Neal Shusterman - Bruiser

There’s no funeral for Uncle Hoyt.

Instead, his ex-wife has him quietly cremated and the ashes shipped back to her in Atlanta, where she will do whatever angry women do with their ex- husband’s ashes. Even so, the guy has it easier than Brewster, who has to suffer through The Week From Hell.

FRIDAY: Uncle Hoyt dies under mysterious circumstances.

SATURDAY: There’s no word from Brewster, and all we get are rumors from neighborhood kids—not just rumors about how it happened, but where Brew and Cody are now. Brontë and I are completely out of the loop, and it drives us nuts. There’s not a single reliable source of information, and all the possibilities are as nerve-racking as SAT choices:

A) “I hear the Bruiser shot his uncle and ran away.”

B) “I hear the Bruiser strangled his uncle, and the FBI is holding him.”

C) “I hear his uncle was whacked by the Mafia, and now the Bruiser’s in the witness protection program.”

D) “I hear Bruiser never actually had an uncle, and Ralphy Sherman says they found radioactive material in the basement.”

We’re the only ones who know Brew well enough to know the answer is E) None of the above.

SUNDAY: Brontë, who has never thrown a punch in her life at anyone but me, gets into a death match cat fight in the street with some cheerleader who calls Brewster a psycho. The offending young lady won’t be shaking her pom-poms anytime soon.

“Welcome to the Dark Side,” I tell Brontë. She is not amused.

MONDAY: In school, word comes down that Uncle Hoyt’s autopsy revealed a blood clot in the brain. It was a stroke, but it’s too late to shut down the rumors and the mindless whispers by asinine students that it’s just a cover story and that Brewster killed him. We still don’t hear from Brewster. TUESDAY: Brontë accosts our school psychologist —a tall, slithery man who, in my opinion, doesn’t exactly engender an air of safety and trust. He claims doctor/patient confidentiality and won’t say much of anything at first—but Brontë has a way of charming snakes.

She seems much more relaxed after she finally breaks through to some actual facts. Brew and Cody were taken in by Mrs. Gorton—Cody’s old kindergarten teacher, now retired. She lives near Brew’s house, saw the police at their place, and took them to her house when social services didn’t show.

It was a full day before a social worker even arrived at their door.

WEDNESDAY: We finally receive a call from Brew and get a clearer picture. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Gorton are very big in their church, which means setting an example as Pillars of Virtue and doing the whole What Would Jesus Do? thing. Of course, the problem with them being an example is that Brewster and Cody have to be examples, too: living testimonies to the grace of God. Brew’s the last person to want that kind of spotlight.

“It’s much too Huckleberry Finn-ish for me,” Brontë says after she gets off the phone with him. “They’re keeping Brew and Cody under lock and key as they try to ‘civilize’ them. They wouldn’t even let Brew call me until today. Even in jail they give a person one phone call, don’t they?”

I suspect that Brew has other reasons for going incommunicado, but I keep my suspicions to myself.

THURSDAY: Brew still hasn’t resurfaced at school, and there’s no indication when, or even if, he ever will. Perhaps they’re transferring Brew and Cody to someplace else.

That afternoon Brontë pays a visit to the Gortons with me in tow for moral support.

“Brewster and Cody aren’t at home,” Mrs. Gorton says when she answers the door; but her story doesn’t wash, because Cody runs out and nearly tackles Brontë with a hug.

“Brewster’s sleeping,” Mrs. Gorton says—but I see him peeking out between the upstairs blinds then ducking back out of sight. For a Pillar of Virtue, Mrs. Gorton sure does lie a lot. She tells us that the boys have been seeing doctors for much of the week, apparently for both physical and psychological assessments. Considering Brewster’s various contusions, which were clearly gifts from their late uncle, many doctors were in order.

“I just want to talk to him,” Brontë pleads.

“He doesn’t want to see anyone now.” This time she’s telling the truth—and Brontë knows it, too, because I can see how hurt she is by it.

“Give him this, please,” she says. “Tell him it’s from Brontë.” Then she hands Mrs. Gorton one of those little pastel-colored volumes of bad inspirational poetry—the kind they sell in greeting card stores—definitely not the kind of poetry that Brewster likes; but the woman takes one look at the flowery book and is almost moved to tears.

“Of course I’ll give it to him, dear.”

We walk home, mission failed.

“Do you really think he’ll like those cheesy poems?” I ask.

“It wasn’t for him; it was for her,” Brontë explains. “To win her over so the next time I come by she’ll let me in.”

I stand corrected: Mission accomplished.

FRIDAY: Brontë’s investigative eavesdropping into teachers’ private conversations reveals a problem: In a situation like this, social services bends over backward to make it easy to become a foster parent—basically, anyone without a criminal record can get approved—and since the Gortons had already taken in Brew and Cody, they were being put on the fast track to foster parenthood. However, Mr. Gorton, in his youth, did six months for auto theft before he found religion; and although his criminal history was history and God stuck like glue, it didn’t matter. The couple came up short in the eyes of the law.

Now it’s only a matter of time before their application is denied. Then Brewster and Cody will be pulled out of the Gortons’ home and taken to a state facility, where love and concern get divided like cake at a wedding.

That weekend Brontë comes up with the Big Idea. I knew it was coming.

It’s Sunday, and we’re out front washing Mom’s car. It looks like it’s about to rain, but it’s something to get us out of the house. Something to keep our minds and hands occupied—because you know what they say about idle hands and all. We soap up the car, not even paying attention to the fact that one of the windows is open and we’re getting the upholstery wet. Mom won’t yell at us about it. She doesn’t yell at us much since she’s afraid we’ll yell back—and lately we have much more powerful ammunition than she does. It’s a clear indication that Brontë and I are now the superpowers within our own family, and you don’t attack a superpower. Frankly, though, I’d much prefer to have stability return to the region.

“You know what will happen to them once the Gortons get denied,” Brontë says. “They’ll end up in some orphanage or workhouse or something.”

“Don’t be Dickensian,” I tell her. “They don’t have workhouses in this day and age”—although I’m not quite sure what modern, twenty-first-century orphanages are like. All I know is that once a month there’s a big shocking-pink plastic bag around our doorknob screaming for clothes donations for “the something home for something-something children.” I also know that Brewster’s terrified of being sent to one.

“Wherever they end up, it won’t be good,” she says, wringing out her sponge like she’s trying to strangle it.

I know exactly where she’s going with this—like I said, I’ve been waiting for it—but I don’t want to deny her the satisfaction of getting there, so I play dumb. “Maybe they’ll get other foster parents,” I suggest.

“The last thing Brewster and Cody need is to be handed off over and over again.” She soaps up the hood of the car in serpentine curves as she wends her way to her point. “It just seems so ridiculous,” she says, “when we have a spare room big enough for both of them.”