Eliza placed the drawing on her desk. She laced her arms around my neck, and I held her so close that the chair teetered on the edge of flipping over. Three . . . two . . . one . . . I leaned in and kissed her with everything I had. Remember me.

RULE NUMBER 12

A bro shalt not talk to a chick on the phone unless she is his relative or girlfriend.

The next couple of weeks flew by in another whirlwind, but not a stressful one. Or, not an entirely stressful one, thanks to how much I got to see of Eliza. Which turned out to be a lot, given how often Carter, Austin, and I play video games at the OCs’.

Then that morning at the end of October came—that morning so early it was still dark out, the sun a distant memory to the shedding trees. The morning of the long drive to Clarkebridge University.

“Snacks?”

“Check.”

“Tunes?”

“Double check.”

“Dorm address and that guy’s phone number?”

“Yes, Mom,” I said to Carter.

“Perfect.” Carter climbed into the passenger seat of my rusty Mustang. “Six hours of driving start now.”

He set my phone in the holder on my dashboard and played with my GPS. “Clarkebridge University. Arrival: 12:03 p.m.”

Our suits hung on the back windows, our soccer bags were in the trunk, and the rest—snacks, portfolios, other clothes—lay in a packed reusable bag at Carter’s feet.

The dark-gray morning sky taunted me as my engine sputtered. Not even the birds were flying around yet.

“I still don’t get why we have to leave before sunrise,” I said, as I pulled out of Carter’s driveway, “Tryouts aren’t until five.”

“Don’t want to hit traffic, okay? We can’t miss this.”

“Yup. Traffic.” I gestured to the empty roads.

“We’re gonna hit it once we get to New York,” he said.

Carter smoothed out his track pants and played with the window opener, either nervous or excited.

“Can’t believe we both might get to go there,” he said.

“Might? Bro, you’re basically in. Isn’t this interview, like, a formality?”

“I guess. Double alumni doesn’t hurt either.”

Keeping my eyes on the road, I punched him in the shoulder. “Wish my parents had gone somewhere I wanted to go.”

“Downside is it’s kinda far away,” he said.

I tensed. Crap. How was that only just occurring to me? I felt like I’d forgotten to do a class project worth 70 percent of my grade. The big project was being a decent guy for once, and the class was Carter’s sister.

“She’ll be fine . . .” I said, trying to convince both of us. “She has your mom and lots of friends. And Josh Daley would never let anything happen to her.” I joked, though even I didn’t think that was funny.

“Great. Thanks for giving me that image.”

“No problemo.”

“I dunno, I want to be there for her.”

The plan, since we were fourteen years old, had always been for Carter and me to go to Clarkebridge together and play soccer. Carter had a next-level version of that dream where he’d be pre-med and on track to be a superstar doctor. I was still focused on getting accepted. Clarkebridge wasn’t a “safety” school for anyone, especially me.