to play this game too.

  “Nick?” she whispered, “If you want me to remember you when I’m eighty, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  “Are there other guys I’m competing with for that memory slot, sweetheart?”

  “Maybe there are.” She lightly bit her lip. Was that move in the Girl Code too? How did every girl know how to do that so attractively?

  “I accept your challenge,” I said. The pitcher began to overflow with water, and I reached behind her to rescue it. Her slippers slid on the hardwood floor as she adjusted to how close I was—stopping me from erasing all the distance.

  “Is this okay?” I asked.

  “I think so.”

  “You think so?” What does that mean?

  The kitchen air, warm from the oven, felt heavy as I tried to figure her out.

  “It’s great,” she finally said. Glints of joy in her eyes confirmed this, which made me happier than our school’s once a year free-ice-cream Friday.

  Moving glacially, so she could tell me to stop when she needed, I removed every inch of space between us.

  She held my T-shirt tightly, keeping me close and letting me kiss her. She smiled against my lips and finally relaxed into my chest. Our legs pressed together, with her thumbs grazing my stomach, guessing at the muscles underneath. My skin seared under my shirt. Her kisses quickened as she surveyed more and more of my chest. Minutes later, our fingers found each other, and our hands laced together, resisting the urge to do much more.

  She left me more out of breath than I’d care to admit. Not that I was complaining. “We don’t have to tell Carter about this yet, okay?” Eliza traced the letters on my Cassidy High School soccer shirt. “I don’t want to go through that yet.”

  Normally I would have told Carter and Austin about any girl I hooked up with. That’s what we do. The three of us absolutely kiss and tell, per the Bro Code’s rules. It’s a good thing it didn’t cross my mind to, in fact, tell him—not thinking about it meant I didn’t have a chance to deliberately go behind his back.

  I nodded and Eliza kissed my cheek. “Thanks, pal. You’re the best.”

  She ducked out and pulled the pizza from the oven, before it could burn.

  “Don’t forget me when you’re eighty,” I said.

  “Wasn’t gonna.”

  Oh boy.

  We started to carry the food and water up to Carter’s room.

  Bringing pizza to Carter and Austin was legitimately the only way they would eat something. “Wait . . . hang on . . .” I stopped.

  “Oooh, good call,” she said, on the same wavelength.

  I put one of the pizzas back on the table and Eliza opened the fridge, which was plastered with test grades and upcoming events.

  “What do we have here?” She tapped her chin.

  I came behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. Her heavily washed, cotton T-shirt felt coarse against my wrists. Apparently, Ms. O’Connor didn’t believe in fabric softener.

  “Hmmmm,” I said, not really paying attention.

  She pushed her head back, making it straight against my chest, and I rested my chin on her hair. She was the absolute perfect height for me.

  “Hot sauce?” she asked.

  “Call me Nick. But yes.”

  “Oh my gosh. Relish?”

  I nodded against her head.

  “Worcestershire sauce?”

  “Is that how you say that? I never knew.”

  “Really—?” Eliza started, turning into me, stopping when she saw my wink. She stayed there for a few seconds longer than necessary. Kind of like she was as shocked as I was that this was happening.

  I rubbed her hands, giving a soft pinch. “Don’t worry, you’re not dreaming.”

  “Ah darn. I’d hoped I was.” She grabbed the ingredients. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  “You’re too kind.”

  I took my time drenching the pizza in jalapeño sauce. One of the things Carter and I had been doing for years was trying to trick Eliza into eating really disgusting foods. We would put onions in her milk, curry powder on her bananas, and once we’d even put asparagus in her chocolate pudding.

  “You know, they’ll probably still eat this.” She crinkled her nose. The relish was kind of iffy, but there’s not much that Carter, Austin, or I wouldn’t eat.

  “Good. I’d hate to waste a perfectly fine pizza.”

  “Race you.” She took off before I could reply.

  “Cheater.” I carried more food than she did, and still caught her with little effort.

  When we reached the stairs, she extended her leg and tried to kick me off-balance.

  “Tsk, tsk, Eliza.”

  “What can I say, Maguire, maybe I like to play dirty.”

  “Oh God, I hope so.”

  She tore the paper napkins out of my hand and started running as I bent to pick them up.

  “Want some help with that?” she called over her shoulder. “Too bad, I’m already way over here.”

  Seconds later, she tapped her slipper outside of Carter’s room with one hand on her hip, pretending to be annoyed. “Took you long enough,”

  I adjusted my shirt with my free hand. “Yeah, I mean, didn’t want you to think I was trying.”

  She stuck out her tongue, grazing my hand with hers. Then stepping away. “C’mon, superstar, time to eat.”

  Austin and Carter were exactly as we’d left them, slumped low in their beanbag chairs, eyes glued to the TV screen, like pubescent zombies. I waved the pranked pizza in front of Austin’s face, and he reflexively grabbed it.

  Eliza looked over my shoulder to catch his reaction. More and more sweat beaded on his forehead. He’d eaten almost half of it before the hot sauce kicked in. When it did, he leaped out of his chair like his mouth was on fire. Unfortunately, calling 911 wouldn’t do him much good.

  Austin hopped over to Eliza and took the pitcher of water. Spilling it on the floor but mostly on his shirt, he poured it into his mouth. When he finally calmed down, he turned to see the rest of us staring, startled at what had happened.

  “What kind of pizza is that?” Austin gasped. Carter reached for a slice and Austin slapped his arm away. “You don’t want to do that, bro.”

  Carter didn’t listen. He ate the whole slice without any emotion, then shrugged as if it were a piece of cake. “It’s better without the Worcestershire,” he said.

  I clapped my hands, laughing. I turned to Eliza for a high five, to find that she’d disappeared, having slipped out during the entertainment portion of the evening.

  It was back to the Three Musketeers, as if nothing had changed. When, in fact, everything had. I went to sit on Carter’s bed and lay back against his sheets.

  “Make yourself at home.” Carter raised an eyebrow.

  I held up my hot sauce–free cheese pizza to say I will, thank you very much.

  “Should we do this thing?” said Austin.

  He and Carter spun around in their hamburger and Oreo chairs, their game forgotten. Carter cracked open a pineapple juice. “What’s up, Mags?” said Carter. “Who’s got ya all stressed out?”

  “Honestly girls aren’t even part of it.” That part was a lie, but if they wanted honesty, I’d give them the rest as truthfully as I could. “I’m kinda freaked out about Cla
rkebridge coming up and I didn’t want any distractions.”

  Low country beats played from Carter’s speakers. His overhead light felt brighter than usual.

  “Definitely understandable,” said Carter.

  “What about it freaks you out?” asked Austin.

  “The pressure, maybe. Not sure. My whole life is riding on this interview and tryout. Like I could be awesome, and still not good enough.”

  My shoes had dirt on the heels, I noticed, since I couldn’t look at my friends. The three of us had never really talked like this before, though admitting this stuff helped my tense neck loosen and my breathing come a little more easily.

  “The pressure on you is . . .” Carter began but wouldn’t say it. “I’d be going crazy.”

  “Super unfair,” said Austin, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your dad is kind of a dick.”

  “’Cause he cares,” said Carter. “Gotta keep that in mind.”

  The comforter molded against my back. Even Carter’s ceiling had basketball players on it, so every morning Carter would wake up to LeBron. On LeBron’s jersey, however, Carter had redrawn his “23” to say “OB.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “It’s hard because he wants me to be him.”

  “No,” said Carter, “he wants you to be better than him.”

  “Right. Like I get to do the stuff he couldn’t.”

  “Because you’re better than him,” said Carter. “Nick, you’re better than him, and he knows it.”

  “Own it,” said Austin. “Work it, buddy. Plus, it’ll probably be easier after you get a scholarship. That’s what he really wants, right?”

  “If I get a scholarship.”

  “You will,” said Carter. “You’re Nick freaking Maguire.”

  “Except that goes without saying,” said Austin.

  “Right,” said Carter. “Plus, Clarkebridge isn’t about him, dude, it’s about you. You get to go there and play for you.”

  “Tell him that,” I said. “I don’t think he knows.”

  “Mags,” Carter said in his cut-it-out voice that he used when the soccer freshmen thought they were hot shit and tried to wrap each other in toilet paper for solidarity. “It’s about you.”