“Wondering if he mentioned stuff about last night. Something, like, happened.”

Even if Carter had said something about Madison, which he hadn’t, the Bro Code stated that drama between a bro and a chick was not to be discussed between that chick and a different bro. I wouldn’t have been able to tell her yes or no, even if I had had the faintest clue of what she meant.

While it’s hard to pinpoint the true origins of any of the Bro Code’s stipulations, that rule in particular was solidified by Keith Richards and Mick Jagger, two OBs. In the 1960s, Richards allegedly cheated on his girlfriend with Jagger’s girlfriend, and Jagger then allegedly cheated on his girlfriend with Richards’s girlfriend. The ladies took their revenge by discussing the rock stars’ allegedly below-average endowments with the media and entire world.

To avoid repeating this travesty, third-party bros no longer get involved with their bro’s relationship drama, or else their manhood could end up on the front cover of a tabloid. You never know.

Madison hiked up her sparkly book bag as the students began to move again. “Get Carter’s side, would you? Who knows, maybe I’ll take that tip about Austin.” She blew me a kiss good-bye and forged ahead. “Come on, people!” she shouted. “It’s not that hard. The sooner we get to class, the sooner we can go home!”

Cheers erupted. I clapped along. The girl was straight-up drama, but no one could deny that she got things done.

I arrived fashionably late (for people who are fashionably late) to my AP biology class, where Carter already sat at our long, black lab table with his safety glasses secured.

The classroom smelled like an animal had stuck its whiskers in one of the power outlets, had been electrocuted, and had been there for an entire month. Fairly on par for Cassidy High.

“You’re in a good mood,” Carter said. “Great, you’ll need to be for this lab. It sucks all the joy right out of you.”

“Oh no,” I said. Arranged on the table were latex gloves, scalpels, scissors, sticks, cutting tools, little poking tools, and some paper towels. On a separate pan, a dead rat soaked in stinky formaldehyde. Which meant my dead animal smell analogy for the room had been fairly accurate.

“Rat dissections again? We did these last year.” In Introduction to Biology, our teacher had taught us basic human anatomy by having us dissect rats to uncover their muscles and tissues.

“Mr. Kendrick wants us to do the brain,” said Carter. He pointed to a packet titled Advanced Placement Biology, Laboratory Exercise IV.

“Cool.” The slimy rat rested before us as a hero among his people—a warrior who’d sacrificed his life for scientific pursuits.

“Do you think Stuart Little was a registered organ donor? Or are we performing brain surgery against his will? I, for one, am not comfortable going against his wishes.”

“Me neither.” Carter shook his head. “Poor guy probably had a wife and kids.”