Chapter 54: A BRO SHALT NOT USE THE L WORD-3

Until yesterday, when Eliza called me on my everyday lingo in the pool, I didn't know how legit hostile the world can seem for anyone who isn't exactly a straight, white, bro. Or maybe I just didn't care. Back to Austin. I'd known Austin since the kindergarten playground, and it had never occurred to me that he might have been struggling with stuff. I just hoped things hadn't been too hard for him. And I hoped I hadn't made them that way. "Dude," Austin said, "I'm not gay." "I figured." Heat filled my cheeks. Oops. "You know you could tell me if you were, though, right?" Yeah. I had absolutely no idea how to navigate this conversation. "Sheesh, Mags." His can cracked as he smoothed the metal with his fingernail. "For someone who hates putting labels on things, you sure love to put labels on things." "Whatever," I said. The closest I'd get to sorry. Austin started laughing. "You should see your face. You look like you swallowed a pregnant cow." "How would you know what that looks like, dude?" He gulped down the last of his soda. "Ah, wow. This is hilarious. I'm so glad you came over tonight." "Yeah, well, I've had a lot to take in," I said. Good job, Nick. There you go. Speak. "Just let me know if you ever need me to talk about different stuff, or like, help you in a different way." That had sounded better in my head. Austin grinned and I closed my mouth. "No," he said. "Keep it up, really. This is going better than I could have thought." My chair landed back on the carpet with a thud. "What do we do now?' Austin's fingers cracked as he stretched them. "You stuck around when I was cut from soccer in the seventh grade. When I was at the bottom of the totem pole, you practiced with me for a month, every day after your own practice, and got the coach to give me a new tryout. When I dated Eliza, you were still around even when Carter would barely talk to me, and you didn't punch me in the face right now when I told you about the party. I'm sticking around for you. It doesn't matter to me who you date. Well, that's a lie," he laughed, "if you started things back up with Madison, I might fight you here and now." "I think you're safe, man," I said, "and I still haven't decided about punching you." Or Carter. What is the playbook for what to do after your best friends seriously mess up? "Fair. When are you going to talk to Carter?" "I guess tomorrow. We can celebrate tonight. But, might as well get this over with, right?" "Good luck." "Thanks." The table creaked, wobbling as Austin pushed it to stand up. "Who's D-D'ing this thing? Cause it's definitely not you or me, after this chat." "Hannah," I said. "We're meeting her at the OCs' and she's driving all of us." At least, that's the last I heard. "Robert Maxin's Hannah?" "Correct." "Damn. Carter's cold too." "No kidding," I said. "I still can't believe you guys didn't tell me about Sarah." "I can't believe you didn't tell me about Eliza." The basement stairs thudded as we ran up them. A slam from Austin's door and a crackly engine later, Austin sat shotgun as I pulled out of his driveway. "Are you really surprised I didn't tell you?" I asked. "Nah. I get it." He texted Carter and Eliza that we were on our way. Twenty minutes later, Austin and I stood in Carter's room, watching him change shirts six million times. (Confirming everything we'd thought about him and Hannah.) "What about this one?" he said, pulling a black long-sleeve over his head. "Good too," said Austin. "I liked the last one better," I said. "Really?" Carter had the shirt halfway over his head before I said, "Nah. Go with the black." "Get outta here, Mags," joked Carter. The shirt settled nicely on his arms. "Great. Now we gotta do shoes." "I'm gonna get some air," I said, slipping through the door. I had to find Eliza and fill her in on my talk with Austin. The stairs creaked as I jogged to the second floor, wondering what I could possibly say to her. I didn't want to lose either one of them. "Nick!" Eliza answered her door and pulled me into her bright, cheery room. "Whoa." It looked like a hurricane had hit her room, followed by a stampede of elephants and four typhoons. Piles of clothes spilled all over the floor, like she was trying to sort through them, and her drawing paper was everywhere: on top of the clothes, on her desk, and scattered in miscellaneous corners of the room. All of it was very un-Eliza. She wore jeans and a tank top, looking ready for a casual party, and had clearly been ready hours ahead of Carter. She resumed her spot, drawing, sitting cross-legged on her comforter with a clipboard and oil crayons. I climbed next to her. "Are you redecorating?"