Bro Wars II: Attack of the Bros

Admittedly, I’ve always dreamt of plotting a rebellion to overthrow the social order. What comic-book reading, game-playing simpleton hasn’t dreamed of usurping the populars and claiming their very own cheerleader, after all? But something about Brian’s words reeked of a more noble intent. It’s not the sort of selfish battle I would’ve entered after seeing a happy couple making out in the hallways. No, this is the most just cause to fight. The-

“Bro Wars,” Brian says. “I like the sound of it, Ogg-dog.”

“I expect royalties on that,” I reply.

“It’s ok bro, you’re already the king.”

It’s a good attempt at humor. One I acknowledge with a warm chuckle. And a bitten lip.

“How exactly are you going to take on Drake, though?” I ask.

“Dunno.” Brian rises from the locker room bench, stretching his shoulders. “I just know that, like, I don’t like the way he treats us, bro.”

I nod. “He’s an absolute jackass, yeah. Why do you even hang out with him?”

My ginger co-conspirator fervently shakes his afro.

“He’s the big dog, bro. And he’s my bro. But all the guys are his bros too.”

“Bros shouldn’t make fun of each other like that. Or try to nut-shot each other in front of everyone else.”

“I know, Ogg-dog. That’s why I need your help. No one else is gonna listen to me, bro.”

“Then what’s to be done? Especially if everyone answers to him at the end of the day?”

“You’re like, smart, bro?” Brian asks, more to confirm than to compliment me.

“If you want smart,” I reply, sighing, “You’re barking up the wrong tree, B-dog. But if you want petty? Well, I’ve spent the last decade of my life as a divorce therapist for kidults. So I know petty.”

“I’m listening, bro.”

“You want to stop all the tom-foolery, right?”

“Yeah. But I don’t want to kill the vibe, y’know?”
“Does it kill the vibes when he makes fun of ‘gay shit’?”

“Yeah. I love my dads, bro.”

“Does it kill the vibes when he always tries to big-dog you because you’re the biggest guy here?”

“Yeah.”

“And does it kill the vibes when he dares you to jump train tracks for five dollars?”

“Yeah…”

“I’m sure you can’t be the only one that feels that way,” I say, thinking back to all the apologetic glances Moe’s given me over the months.

“What are you saying, bro?”

Weaving my fingers together like a sneering villain, I speak through the cracks:

“The bros love a show. But I doubt they’re dumb enough not to notice that it might be any of them up next on stage.”

Brian nods. “So, bro?”

“So,” I say, reaching out a palm. “If they only listen to the ringleader, all we have to do is upstage him. Put on a show that even he can’t keep up with. Are you with me?”

He handshakes me like he’s trying to dislocate my shoulders.

“Got your back like a bra strap.”

Those words echo in my head as we tail the jocks to the meadow that sits on the outskirts of the Drakensson property. Although, calling Drake’s house a “property” sort of feels like calling Brian’s house a particularly fashionable McDonald’s drive-thru.

The estate spans for two acres across burbling streams and perfectly-manicured knolls, terminating in a manor that wouldn’t look out of place if it sat beside the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue. In fact, with its advance force of regal colonnade facades and reserves of fancy window doohickeys over each one of its dozens of rooms, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’d make the White House feel as much size-envy as I did back in the locker room.

And the entire place was practically lifeless.

Drake’s father was always out on business trips, and his mother preferred to spend as much time as physically possible at the Swiss Alps with his three sisters. It was like a ghost palace—the entire, gardened grounds perpetually empty save for manservants that scurried out of sight as we approached. Which, on second thought, would explain a lot about the way Drake is. I can’t imagine anyone turning out well with an allowance the size of my dad’s annual income and none of the pesky employment or hard-knocks of life that force one to build character.

No wonder he plays lacrosse.

The jocks spend more time marveling at the skittershy, classically-dressed maids than the architecture as they make their way through the halls. I can’t really blame them, though. If Brian’s place gives off the vibe of a wacky anthropologist’s version of the Winchester House, then Drake’s palace is the direct result of all the colonial-era opulence we learned about in last year’s history lessons on the Gilded Age. Nothing but amber-gold flourishes and tasteful portraits of long-dead rich white people as far as the eye can see.

“Oops,” Drake says, realizing he ‘accidentally’ wiped his nose-picking hand on the painted nose of what must have been his Prime Minister great-great-uncle or something.

The jocks all snicker. Save for Moe, who bears the act with an uncertain smile. He tries to meet Drake’s eyes, maybe to tell him to tone it down a notch, but the group is already filtering into the main party chamber and he follows them dutifully in. I think to try and catch up and maybe let Moe in on the plan, but I hold back. If he’s anything like me or Brian, he’ll probably be either smart enough or sick enough of the way things are to pick up on it himself.

Preparations for the party start with the traditional flipping over of the dinner table, followed by the hauling in of two dozen bean bags and three-hundred of my dad’s hard-earned dollar’s worth of the cheapest, most piss-flavored beer I could acquire at the only store that didn’t ask for ID. Naturally, about fifty dollars of it is already gone by the time that the first in a long procession of girly guests pulls up in the convertible daddy bought them for their sweet sixteen. And eventually, climbing out of the back of an open-roof red four-seater, comes Anne-Marie.

Miraculously single, and even more astoundingly beautiful, the trio of the most popular girls in school struts onto the lawn and makes their way indoors. Today’s theme is street fashion, and each of their tastefully-ripped fits imply that they intend to get boyfriends for the two weeks before Spring Break. Anne-Marie, on the other hand, put in noticeably less effort into her red-black bomber-jacket and jorts. But she still looks just about as breathtaking as any other time I’d seen her.

Call it personal bias.

“Hiii,” Teddy exclaims, sauntering up to give me one of those shoulder-hovering one-second hugs. “Oh my gosh, how’ve you been, Oggy?”

“You know,” I reply, straightening out. “Just chilling. Working out. The usual.”

“I’ll say,” Trissie says, “You look like you’ve been pounding back beef jerky and creatine since I last saw you.”

“Nooo,” Wendy replies, shooting me this dirty, pleading look. “Beef jerky is bad for the environment!”
“Don’t worry,” I reply, “The only beef I have is with whichever jerk was this place’s interior decorator.”

Trissie snickers, while Teddy and Wendy laugh politely. Anne-Marie looks like she’s about to walk out back and put a bullet in her brain.

“So anyways,” I say, running a hand through my gel-slicked hair, “I had something I needed to talk about with Amy. You know, like friend stuff. Excuse us, ladies, but it’s been nice catching up.”

The popular girls collectively nod and allow the two of us a graceful exit. What isn’t so graceful, though, is the expression on Anne-Marie’s face as I pull her into an empty tea room. She looks at me like an English teacher failing a gifted essayist for not turning in their homework, and says:

“You’re planning something stupid, aren’t you?”

“Nah, this isn’t like the time I tried to take you skating.”

“Yeah,” she snorts. “I’d hate to have to laugh at you again as you pull yourself out of a freezing lake.”

“Come on, you saw it too! The ice was thicker than your sister’s skull.” I tried to sound cool, but my voice came out as a cracked whine.

“You’re not gonna butter me up to slip out of this one,” she says. “Spill it. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I reply, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Nothing. I’m just excited to see you is all.”

“But?”

“But I’m gonna need you to keep the girls distracted while me and Brian take care of some business.”

“Business,” she says.

“Yeah, it’s stupid boy stuff. Don’t worry about it. Just try to keep the girls quarantined, okay?”

Anne Marie sighs. “I thought we were going to get to spend some time together. You know, like sneaking off to make out in some dead geezer’s study or something.”

I offer my most earnest smile. “We’ll get to have our moment. I promise.”

She rolls her eyes, pecks me on the cheek, and says, “Whatever, as long as you promise. But I’ve got my eyes on you.”

I start for the apelike commotion in the distance with a wink. “You know I like it when you watch.”

Her guffaw fades into booming EDM music as I cross two halls and reach the threshold of a kitchen the size of my house’s whole first floor. There, as I cross the lawless lands between the prep station and the ranges, I overhear the following interaction:

“I’m hyper pumped for my grandmammy’s inheritance.”

“Bro, like, who cares.”

“I’m gonna get to be a landlord bro!”

“Oh shit. Yooo!”

“Brooo! Three cheers for cyclical and systemic extortion of the lower castes!”

“Now CHUG CHUG CHUG!”

“Wooo!”

Leaving disturbing revelations about the character of my future ruling class behind, I find Brian standing meekly by the sidelines. Naught but ten feet away, Drake absolutely demolishes that one ratty-looking shortstop in twenty-cup beer pong. The wasted loser promptly chugs his lot, then gets airplane-spun and half-nelsoned into a haphazard stack of yoga mats piled nearby. A queue of subsequent victims shuffles one step closer to the table—a truly intimidating field of voluminous red cups whose golden ambrosia glistens in the shifting mood lighting.

“Who’s next, huh?!” Drake yells, pounding his chest like a silverback gorilla.

“Nah,” I reply, clicking my teeth.

With the attention of the jocks entirely on me, I add:

“The vibe’s kinda off, honestly.”

I’m risking it all on a hunch. But it’s a good one. After all, if the least cool kid at the gathering has the balls to say there’s something off, there’s a good chance that others will follow. Drake’s tank-topped pecs waddle over to my eye-level, blotting out the strobing party lights with their mass.

His tone is sharp. “What are you talking about, bro?”

“Just sayin’,” I say, without even looking in his direction. “Shit’s kinda corny. Thought we were gonna do something more fun.”

My eyes dart to Brian’s at the other side of the room, and the ginger-capped snowy mountain comes alive at once.

“Yeah, bro,” he says, stretching his arms out with a yawn. “I thought we were gonna do something new.”

I can practically hear the peal of dragging stone as Drake’s cliffside of a brow rotates to face Brian. But before a hint of anger—or any thought at all, really—can dawn upon his face, salvation’s call comes in the form of Moe’s mossy baritone:

“That’s a good point, guys. What do you have in mind?”

My goddamn savior.

I exhale a lungful of spikes, and reply:

“Well, you know how there’s an Olympic-sized pool here, right?”