“One . . . two . . .” I reluctantly let go.

The shock of ice-cold water erupted through me as I swung her into the ocean. She’d grabbed my hand at the last second, true to her word. We plunged into the waves, heads-first into the rocky sand. My face prickled with water shooting up my nose. My lungs, unprepared, fought for a gasp of air.

But it was her shrieking laugh, right before we’d disappeared underwater, that had left me the most breathless.

RULE NUMBER 7

A bro shalt set up another bro only if he has asked to be set up.

Bros can talk about what happened at a really awesome party, but for a really really awesome party, a latency period applies. That was why, for the rest of the weekend, I had no idea what went on during the rest of the bonfire. I had heard a rumor that Jamal taught everyone to do backflips, and Hannah Green’s mom showed up with her supermodel friends . . . but I didn’t know anything for sure until school on Monday.

Austin, Carter, and I had left early, and we didn’t get to witness any of it. Right after Eliza had pulled me into the ocean and we’d returned to the beach, I dug out my phone from the sand to see I’d missed an emergency phone call from Austin. The police officer had, in fact, remembered Carter, even without the coconut bra. Dripping wet, I had to drive them home before we wound up in jail. Or worse, juvenile counseling classes taught by Mr. Hoover at 8:00 a.m. on Saturdays, which were what my parents threatened me with if I ever did drugs. They didn’t realize that having to get through those would make me depend on drugs more, but I appreciated their efforts.

When Monday came, I stood in Cassidy High’s freshly mopped hallway with Robert, trying to remember my locker combination. The faint scent of limes wafted towards me, which I tried to ignore.

It’s the cleaning products, Nick.

“What about you, Mags? Was Madison telling the truth?”

I stopped. Why would Madison want to tell anyone what happened? Until I remembered that of course she would lie about it.

My locker’s rusty dial squeaked with every twist. “Depends on what she said—”

I never found out, because the metal door of my locker swung open to reveal the messiest wreck in the history of the school.

“Holy . . .”

Robert’s laugh filled the hallway. “Oh . . . shizzers, bro.” He patted my head. “Hoover’s gonna smoke your tunnel.”

It didn’t occur to me to ask for clarification. Mr. Hoover, and how many detentions he might give for ruining not only my locker but his self-esteem as the hall monitor who’s supposed to prevent these things, didn’t register in my mind at all. Nope. As I gawked at the twenty-ish cut-up limes, precariously thrown among my late homework and gym clothes, with a begrudging awe and respect for such a perfect prank, someone else invaded my every thought.