Bruiser

by Neal Shusterman

  The mood is set right away by Cody, who can’t stop talking about how they found Uncle Hoyt. “He was all pale, like the blood been sucked outta him.” To hear him tell it, you’d think the man got attacked by a chupacabra—and I’m sure the story gets wilder every time he tells it. By now Cody has had a haircut, compliments of the Gortons, and he looks semicivilized. Still, he keeps shaking his head like he’s trying to fling hair out of his face. That habit’s not going to go away for a good while.

  “And his eyes,” says Cody, “they was open and all bulgy, like he saw a ghost!”

  “It’s very sad,” Brontë says. “Would anyone like some milk?”

  “Did you hear everything in the house was all broke up?” Cody says. “Nothing left—like he blew it apart with his mind before he died!”

  “That’s enough, Cody,” Brewster says under his breath; but my mom gently pats Cody’s hand.

  “Talk about it all you want, Cody,” she tells him. “It’s very cathartic to talk it out.”

  I can see Cody mouthing the word cathartic with a grimace, like it’s a verbal Brussels sprout; and I wonder if our parents are going to inflict him and Brew with a daily power word, too.

  If nothing else, this has forced Mom and Dad to sit at the same dinner table again—and Mom has actually cooked a meal. Okay, so it’s lasagna from Costco, but at least she turned on the oven and put it in!

  “I know you’ve had a rough time of it,” Mom says, mostly to Brew, “but from here on in, you don’t have to worry about anything.”

  “More lasagna?” says Brontë. I think she believes that if everyone’s mouth can be kept full, there’s less chance that someone will say something unfortunate.

  “How’s your basketball coming?” Dad asks Brew.

  “Haven’t played since that time with you guys.”

  “Well, we’ll have to do it again.”

  It’s as if our parents have begun a new competition to see who can be more compassionate to troubled youth.

  “I hope you boys are okay with the guest room,” Mom says.

  And I say, “So, where will you sleep, Dad?”

  I just meant it as a simple question, but then realize that this is one of those unfortunate moments Brontë has been trying to avoid. I shove some lasagna in my mouth, but it’s too late. I glance to Mom, who fusses with her napkin rather than look at me. The fact that no one has discussed with Brontë and me how this is all going to work is yet another symptom of the downed communications line within our family.

  “Well, Tennyson,” says my father, “I suppose I could room with you….” He tries to be flip and funny when he says it, but he can’t mask the tension thundering in just behind his words.

  “Sure, whatever,” I say. I think this is the first time in years I’ve used the expression “whatever,” as it’s on our family’s list of banned slang; but when I say it, there’s an audible breath of relief from both of my parents.

  Then Brontë says, “You and Mom have shared a bed for seventeen years; I don’t think it’ll kill you to share it a little while longer.”

  He takes a few moments to chew, and then Dad says, “True.” I can sense no emotion in his response either way.

  Brontë, who was so determined to shut everyone else up just a minute ago, is still not done. “I mean, we have a situation, and we should all make the best of it; isn’t that right, Mom?”

  “We’ll work things out to the best of our ability,” my mother says. She really should run for Congress.

  “Now, you know this isn’t permanent,” Dad reminds us all.

  “Yes, sir,” says Brew.

  “But we are more than happy to have you here for as long as it takes,” Mom adds.

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Brew. No one in memory has ever called my parents sir or ma’am.

  “I’m sure they’ll find a more appropriate family who’d be willing to take both of you in.”

  “And,” adds Dad, “who aren’t quite as strange as us.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brew says, looking over at Brontë with a grin. “I like strange.”

  She gives him a playful love-hit, which sends Dad to prickly, uncomfortable places. “The guest room has its own bathroom,” Dad says. “It’s convenient—you’ll never need to go upstairs.”

  Brontë drops her fork on her plate for effect. “My God, Dad, why don’t you install motion sensors on the stairs to make sure he doesn’t come up at night?”

  “Don’t think we haven’t thought of that, dear,” says Mom in her I-can-be-as-impertinent-as-you voice, and for a moment—just the slightest moment—things feel almost normal.

  45) PALPABLE

  An hour after dinner, I can hear Mom and Dad in their bedroom discussing Cody-and-Brew-related details.

  Their bedroom.

  I like the fact that I can say that again. This is the most Mom and Dad have said to each other in weeks. It must be a relief to have someone else’s crisis to take the place of their own. I suppose surrogate stress is a kinder, gentler form of trauma. As I listen to their muffled voices, I feel confident that things will be okay. Brew and Cody have been here for just a couple of hours and already their presence is making a difference. I can only hope that those good feelings stay.

  Cody has already taken root in the family room and plays video games. Mom removed all games that remotely suggest violence and death—but Cody’s doing a good job of making harmless cartoon characters suffer in fresh and inventive ways.

  “This game sucks,” he says, “but I like it.”

  Brontë’s in the spare room, which I guess isn’t spare anymore, talking to Brew in hushed tones. They stop the moment I enter.

  “I was just briefing Brew on the state of the union,” Brontë informs me.

  “As in the nation?”

  “As in our parents.”

  “I’m sure he can see it for himself.”

  There’s an unrest in Brew’s face that borders on sheer terror, so palpable I can almost feel it like heat from a furnace. It stands in stark contrast to my own growing sense of well-being. I wonder if Brontë sees it too or if she’s just so happy he’s here, she can’t see how it’s affecting him. The question is why? What is he so worried about?

  “I’d better go,” Brontë says, “before Dad finds me in here and decides to lock me away in a tower.” She gives Brew a quick kiss and leaves. I don’t think she ever notices just how deep his fear goes.

  “Do you think she’s still mad at me for not calling her right away?”

  I think about how to best answer him. “She wasn’t mad,” I say. “Just worried.”

  “I didn’t mean to worry her.”

  I put up my hand to stop him before he launches into an apology. “I’m sure Brontë understands, but she’s a chronic fixer. She freaks out if she’s not allowed to repair a situation.”

  “She couldn’t fix this.”

  “Actually, she did,” I remind him. “I mean, you’re here, aren’t you?”

  Then Brew looks down, nervously picking at his fingernails, and asks the million-dollar question. “Do your parents know about…about the stuff I do?”

  I shake my head. “No—and unless they start smacking each other with two-by-fours, I don’t think they’ll find out.”

  “But if they get a bad cut, and it suddenly goes away…”

  “Let’s hope they don’t,” I tell him.

  He unpacks his bag slowly and methodically. “People in school are talking about what happened, aren’t they?”

  I know he’s worried about going back to school. I’m about to tell him that there’s no problem; but I don’t want to lie to him, so I just shrug like I have nothing to say.

  “They think I killed him, don’t they?”

  I can’t escape the question, so I tell him the truth as tactfully as I can. “There are some imbeciles who have come up with their own version of how your uncle died,” I say; “but most people aren’t that stupid. Still, they might be a little standoffish
.”

  “I’m used to that.” He crosses the room to put some clothes in the dresser, and I notice he’s limping. In fact, he’d been favoring his right foot ever since he arrived. It’s different from the limp he had when he took Brontë’s sprained ankle. I wonder what that’s all about, but I don’t want to ask.

  He looks into the open drawer for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere. “Tennyson…,” he says, “…I didn’t kill my uncle.” And I can see how desperate he is for me to believe it.

  “I never thought you did.”

  Yet he doesn’t seem relieved. Maybe that’s because I’m not the one he’s trying to convince. As the conversation is headed toward dangerous rapids, I make a quick course correction.

  “So…how were the Gortons?”

  “I didn’t like them,” Brew says.

  “Yeah, they did seem a bit cold….”

  Brew closes the dresser drawer. “No—I mean I couldn’t like them. Because if I did, I’d have osteoporosis, arthritis, varicose veins, and who knows what else.”

  It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying, then the truth dawns on me. If he had liked them, he’d have ended up taking on all of their infirmities—even the ones he didn’t know about.

  “I had to do stuff to make them hate me right away,” Brew says. “Steal things, break things on purpose. It was easier to dislike them if they didn’t like me first.”

  “Sort of a preemptive strike,” I say. Only now do I begin to really understand how difficult it must be to carry the weight of his strange ability. He has to live his life in an emotional bubble—never caring—or he’d never survive. It’s a huge deal that he’s let Brontë and me into that bubble. I think back to the very first time he shook my hand—how he hesitated as we stood there in his kitchen. I had no idea what a huge decision he was making at that moment.

  “Well, don’t start breaking stuff around here,” I tell him, “or you and I are gonna have to revisit that black eye.”

  “I won’t,” he says.

  “I mean…you do like our family, right?”

  He hesitates—just as he did that time he shook my hand. I feel like the fate of the world is resting on his answer, and I don’t know why.

  “Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, I do.”

  46) SUBCUTANEOUS

  “Is it true? Because I won’t believe it unless I hear it from your mouth—did the Bruiser actually move in with you?”

  “Yeah,” I tell Katrina. “Him and his brother.”

  It’s lunchtime on Monday—Brew’s first day back at school. Katrina sits across the table from me, gaping like she might expel the salad she just ate. “That’s just insane!”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” I tell her, and get mad at myself for lying. Why do I feel I have to lie to her about it?

  “Well, I hope you lock your door at night, because I don’t want to be interviewed on CNN or something about how my boyfriend was murdered in his sleep.”

  I squirm on the bench, feeling like I’ve developed a nest of ants under my skin; but it’s just Katrina. “Leave the guy alone,” I say; “he’s not so terrible.”

  “No? Well, Ozzy O’Dell says—”

  “I don’t care what Ozzy O’Dell says; he’s a moron.”

  Katrina’s speechless, like she’s the one I just insulted. “I’m sorry,” she says, finally realizing that Bruiser-bashing is not a sport I engage in anymore. “If it’ll make you happy, I’ll tell everyone what a perfectly, wonderfully normal guy the Bruiser is.”

  I wonder if she even remembers his actual name. Did I know his name before Brontë started dating him? “You don’t have to do that either,” I mumble.

  She cocks her head and studies me, screwing up her lips. “Listen, I know what you’re going through. When my parents got divorced, I was all stressed-out, too.”

  “My parents are not getting divorced.”

  “Divorced, separated, whatever—the point is, temporary insanity goes with the territory, so I understand why you’re so snippy, and it’s okay.”

  Hearing that just makes me feel more “snippy,” because maybe she’s partly right. But on the other hand, my parents have stopped fighting, and there’s a sense of balance returning to the house. Well, maybe not balance, but a kind of cushioning—like we’re all inside a big bounce house, and no matter how hard we hit the wall, we’ll just rebound.

  “I’m fine with my parents,” I tell her. “And they’re fine, too.”

  She sighs. “Denial is normal. You’ll get over it.” She gives me a slim grin and a knowing nod, then says, “So, are we studying tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” I tell her. “I’ve got too many things going on at home.” Which is true on one level and false on another. I don’t have anything specifically that I have to do; but lately I’ve been feeling more and more like a homebod—not wanting to go out—and when I am out, I want to get home as quickly as possible. Maybe Katrina’s right. Maybe the turmoil in my family is affecting me. All I know is that, in spite of it, when I’m home I feel safe, like nothing can hurt me.

  47) DECIMATING

  Once in a while our school has half days, and the teachers spend the afternoon “in service,” which I think must be group therapy for having to deal with us. On those days a bunch of us usually go to the shopping center across the street. We hang out at the Burger King, or Ahab’s Coffee, or the smoothie place, depending on the length of the line.

  Usually my friends are pretty cool, except, of course, when they’re not. And it’s not only my friends that I hang out with, because they have friends, too, not all of whom I like. But as is the way with these things, you tolerate the bozos your friends bring to the table.

  So, I’m sitting in the smoothie place with the usual suspects, drinking smoothies and munching on chips, when in walks Brewster, who gets in line—only I don’t see him first; my friend Joe Crippendorf does. Crippendorf looks at me and says under his breath, “Guess they’ll serve anyone in here.”

  It gets several snickers from around the table. I take a long suck on my smoothie and say to Crippendorf, also beneath my breath, “Uncalled for.”

  He gets the message right away, and he’s wise enough to stop. However, one of the bozos my friends have brought along today is Ozzy O’Dell, the hairless wonder, who takes it upon himself to pick up where Crippendorf left off.

  “He’s here because they’ve got a new flavor,” Ozzy says. “Citrus Psycho.” A few of the same characters laugh, which just encourages him. “Yeah,” Ozzy continues, “it’s full of fruits and nuts.”

  Crippendorf tells Ozzy he’s a moron, and it’s seconded by a couple of others; but there are still a few who are laughing.

  “I’d shut it if I were you,” I warn him.

  But Ozzy thinks he’s on a roll. He goes right over to Brew. “So, Bruiser, how is it you’re back at school and not in jail for what you did? You must have a good lawyer.”

  Now only two kids give the slightest chuckle—the rest realize that Ozzy has crossed the line; but Ozzy’s the kind of cretin who needs only one person’s laughter to sustain his stupidity—his own.

  I stand up. “O’Dell, why don’t you sit your waxed ass down and leave him alone.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he taunts, “I forgot you two are like brothers now, right? Or is it sisters?”

  Now everyone’s looking at me and making that low ooooooh sound that precedes most high school confrontations.

  “Are you gonna let him get away with that?” says Crippendorf, because your friends just love to stir the water when they smell blood.

  I keep my cool; but when I see the look on Brew’s face, I know I must retaliate. I grab Ozzy’s smoothie, which he left on the table, and take a long sip—gurgling it in my mouth—and I say, with my mouth bubbling with smoothie, “Is it my imagination or is this smoothie saliva flavored?” Then I put the straw back in my mouth and backwash every last bit down the straw and into the cup, along with some potato chip bits that were still in my
mouth.

  Even Brew grins at that—but Ozzy sees the grin and goes after him. “What are you smiling at?” He pushes Brew against a glass display case, which rattles loudly enough to draw the manager’s attention.

  “Hey!” yells the manager. “Take it outside!”

  Ozzy turns to me, getting all red—not just on his face but on top of his shaved head as well. “You’re buying me a new one!” he demands.

  But we both know that that’s not gonna happen, so he steps forward and pushes me.

  I only remember fighting Ozzy O’Dell once. It was back in second grade. He threw these weird windmill-like punches, which was probably an early sign that the swim team was in his future.

  “Outside,” the manager says, “or I call the cops!” Apparently he doesn’t care how much blood is spilled as long as it’s not on his property.

  I storm outside, and Ozzy’s right behind me, along with everyone else.

  I probably look pretty angry, but actually I’m not. It’s weird. All I feel is a desire to end this and get on with my day—but when I glance over at Brew, he’s clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. He’s got enough anger for both of us. I know that it’s my responsibility to shut Ozzy up, because if I don’t, it’ll never end. He’ll go on tormenting Brew, spreading lies, and making the Bruiser’s life miserable.

  I get in Ozzy’s face. “You don’t know anything about anything, so from now on you’re gonna keep your mouth shut about the Bruiser or I swear I’ll rip out your spleen and make you eat it.” The spleen line usually works, because it’s one of the more mysterious organs and so any threat involving it is deeply troubling. In this case, however, Ozzy O’Dell has his own deeply troubling response.

  “You’re a nut job, just like him—even Katrina thinks so! She told me!”

  As I reel from this below-the-belt blow, more kids begin to gather. Now my voice comes out as a warning growl. “You have until the count of three to get out of my sight.”