“Yo,” I said, “You find your x yet? ’Cause I’m pretty sure she ain’t coming back.”

Austin snorted. “Hey, are we getting pizza soon—”

“Dude, this is no joke,” interrupted Carter, “We’re going to have to actually do homework this year. Guess I’ve got math.” He scribbled an answer in a fat notebook. With his pen. Because Carter believes in himself.

“No fair, you got math last year,” said Austin. “I ended up with fifteen essays for Ms. Peterson. Which was really forty because I had to do them times three so they’d all be different.”

“I’ve definitely got math.”

“Not it.” I touched my nose. “Quiero español.”

“Dibs on AP bio,” said Carter.

“AP psych,” I added, “Which leaves you, Austin, with . . .” Carter, still head-down in his (our) homework, chuckled as I paused, “English and AP history. Sorry for your loss.”

“Dicks.”

We divided our homework load every year so one person would do it for the three of us per subject and it wouldn’t take as long. It worked because we were legitimately always together: same sports, same classes, same irresistible personalities . . . we had a lot in common.

Austin slumped in his seat and surveyed the restaurant. Straight Cheese ’n’ Pizza was awesome because not only did it have the best pizza, grilled cheese, and mozzarella sticks (the owners were the true geniuses of all things bread and cheese) that Massachusetts suburbia could supply but it also had free arcade games and a legit jukebox. Austin observed the different cliques of our classmates, who were segments of the popular kids wearing slightly different clothes, and laughed at Robert’s wild hand gestures as he tried to retell that ghost story about our biology teacher. Hannah had tightly crossed her legs and smoothed her printed skirt as far down as it would go. Austin grinned like he was watching videos of people falling down on YouTube.

“How long you think it’ll be before Hannah comes over?”

“Two minutes,” I said, “Shorter if he tells her about when we went to Build-A-Bear.”

“Poor guy. Does not know how to talk to girls.”

“You two should give him lessons.” Carter turned a page in his textbook.

“Jesus Christ,” I replied so loudly that the guys closest to us looked over, “we said we’re sorry about Sarah, okay? Get over it.”

“I am over it,” Carter said.

“You can’t blame us for daring you to get with her and then get mad when it’s actually easy.”

“I said I’m over it.”

“Bullshit.”

The shift in the restaurant’s atmosphere was palpable—most people, especially those sitting in the booths nearest to us, now stared, letting their pizza get as cold as this conversation. Whispers replaced the whooping and hollering, and even the statue of Chef Pizzeria seemed to eavesdrop nervously.

“Woohoo, go Owls,” said Austin.

That got a few laughs and soon people were back to minding their own damn business. Cassidy High’s mascot worked every time.

Carter’s phone vibrated on the table. Because all mobile forms of communication between bros occur in the sacred group chat, it had to be a girl.