Carter grumbled in the backseat. Austin looked from me to Carter then back to me. Then he reached for the stereo dial and turned our tunes all the way up.

Bro points for Austin.

Finally, we arrived at Bonfire Beach.

Bonfire Beach wasn’t its actual name, but Austin, Carter, and I like to invent new names for things. The parking lot by the beach’s boardwalk was already packed, and it looked like Jamal had invited almost all the upperclassmen from Cassidy High. The boardwalk was about a half mile from the actual party, but after the heat from the fire had melted Robert Maxin’s tires a few years ago, far away was the best place to park. We heard faint sounds of someone strumming badly on a guitar before the fire was even in view.

“Is it too late to turn around?” Carter asked. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think I can stand people singing right now.”

“Bah humbug,” I replied. Whenever a bro starts complaining about general happiness and joy, bah humbug is the appropriate response. Unless none of us are in good moods, in which case the response is yippee-ki-yay.

At the top of the boardwalk stood a short policeman. Beach bonfires require a permit, which requires a police detail. He was there as a formality, however; he knew that he was no match for hundreds of high schoolers or anything involving the strength of a raging fire (or the swiftness of a great typhoon, for that matter). Still, him being there probably stopped teenagers from doing activities they wouldn’t otherwise do—like streaking across the pier wearing nothing but a coconut bra.

“Boys,” he looked at Carter for a moment longer than was necessary. Austin saluted him. Carter ducked inside his shirt.

We came to a stop on a sand dune overlooking the fire. It was already enormous and the heat radiating from it could have warmed a small army, a.k.a., my classmates.

“See you on the other side, gentlemen,” I said.

Anything that happened from this point forward was every bro for himself, unless there was some kind of emergency, in which case the other two bros were to abandon everything they were doing to assist the third bro in said emergency.

The three of us trudged through the refined sand to where Robert Maxim and Madison Hayes drank out of totally-not-suspicious paper bags. Across the fire, some guy in a denim jacket and jeans lazily strummed a meek ukulele that was about the size of his forearm. A gaggle of girls surrounded him, creating the howls Carter hated so much. Next to their group, Jamal Sanchez—the Jamal—manned one of the beach’s many red-oxidized grills.

The crowd contained a bunch of familiar faces, except the one I was looking for.

“Got this for you.” Madison pushed a paper bag at me.

“He’s our ride.” Austin intercepted it. A hiss and pop came as he cracked the tiny can inside.

“Yo!” Jamal waved from the grill. “You guys bring the speakers?”