The Bro Code

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.