Neal Shusterman - Bruiser

Brew put all of his thoughts on the chicken parts in the sink and didn’t answer. Then Uncle Hoyt laughed big. He was changed from the time we came in. At first he was all nervous and squirrelly, but now he was proud and strutting and funny, like I like him to be. He even looked taller.

“Feeling better, Uncle Hoyt?” I asked.

“Cody,” he said, “a million bucks ain’t got nothin’ on me.” Which must mean yes. “You leave that chicken in the sink, Brew,” he said. “I’ll fry it up for us. I’ll even save you the biggest piece.”

Brew went to our room, practically knocking me over on his way out, and Uncle Hoyt went onto the porch to have a smoke. I brought my backpack into our room and saw Brew sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall like he’s holding it up.

“You okay, Brew?”

“He’s never gonna let me go, Cody.” He rubbed his arms like he was cold; he rubbed his shoulder like it hurt. “He’s gonna keep me here, taking his bursitis, his ulcers, and every one of his aches and pains.”

“He’s just protecting you,” I reminded him.

“From what? From the world? From Brontë?”

I didn’t have the answer, but the thought of Brewster going anywhere scared me.

“Why would you want to leave anyway?”

“Forget it,” he said. “Go watch TV.”

But I didn’t. Instead I went out to sit with Uncle Hoyt on the porch, because he’s nice to be around when he’s in a good mood.

“This is how it should be,” he said. “Sunset on the porch, and dinner in the oven.”

“It’s not in the oven yet.”

He laughed, then got quiet for a second, taking a long puff on his cigarette. “Your brother doesn’t really go to math tutoring, does he?”

Now I had to think up my own half-truth.

“I’m at the library,” I told him. “I don’t know who he’s with.”

“Ah! So he’s with somebody!”

“No!” I told him, trying to back out of what I said, but sometimes words are like quicksand. “I said I don’t know—I don’t even know her name!” He smiled the same smile as when he was talkin’ about the dog. Since I didn’t know what that smile meant, I slid just a little bit away from him in case my lying was reason to hit me, which it probably was.

“So,” said Uncle Hoyt, “Brewski’s got a girlfriend.”

This time I just kept quiet, since the quicksand was already over my head.

“Bound to happen sooner or later,” he said. “Just as long as she doesn’t know about him and what he can do. Your brother’s not stupid enough to tell her that.”

He took his cigarette out of his mouth and studied it for a second—then he slowly lowered the lit end toward his arm, just beneath his elbow. He pressed the cigarette to his own skin. I gasped. He grimaced and hurled the cigarette away, cursing. There was a red spot on his arm, but only for a couple of seconds and then was gone.

And inside Brew screamed bloodymurder.

Uncle Hoyt brushed away the ash from his arm, which showed no sign of what he’d done.

“You see that, Cody?” he said. “It’s us that Brew cares about, and God bless him for it. That girl is nothing, nothing at all. Now be a good boy and go tend to your brother.”

I went inside to get the Band-Aids, glad that Uncle Hoyt kept his temper and didn’t go foul.

If he touches her, I swear I’m going to brain him with my lacrosse stick and send what little gray matter comes out of his ears to the Smithsonian exhibit on prehistoric man.

What is my mother thinking? What’s she even doing sneaking around with this guy? He’s short, funny looking, and has no business eating meals in a public place with my mother—much less in an outdoor café where a person’s offspring might walk by and see her. From what I can see, the only thing he’s got going for him is hair, but so does a baboon. You can’t even see his face beneath that stupid beard—not that I’d want to. And why does he keep picking at that greasy facial hair anyway? What’s he looking for, lice?

How am I supposed to focus on today’s game with the image of them sharing a crème brûlée burned into my retinas like a cattle brand? I know she must have seen me. And I know she won’t say anything about it when I get home tonight.

The only shred of hope is that the suitcases are still in the basement, and nobody’s packing. Sure, Dad’s moved into the guest room—but he did that last year when he was the one sharing desserts with a total stranger. “This will pass,” I tell myself. I just wish I could believe it.

But I’ve got to put it out of my mind—I have a game to think about.

We’re on a winning streak, and I intend to keep it that way.

When I get to the field, Katrina’s there to cheer me on, along with Ozzy O’Dell and his stupid swim- shaved body and a half-dozen other classmates. What interest Ozzy has in lacrosse, I haven’t got a clue. I really don’t feel like talking to anyone right now, but Katrina comes up to me.

“So Mr. Martinez is all like ‘¿Dónde está su tarea?’ and Ozzy’d memorized like ten different excuses for not having his homework—in perfect Spanish—so nobody else in the class knows what he’s saying; but it makes Mr. Martinez laugh so hard, he’s all like ‘That’s even better than homework’—and not only does Martinez give Ozzy a homework pass, he gives him extra crédito , which is extra credit in Spanish, and—Tennyson, are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah. Extra credit. Very funny.”

In my current state of mind, the last thing I want to do is play lacrosse against the Gators, whose sportsmanship quotient is one step below the World Wrestling Federation. They send someone to the hospital every other game. But I’ve been hot for the past few games—strong and focused—playing better than I’ve ever played before. I can’t let this whole thing with Mom take away my edge.

Brontë shows up, I think because she’d rather be here than at home these days. I’m about to tell her that I saw Mom with some short, hairy guy, but I decide to spare her the pain.

“Let me see your knuckles,” she says.

I groan in frustration. “They’re the same. Healed. So leave me alone—I don’t go asking to look at your nonexistent cut, so don’t insist on seeing my nonexistent scabs.”

Brontë finds it amazing that I can just accept Brewster’s ability without question.

“How could you not be freaked out by the impossible?”

“He does it,” I tell her, “so obviously it’s not impossible.” My answer just infuriates her. I love it when that happens.

The truth is, I don’t have room in my skull to spend endless hours obsessing over what Brewster can do. I have enough to deal with, between school, lacrosse, and the fact that Dad sleeps on a foldout and Mom’s having lunch with the Missing Link. What’s worse is that Mom and Dad won’t talk about what’s going on. In my book that’s far more surreal than anything Brew can do.

The game begins and I get right into it, living in the moment, putting everything else out of my mind. I’m an attackman—the front offensive line—and the Gators are a formidable foe. I’ve got to be quick and alert if I’m going to score against them.

The whistle blows, and we scrap for the ball. One of our midfielders gets it and passes to me. I tear down the field, cradling the ball in the pocket of my stick. I dodge the Gators’ defenders and toss it to our right wing—who should pass it back to me, since I’ve got a clean shot; but instead he goes for it himself, and misses by a mile.

The Gators’ keeper is on it in an instant and hurls the ball deep into our territory. It suddenly strikes me that even though Brontë is here, neither of my parents has made it to a game this year.