I admit it, sure: the world definitely wouldn’t feel great if the saying were hoes before bros.

But.

It’s not.

RULE NUMBER 3

A bro shalt always finish telling his joke. He shalt never, under any circumstances, let it go without a punchline.

Carter’s house could put Tony Stark’s personal playground to complete shame.

It had a swimming pool and a trampoline, a surround-sound IMAX theater in the basement, and more gaming systems than any kid could ever ask for. As if that weren’t enough, the swimming pool converted into an ice rink in the winter, something Carter’s dad had set up before he Irish-exited his own family.

To top it off, the walls were actual colors: none of that beige crap that my parents used. When I’d climbed to the top of the driveway, the valet even took my keys.

Got ya . . . the O’Connors don’t have a valet.

“Look who it is!” Ms. O’Connor exclaimed as I let myself in the back. The peaceful aroma of salted caramel welcomed me.

She stood at the blue marble kitchen island with a spatula in one hand and a velvety, brown cupcake in the other. I’d have offended her if I assumed it was a chocolate cupcake. Not just any chocolate, she often criticized me, it’s Oreo. Or cinnamon spice. Or s’mores. Or peanut butter chocolate fudge.

Eliza perched on a bar stool at the island—a striking blond in the middle of a sea of cupcakes and mixing bowls filled to the brim with pale pink or blue icing. She wore Carter’s sweatshirt with one arm out of a sleeve, resting a heavy-duty icepack on her exposed shoulder.

She dipped a finger in her mother’s giant steel mixing bowl. “Got to make sure it tastes good,” she said.

I nodded. “Can’t go all the way to the event without realizing you used salt instead of sugar.”

“Rookie mistake.” Eliza licked pink frosting off her hand. I smirked. She pretended to throw a cupcake at me.

“Need an extra hand?” I asked. I didn’t always suck up to Ms. O’Connor . . . wait, yes, I did. She let me come and go from her house as I pleased and fed me unlimited cupcakes. Those four words were a small price to pay.

Ms. O’Connor spread pale blue frosting onto her confections as if she were waving a magic wand. “I can always use another decorator. Liza has to rest and I’m down a player.”

“Went a bit too hard in dodgeball this morning,” Eliza said as she resituated her ice pack. Ms. O’Connor handed me a bowl of blue sugar crystals.

“Sprinkle these on the ones with the pink frosting.”

Ms. O’Connor always gave me the easiest tasks, but I still found myself second-guessing my every move with them. Like sprinkle how? How many sprinkles per cupcake? What if the sprinkles end up in the wrapper and when someone eats the cupcake their hands turn blue and they don’t realize it and give a big speech and embarrass themselves and become doomed for all eternity?