Neal Shusterman: Bruiser

Katrina and I had begun as what you might call a consolation couple. In other words, she really wanted to go out with my friend Andy Beaumont, and I really wanted to go out with her friend Stacy VerMoot. But Andy and Stacy found each other, and have since become surgically attached at the hip. That left Katrina and me as each other’s consolation prize. As I had just dislocated my shoulder and Katrina wants to be a nurse, it all just popped into place.

“Life,” my father had once said, “is all about settling.” Unfortunately, he’d said that right in front of Mom, who proceeded to serve him a peanut butter and onion sandwich for dinner that night.

“Life is all about settling,” she reminded him as she slipped the plate in front of him. His response had been to eat the whole horrific sandwich out of spite, then catch her unawares with a big, slobbery, peanut butter and onion kiss. After that they didn’t speak to each other for about a day and a half. I swear, parents can be such children.

I meet Katrina at her house, and we walk to Wackworld, since buses in our corner of suburbia don’t go anywhere but to some place called the Transportation Center, where you can catch a dozen other buses that don’t go anywhere. Since I’m still not old enough for a license, my only choices are bike, parental taxi, or my own two feet. Katrina always prefers walking, because it provides us with an opportunity to talk. Actually, it provides her with an opportunity to talk and me with the opportunity to listen. The only time those roles reverse is after a lacrosse game, when you can’t shut me up.

“…so for the entirety of math class,” Katrina continues, “Miss Markel has one of her false eyelashes dangling half on, half off her left eye, like a caterpillar; and the whole class is watching and waiting for the thing to drop….”

I don’t mind her stories anymore. When we first started going out, I would zone out when she got into it; but as time went on, I got used to it and actually found that I enjoyed listening.

“…I don’t know why she wears false lashes; I guess it must be a generational thing, like the way some women pluck out their eyebrows, then paint on fake ones, or like foot binding in India—”

“China.”

“Right, and I think she wears a wig, too. So anyway, she finally turns her head real fast and off the eyelash flies, and where does it land? Right on the head of Ozzy O’Dell—who had just shaved all his body hair for swimming, including his head; and since the thing still has a little glue, it sticks there on top of his scalp, like a teeny-tiny Mohawk, and he doesn’t even know….”

The thing about Katrina is that her voice is kind of hypnotic, like a spiritual chant in some foreign language.

“…so tell me, how was I supposed to focus on a math quiz with Mini-Mohawk Ozzy sitting in front of me, the thing flapping in the breeze from the open window?”

“Did Markel ever notice it?”

“Yeah, like five minutes before the end of class she saw it, quietly plucked it from his head, then slipped it into her desk drawer, thinking no one saw, even though everyone did—but by then it was too late to get my quiz done, so the whole thing was a crash and burn of epic proportions, and all because of a stupid fake eyelash.” Katrina’s life is very dramatic. Maybe my sister thinks that by going out with the Bruiser she’ll have drama, too; but I know guys better than she knows guys, and knowing that guy, I think she’s in for something more in the horror genre.

The entrance to Wackworld Miniature Golf Emporium is marked with a massive sign all done in bright red letters on a very serious black background. The sign warns of all the activities that are not allowed. Every few months a new item gets added as visitors come up with amazing new activities to threaten life, limb, and property. Any time I go there, I make a point of reading the sign to find out what new things have been added. Here are my personal favorites:

Do not fill the fountain with alcohol, gasoline, or other flammable substances!

Attaching children to the arms of the windmill by means of staple gun or other such devices is strictly prohibited!

Toads, turtles, and other small animals may not be substituted for golf balls!

Please do not paint genitalia on the mermaids!

I am proud to say that I was responsible for the addition of that last one a few years back.

As we enter through the gate, I scan the rolling hills of concrete and artificial turf until finding Brontë and the Bruiser. They’re on hole three but have moved on to hole four by the time Katrina negotiates herself an acceptable club and demands a red ball from the ball shack geek.

“Why red?” I ask.

“Easier to spot,” she says. “Besides, red is the new black.”

“I thought pink was the new black.”

“Yes, but red is the new pink.”

I point at my shirt. “What does that say for green?”

“It only gets worse for green.” Then she hits her ball; it smacks the windmill blade and comes flying back at us.

“I hate windmills,” says Katrina.

“You and Don Quixote.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” I suffer the constant scourge of literary parents. Thank God I’m good at sports, or I might have been pegged early in life and beaten up in hallways. Life is cruel.

We putt our way through the first hole. Just ahead of us, a slow-moving family allows us to play through. I get a hole in one, and that speeds us along. Now Brontë and the Bruiser are only two holes ahead.

“Hey,” says Katrina, “isn’t that your sister?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess it is.”

“Who’s that she’s with?”

I just shrug and continue playing. We both make a quick par three, and we’ve closed the gap down to one hole.

Up ahead, Brontë has spotted me. I give her a grin and a little wave. She sends me back a chilly glare that could end global warming.

“Hi, Brontë,” Katrina says as we finally intercept them.

“What a surprise!” I say.

“Yeah,” grumbles Brontë, “some surprise.”

I look at the Bruiser—this is the first time I’ve ever been this close to him. He’s big. Not just big but hulking. At sixteen he’s got all this goat hair under his chin and wispy sideburns. His hair is dark, and neglected. You can tell he tried to comb it, but you can also tell he gave up halfway through. He looks like a vagrant in training. I hate him. I hate the concept of him. He’s a freight train of bad news barreling at my sister.

“Hey, can we join you guys,” Katrina asks, “and make it a foursome?”

The Bruiser shrugs like he doesn’t care; and Brontë throws up her hands, giving up all hope of getting rid of me. “Sure,” she says miserably, “why not.”

“You haven’t introduced me to your friend,” I say, all daisies and sunshine.

Brontë looks like she might become physically ill. “Brewster, this is my brother, Tennyson. Tennyson, this is Brewster.”

“Hey,” says the Bruiser, shaking my hand. His eyes are an ugly pea green, and his huge hand is greasy, the way your hand gets after you’ve eaten a bag of chips. After shaking, I wipe my hand on my pants. He notices. I’m glad.

Katrina narrows her eyes at him, studying him. “I’ve got a class with you, haven’t I?” She knows the Bruiser but just doesn’t recognize him out of his natural environment. “English,” he says in a dead, flat voice. This guy is the king of one-word answers—probably all his brain can hold at one time. He sets for his shot. It’s almost comical; his golf club is much too small for him, as is his shirt—either he outgrew it, or it shrunk a few sizes after he got it. The overall effect is very Winnie- the-Pooh, without the pot belly or cuteness. He hits the ball too hard, it bounces off the course, and it gets swallowed by a topiary hedge shaped like a walrus.