It didn’t matter. When school started, you’d hang out at any and every girl’s locker except for mine. (I know this part sounds familiar.) You played with the girls’ hair and they shrieked back, and you loved them for it. Though I get that’s nothing compared to what Carter did.

I’d really hoped, Nick, that six years later you’d be different.

That one’s on me.

I’m writing this so you can remember. You have a choice. Things with Carter aren’t as black and white as they may seem. Whatever you decide about the life or death of your Bro Bible, the holy script of mankind, the hallowed creed worshiped by geeks, athletes, and every guy in between—the ever-sacred Bro Code . . . this one’s on you.

You’ve heard my thoughts on your situation. You know I know what you’re about to do.

Tell me I’m wrong.

—Eliza

RULE NUMBER 1

Bros* Before Hoes.

*Any bro shalt be referred to only as “bro**,” “dude,” “man,” “amigo,” or “homie.” A bro is never a “peeps,” “pal,” or “stand-up guy.” A bro shalt be a bro forever until the end of time.

**“Brother” may be used in some circumstances. Never ironically.

Contrary to what you might have heard, I didn’t sleep with Eliza O’Connor. Did I want to? Have you seen her? Could I have? Have you seen me? But I didn’t, even though people will tell you that I did, because I attend high school with a bunch of world-class trolls. They’ll regale you with other gossip about me too, some of which is true, like the prank I pulled on Mr. Hoover (the purple in his hair wouldn’t come out for a week), and most of it is somewhat true, like I once picked up a girl by walking up to her by the concession stand at a football game and saying “No.” (I actually said, “No, we haven’t gone out before, and I vote we change that.”) A few of the stories are definitely not true. And me sleeping with Eliza O’Connor is one of them.

Some dudes will claim I’m the one who started the rumor. I wish I had—it’d have way better details than whatever version you heard. If you find out who did, hit me up, tell them to meet me out back where we can handle this like grown-ups. I do know how it started—not at Jeff Karvotsky’s party, like everyone thinks. It really began a few months earlier, as most rumors do: with a bunch of stupidly hot people eating pizza.

It was a Wednesday afternoon and I played air hockey in Straight Cheese ’n’ Pizza with half of the senior class, soaking up our last first day of school together. We’d ordered fifteen greasy pizzas and unlimited soda. Our haul was scattered across the countertop bar, pushed-together wooden tables, and a few booths lining the dining room, near the arcade games and infamous Chef Pizzeria. Chef happened to be a life-sized copper statue of a guy in a fancy hat tossing a pizza in the air. And yes, he was absolutely the crowning glory of a Cassidy High School senior prank every single spring. (Most recently, he’d been taken to our school’s roof and dressed up in a mustache and wig to look like our principal.)