Neal Shusterman - Bruiser

So we make decisions and base our lives on those decisions, never realizing we’re only seeing one-tenth of the whole. Then we cling to our narrow conclusions like our lives depend on it.

Remember how they imprisoned Galileo for insisting the earth revolved around the sun? You can call those people ignorant, but it was more than mere ignorance. They had a lot to lose if they took off their blinders. Can you imagine how terrifying it must be to suddenly realize that everything you believe about the nature of the universe is wrong? Most people don’t realize how terrifying that is until their world is the one being threatened.

My world always revolved around our nuclear family. Mom, Dad, Tennyson, and me. It was an atom that might ionize once in a while, erratically spewing electrons here and there; but in spite of that, I always believed it was fundamentally stable. No one expects nuclear fission within the loving bonds of one’s own family.

My blinders didn’t allow me to see it coming.

I promised Tennyson I wouldn’t go to Brewster’s house, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t invite him to ours.

It was Friday, and I was already cooking dinner when Mom came home from the university. I had told her and Dad that tonight was the night Brew was coming; but I still couldn’t take the chance that Mom would forget and have to order fast food, or worse, pull out frozen burritos and try to pass them off as homemade. So I skipped Friday’s swim practice and got dinner going myself, thank you very much.

Sure enough, Mom’s mind was beyond elsewhere when she got home, so I had definitely made the right call. “Brewster will be coming at six,” I told her. “Just in time for dinner. Please, please, don’t bring out my baby pictures, or ask him about his philosophy of life the way you did with Max.”

Mom nodded, then said, “I’m sorry, honey, what was that?” like she was somewhere in deep space, where sound waves couldn’t travel. It drove me crazy that I had to repeat myself, and I still don’t know whether she heard.

If it weren’t for my blinders, I might have wondered about the bigger picture, but right then and there it was all about me.

“Please try to make him feel at home. Please try not to scare him away.”

“Did your father call?” Mom asked with an emptiness in her voice that I misread as exhaustion.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I’ve been out buying groceries.”

Tennyson arrived a bit later, all sweaty from lacrosse.

“Shower!” I ordered. “Brewster’s coming over for dinner.”

He looked worried and said to me quietly, “I don’t think this is a good night.”

“When is it ever?”

“No,” he said just as quietly. “There’s something wrong. Something going on. I could tell this morning at breakfast; didn’t you notice the way Mom and Dad were?”

“No.”

“It’s like…it’s like someone died and they haven’t told us yet. Anyway, whatever it is—”

“Whatever it is,” I said stridently, “it’s going to have to wait until after dinner. I’ve been planning this for a week, dinner is in the oven, and it’s too late to call it off.”

He gave no further argument and went off to shower.

When Dad came home, he opened a bottle of wine, which wasn’t unusual. He’d usually have a glass as he watched the news, and maybe one with dinner if the wine was one that complemented the meal—but never more than that. Tonight he guzzled the first glass with the wine bottle still in his hand and poured a second. I thought about what Tennyson had said but decided that whatever was wrong, a hearty, home-cooked meal would soothe it.

“Dad, save the second glass for dinner,” I told him. “Merlot goes well with what I’m making.”

“You?”

“Yes, me. Brewster’s coming for dinner, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

Brewster arrived just as I finished setting the table. “Am I too early?” he asked.

“Right on time,” I told him. “You look great.” He was dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt that was a little bit small on him; but that was his own personal style, and I’d come to appreciate it. His wavy hair was so well-groomed, he was hardly recognizable. I practically wanted to put him up as the centerpiece of the table and present him proudly to my parents; but instead I just made introductions, and they all shook hands.

Then, when everyone was seated, I brought the platter to the table. “ Voilà ,” I said. “ Bon appétit. ” And I unveiled my gastronomical masterpiece.

Tennyson and Brew just stared at it like it had come from Mars.

“What is that?” Tennyson asked.

“It’s a tri-tip roast,” I said.

Tennyson looked like he might become physically ill. “Where’d you get it?” he asked.

“The store. Where else?”

“I’ll pass.”

“What do you mean, you’ll pass? You can’t pass! I was cooking all afternoon!”

Tennyson turned to Brew, and Brew grinned. “Still not eating meat?”

“I’ll eat it when I’m good and ready,” said Tennyson.

The fact that the two of them had some secret that I wasn’t aware of really bothered me. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“Not while we’re eating,” said Tennyson, and he loaded his plate with asparagus, announcing that it didn’t make him a vegetarian.

“It’s a lovely dinner, Brontë,” said Mom; but instead of eating, she got up to clean the pots and pans that I had cooked with, refusing to sit down again.

Dad said nothing about the meal, or about anything else. He served himself and picked at the food on his plate, glaring down with an intensity that was both cold and hot at the same time, like he had a vendetta against the roast and hated each and every vicious spear of asparagus before him.

The silence around the table was awful and simply had to be broken, but no one was willing to do it but me.

“It’s not usually like this,” I told Brew. “That is to say, it’s not really this quiet. Usually we have conversations—especially when we have guests. Right?”

Finally Dad took the hint. “So, exactly how long have you known each other?” he asked, but his tone was strangely bitter.

“We started going out three weeks ago, if that’s what you mean,” Brew said. “But we’ve known each other since elementary school. Or at least known of each other.”

Dad shoved a piece of meat into his mouth and spoke with his mouth full. “Glad to hear it,” he said as he cut another piece of meat. “You have my blessing,” he said to me. “ Via con Dios .”

It was the most mad-bizarre thing I’d ever heard my father say. I turned to see Mom’s reaction, but she was still busy washing the pots and pans, keeping her back to the rest of us.

Finally I lost it. “ What’s wrong with you? ” I shouted to Mom and Dad.

No answer for a while. Then Dad said, “Nothing’s wrong, Brontë. I’m just worried about your mother. She’s putting so much effort into that ‘Monday night class’ she teaches, I’m concerned for her health.” He glared at her back like it was an accusation. Suddenly I realized that it was.

For a brief moment I met Brew’s eyes, and there was panic in them. I could see the way he held his utensils tightly in his hands, as if he’d have to use them as weapons at any moment. I turned to Tennyson, whose hands were out, palms down on the table; he was looking at his plate as if he were silently saying grace. No, that’s not it, I realized. My brother’s bracing himself. Bracing himself for what?

And suddenly my blinders fell away, letting the big picture invade my mind in all of its terrible glory.