“Josh, do me a favor,” Carter said. “Whatever they tell you to do, treat Eliza the opposite way.” He pulled out his phone, studying it in a quick moment of distraction. Josh took it as an opportunity to mime a crude act of romance.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “She’s in great hands.”

I forced myself to give him a thumbs-up. The leftover taste of sugary blueberry pancakes churned in my stomach.

Carter’s phone thunked as he tossed it towards the grass. “You guys want to play again?” he asked, “Nick’s got another hour.”

“Or we could continue to discuss the merits of date rape,” Austin muttered.

“Wait, what?” asked Carter.

“Bro.” Josh hit Austin with his snapback. “That’s not what I said.”

“Better goddamn not have been,” said Carter.

“It wasn’t,” I said, though it pained me to side with Josh. I threw my basketball at Austin. What had gotten into him? Yeah, the Eliza conversation was weird, but playing the #MeToo card was a bit much.

“Bros will be bros,” was a familiar saying among North Cassidy’s classiest, which Austin, Carter, and I had subscribed to until sometime last year when Carter, our woke hero, drew the line for our bro behavior. Josh, however, was unaware of this, and it seemed like Austin might have been taking it too far. Because with the kissing and telling rule of the Bro Code, also came the no-judgment rule, regarding how a bro earned his kiss. This rule was hard to reconcile with the line Carter had drawn for us.

But Carter didn’t have to know that.

Around three in the afternoon, we drove our separate ways, which left plenty of time for me to take the packaging off my AP biology book.

Several things stood between current me, high school Nick, and future me, college Nick. First, there was the question of how, in the vast, ever-expanding universe, the Maguire fam was going to finance my journey to adulthood, since, like, my dad was a middle school teacher and all of my mom’s earnings went to food and electricity and stuff. Then there were the college interviews, which caused palpitations upon hearing the word “interview.” Finally there was that whole picking a major thing.

My dad’s advice on choosing a concentration was this: “Whatever’s the easiest to stay on the soccer team.” But he was Exhibit A of how not having a backup plan can come back to bite you in the ass—or in his case, blow out your knee at twenty-two.

All the good sports science programs meant a good grade in Introduction to Biology. A score of four (out of five) on the AP bio test counted for that and would help with acceptance into most exercise-y majors. According to my guidance counselor, anyway.

Hence, me spending a sunny Saturday afternoon holed up in my twin-bed, no-desk, gray-walled bedroom, textbook thrown onto my Red Sox comforter, actually trying at school.

“You owe me some drills.” My dad poked his head through the doorway. His coaching whistle knocked against the wooden frame.