“Same gym class?”

“You know it.”

“Yeah, Eliza’s in some of those too,” Carter continued, “Do me a favor and make sure she’s all right.”

Austin reached for the last slice of pizza but withdrew when I made the same move—no questions asked. Generally, a bro is free to take the last slice of, well, anything. But while I’d been talking to Eliza, Austin finished the mozzarella sticks, so I had dibs on the pizza.

“Nick?” said Carter.

“She’s going to be fine, dude,” I said, “but sure.”

I would have given away my last slice to keep Josh Daley away from her. Be cool, Nick.

Looked like I’d be attending class after all.

As if I had a choice.

RULE NUMBER 2

A bro shalt not get “out” in dodgeball.

Two mornings later, it was the third day of my fourth and final year of torture, otherwise known as high school. My Mustang gently clanked as it came to rest in our favorite parking spot: last row, last space in the student lot before the neighboring baseball field. Whoever had come up with the idea to end an outfield right at the parking lot was an evil genius—every time a player hit a home run, it could fly right into some kid’s windshield—which turns out to be an extremely effective way to stop students from loitering after school.

Mr. Hoover, the morning hall monitor, was for sure going to give me a tardy slip. Even though the school day had started ten minutes ago, I still stopped to rest my head against the steering wheel, a soft buzzing making my thoughts fuzzy.

Last night’s sleep had been a frenzy of kind-of worries and almost solutions. There were too many things to think about, from my stupid psychology homework to how super annoying my dad was to the possible extinction of bananas and how devastating that would be to pancake breakfasts everywhere.

The student parking spaces were in the back of the high school, and the faculty lot was in the front. Only upperclassmen had spots, since you needed a license to get a permit, but that didn’t keep freshmen and sophomores from hanging around the rear entrance with their disgusting smoking and worse gossip.

Seeing them, I groaned and forced the sticky car door to creak open, wincing as the muggy August air welcomed me to hell. My backpack weighed on my shoulders as if trying to prevent me from taking another step.

“It’s my backpack’s fault.” Yeah, Mr. Hoover would give me two tardy slips if I’d tried that one.

The sun hid behind damp clouds, which made the school’s “Go Owls!” graffitied brick walls and fractured sidewalks stick out even more. You’d never guess the entire building had been renovated three years ago—glistening hallways, no more fluorescent lighting, and alarms that’d go off if you tried to leave through emergency exits. A handful of students loitered around the back staircase, greeting me with fist bumps and “’Sup, Maguire?”