Neal Shusterman - Bruiser

With neck hairs standing on end, secret panic
tripping in my brain, I cross into the petri dish of
despair, the chasm of chaos, the school
cafeteria,

Where larval troglodytes of blue and white collar
breeds practice the vicious social skills of
peacock preening and primate posturing amid
the satanic smell of institutional ravioli,

When I reluctantly join the line for food, I avoid all
eyes but notice, across the cafeteria, Tennyson
and his girlfriend, Katrina,

Who cling to each other like statically charged
particles, and I wonder if Brontë might cling to me
in the same way, even while under the judgmental
glare of the hormonal high school petting zoo, if
she didn’t avoid the cafeteria on principle,

When a hairless ape named Ozzy O’Dell forces his
way in front of me as if I’m nothing more than a
piece of soy-stretched meat lurking in the ravioli
and calls me the nickname he would much rather
call the special ed kids, if he could get away with it.

“Hey, Short-bus, make some room.”
“No. The end of the line’s back there.”
“I don’t think so—we’re in a hurry.”
“So am I.”
“For what? Freak practice?”

While he laughs at his own idiotic joke, I think how, in
the past, I would just let it go, but meeting Brontë
has changed me, and I’m boldly standing up for
myself in places that used to give me vertigo, so
as the lazy-eyed lunch lady hands Ozzy a plate of
ravioli, I tell him how shaving his head for swim
team was not a good idea, because it
emphasizes how small his brain is, the same way
his Speedo emphasizes how small other things
are,

Which makes his friends laugh at him instead of at
me, and Ozzy laughs, too, telling me it’s so funny I
deserve to get my ravioli first, because I’ve
earned it, then he hands over his plate full of the
slithery, sluglike pasta pockets,
and I’m confused enough to think that maybe he’s sincere,
because I don’t know the rules of the game,

When he rests his finger on the edge of my tray, not
forcefully enough for the lazy-eyed lunch lady to
notice but enough to shift the balance and flip the
whole tray, turning the ravioli into projectile pasta,
splattering every available surface, including the
expensive fashion statements of several
speechless kids,

Who believe Ozzy when he calls me a clumsy waste
of life, all eyes turning in my direction as if I’m the
one to blame, and I know I’m beaten because as
much as I want to expel my fury right in his face,
as much as I want to play whack-a-mole on his
hairless head, I can’t, and wouldn’t they all laugh
from here to the edge of their miserable universe
if they knew that the boy most likely to fry was
incapable of lifting a finger to hurt anyone, even if
the hurt was earned.

With nothing left but humiliation and red sauce, I just
want to escape, until Tennyson arrives out of
nowhere, barging his way between us, casting
himself as an unlikely avenger, and says, “Got a problem, Ozzy?”

While the lazy-eyed lunch lady, out of touch with
anything on the far side of the warming trays,
hands a plate of ravioli to Ozzy, which Tennyson
grabs from him and gives to me, asking Ozzy if
he plans to do anything about it because, if he
does, he should fill out his complaint form in
triplicate and shove them in all three of his bodily
orifices,

Which Ozzy has no comeback line for because he’s
still trying to figure out which three orifices
Tennyson might be referring to, if he even knows
what an orifice is, and even though I don’t want
Tennyson fighting my battles for me, I can’t help
but crack a smile, because now I finally
understand what it means to have a friend, and
maybe it’s worth the pain I’ll endure because of it.

Chest press, shoulder press, lats press, squats;
Tennyson is all business in the gym,
“Free weights are the way to go. Machines are for girls.”
Half an hour in, I’m feeling muscles I never knew I had.

Biceps, triceps, deltoids, pecs;
I am Tennyson’s new project,
“You need muscle mass to take on guys like Ozzy.”
Brontë might appreciate some muscle mass, too.

Crunches, curls, extensions, thrusts;
Tennyson is the trainer from hell,
“You want something easier? Go pick flowers.”
He tells me it’ll hurt even more tomorrow.

Low weight/high reps, high weight/low reps;
I’ll learn to love the burn if I don’t puke first,
“You think this is hard? Wait till next time.”
Tennyson says he’ll make a bruiser out of me yet, and laughs.

Elevate heart rate, hydrate, repeat;
Better living through anabolic exercise,
“Great workout,” he says. “And I’m not even sore.”
Right. Because I’m sore for both of us.

Lacrosse,
Soccer’s angry cousin,
Football’s neglected stepchild.
No cheerleaders, band, or stands,
Games are played on the practice field
If you want a chair you bring your own,
Brontë waves,
She’s saved me a spot,
It’s Raptors versus Bulls,
Dinosaur against beast of burden,
I’ve never seen the game played before.
We turn to the match, which has already begun.
Tennyson
Is a starting attackman.
He’s very good, but not great,
He’s a fast runner, but not the fastest,
Still, he makes up for it in bullheaded aggression.
“He’s always bucking for MVP,” Brontë says, “but never gets it.”
A pass,
He catches it
And moves downfield,
Cradling the ball in the net of his stick,
He shoots for the goal and misses by inches.
Then the Bulls power through the Raptor’s defenses;
Goal.
Disappointment.
I feel Tennyson’s frustration,
And I know that Brontë is right:
He’ll be a team captain, but never the star,
Unless he has something to make him invincible.
I’m breathless
As I watch the game,
Then I suddenly realize why;
Tennyson does have a secret weapon
That can make him the star of the game.
I wonder what he’ll do when he figures it out!
Stealing
The thunder
Of a stick check
To his right shoulder.
I bear the pain in silence
For fear that Brontë might see,
Scraped knee
Hidden by my jeans,
I could leave but choose to stay,
To surreptitiously sustain the blows,
Because if I am now Tennyson’s project,
It’s my right to make him my project as well.
Final whistle,
A Raptor victory!
Tennyson scored three goals,
And barely broke a sweat while doing it.
I kiss Brontë in the excitement of the moment.
Can she tell that I’m drenched beneath my Windbreaker?
And what if
When I get home,
Uncle Hoyt sees me,
Notices all the fresh bruises,
And knows that I’ve taken things,
From far beyond the bounds of our family?
I shudder
At the thought of him
Knowing about my secret life.
I could tell myself it would be all right,
That he could do no worse than he’s already done,
But there’s a pit in my uncle’s soul, and I’ve never seen the bottom.
I hope I never do.