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PRACTICALLY A KNOWN FACT —almost a solid rule—that Malloy men do not speak to each other until breakfast. That means that, during our five a.m. bed check (hospital corners, sheets tucked in, perfectly smooth blanket), our three-mile still-dark-out run, our strength and conditioning session in The Cage, more often than not, nobody says a word. It’s work. And we do it.
    â€œEffort is a measure of a man,” my dad likes to say.
    And breakfast? No junk food. No Lucky Charms. No Froot Loops. No Cocoa Puffs. Only whole grains, lean proteins, greens, fruit, and nuts. Welcome to the Malloy training table: fruit, egg-white omelets, oatmeal, and my dad’s famous morning smoothie (fish oil, peanut butter, almond milk, spinach, blueberries, wheatgrass, raw eggs, and frozen banana). Yep.
    â€œFood is for fuel and performance, for power, not pleasure. Your body is a temple,” says The Captain. “You don’t take Pop-Tarts into a temple, do you?”
    I would if I could! That’s what I wish I had the guts to say back.
    The Captain leaves for work right after our room inspection. After six a.m., the four of us are on “honor code.” In some ways it’s kind of nice. At least I’m not walking around on eggshells, trying not to be yelled at. With my brothers, I can hold my own. I fend for myself.
    After I shower and throw on some jeans, a belt, and a blue polo shirt, I head downstairs and make my lunch (peanut butter, grape jelly, banana slices, whole wheat bread #snackofchampions) and join my brothers at the kitchen table. Today is the first day of school, and Gunner, Jett, and Stryker are all grinding my gears. Saint Joe’s doesn’t start till next week, so they get to eat and go back to sleep. Why Thatcher bothers to have one day of school before the weekend is beyond me. But whatever. It is what it is.
    As soon as Jett sits down, he starts chirping at me. “Are you gonna start wheeling today, or are you gonna just stay home all year, playing Call of Duty by yourself?”
    To my brothers, “wheeling” means getting all the girls that you can.
    I drink my green smoothie and eat my oatmeal and take it.
    â€œThat tarp is absolutely disgusting,” says Stryker.
    â€œHuh?” I say.
    â€œThat shirt, it’s brutal.” Gunner shakes his head, half grinning. “No swag, bro. How can you expect to wheel with that thing on your back? Maybe mix in some style, bud.”
    Jett chimes in. “Pretty grungy, if you ask me.”
    All three of them are laughing.
    â€œWhatever, man.” I laugh too. You can’t give them too much attention or they won’t stop.
    â€œJust kidding, little man.” Gunner shoots me a wink. “Don’t get rattled. You look good, bud. You’re rockin’ that shiner like a boss!”
    â€œWhatever,” I repeat.
    Jett takes off his sweaty hat and slams it down on my head. “Dude, cover up that salad, or cut your mop!”
    Jett and Gunner share a smile, and they both get this crazy look in their eyes.
    I can tell what they’re thinking.
    â€œNobody is touching my hair,” I tell them, and I’m not kidding. It took me an entire year to grow it out from the last time The Captain made me cut it.
    Stryker stands and burps loudly. “Great grub sesh, boys!”
    Jett puts the plates in the dishwasher. “Just keep yourself in check, little man,” he tells me. “And don’t be a donkey.”
    Gunner gets up too. “Naptime,” he says, yawning, then snaking his arm under my chin and wrapping me in a choke hold. “Be a man, Jacko, and stay out of trouble.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
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    AFTER I GET OFF THE bus and step into the Land of Thatcher, things go downhill fast. I am in first period for entirely ten seconds before I have a terrible feeling in my