What keeps sticking out is the first thing you said to me: Tell me I'm wrong.
I wasn't so special, though—you made everything about you.
It happened during the sultry summer right after Carter and I moved here, the kind where Olivia made us wear sneakers to play in the coarse sand by Bonfire Beach so our feet wouldn't peel off, and your bangs were perpetually plastered to your forehead.
Carter and I had it easier than most new kids because we had a trampoline and a pool. Still, when you came over, you always went straight for Carter's soccer ball. From after lunch until Olivia called for Carter to set the dinner table, you'd pretend the trampoline was a goal and Carter was to defend it like it was extra time in the World Cup. You'd score, clap your hands to focus, and want to go again. I hope this rings a bell for you, Nick, because that's how you got to be Carter's best friend.
On the afternoon you first spoke to me, Carter transformed muggy July into a barbeque with ice-cold watermelon and corn on the cob. You invited the sixth graders to our yard without asking, which was the boldest move ever. One of them brought water balloons and you lined us up in the sticky grass for a toss-off: everyone would get a partner and throw a balloon back and forth until it broke.
There was an odd number of participants and you declared that I, the fifth-grade girl, should be the one to sit out. I wouldn't, according to you, be able to throw as far as everyone else.
"I'm telling," I'd said.
"Tell me I'm wrong."
You had a perfectly straight face, but the delight in your eyes still gave you away.
For whatever stupid reason, you starting a water balloon fight stirred up warm fuzzies in my ten-year-old heart (whatever). You had dirt in your unkempt hair, a chin that dripped with water, and a stupid grin that felt like it was just for me. I was toast.
It didn't matter. When school started, you'd hang out at any and every girl's locker except for mine. (I know this part sounds familiar.) You played with the girls' hair and they shrieked back, and you loved them for it. Though I get that's nothing compared to what Carter did.
I'd really hoped, Nick, that six years later you'd be different.
That one's on me.
I'm writing this so you can remember. You have a choice. Things with Carter aren't as black and white as they may seem. Whatever you decide about the life or death of your Bro Bible, the holy script of mankind, the hallowed creed worshiped by geeks, athletes, and every guy in between—the ever-sacred Bro Code . . . this one's on you.
You've heard my thoughts on your situation. You know I know what you're about to do.
Tell me I'm wrong. —Eliza