Neal Shusterman - Bruiser

I can see Cody mouthing the word cathartic with a grimace, like it’s a verbal Brussels sprout; and I wonder if our parents are going to inflict him and Brew with a daily power word, too.

If nothing else, this has forced Mom and Dad to sit at the same dinner table again—and Mom has actually cooked a meal. Okay, so it’s lasagna from Costco, but at least she turned on the oven and put it in!

“I know you’ve had a rough time of it,” Mom says, mostly to Brew, “but from here on in, you don’t have to worry about anything.”

“More lasagna?” says Brontë. I think she believes that if everyone’s mouth can be kept full, there’s less chance that someone will say something unfortunate.

“How’s your basketball coming?” Dad asks Brew.

“Haven’t played since that time with you guys.”

“Well, we’ll have to do it again.”

It’s as if our parents have begun a new competition to see who can be more compassionate to troubled youth.

“I hope you boys are okay with the guest room,” Mom says.

And I say, “So, where will you sleep, Dad?”

I just meant it as a simple question, but then realize that this is one of those unfortunate moments Brontë has been trying to avoid. I shove some lasagna in my mouth, but it’s too late. I glance to Mom, who fusses with her napkin rather than look at me. The fact that no one has discussed with Brontë and me how this is all going to work is yet another symptom of the downed communications line within our family.

“Well, Tennyson,” says my father, “I suppose I could room with you….” He tries to be flip and funny when he says it, but he can’t mask the tension thundering in just behind his words.

“Sure, whatever,” I say. I think this is the first time in years I’ve used the expression “whatever,” as it’s on our family’s list of banned slang; but when I say it, there’s an audible breath of relief from both of my parents.

Then Brontë says, “You and Mom have shared a bed for seventeen years; I don’t think it’ll kill you to share it a little while longer.”

He takes a few moments to chew, and then Dad says, “True.” I can sense no emotion in his response either way.

Brontë, who was so determined to shut everyone else up just a minute ago, is still not done. “I mean, we have a situation, and we should all make the best of it; isn’t that right, Mom?”

“We’ll work things out to the best of our ability,” my mother says. She really should run for Congress.

“Now, you know this isn’t permanent,” Dad reminds us all.

“Yes, sir,” says Brew.

“But we are more than happy to have you here for as long as it takes,” Mom adds.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Brew. No one in memory has ever called my parents sir or ma’am.

“I’m sure they’ll find a more appropriate family who’d be willing to take both of you in.”

“And,” adds Dad, “who aren’t quite as strange as us.”

“Don’t worry,” Brew says, looking over at Brontë with a grin. “I like strange.”

She gives him a playful love-hit, which sends Dad to prickly, uncomfortable places. “The guest room has its own bathroom,” Dad says. “It’s convenient— you’ll never need to go upstairs.”

Brontë drops her fork on her plate for effect. “My God, Dad, why don’t you install motion sensors on the stairs to make sure he doesn’t come up at night?”

“Don’t think we haven’t thought of that, dear,” says Mom in her I-can-be-as-impertinent-as-you voice, and for a moment—just the slightest moment— things feel almost normal.

An hour after dinner, I can hear Mom and Dad in their bedroom discussing Cody-and-Brew-related details.

Their bedroom.

I like the fact that I can say that again. This is the most Mom and Dad have said to each other in weeks. It must be a relief to have someone else’s crisis to take the place of their own. I suppose surrogate stress is a kinder, gentler form of trauma. As I listen to their muffled voices, I feel confident that things will be okay. Brew and Cody have been here for just a couple of hours and already their presence is making a difference. I can only hope that those good feelings stay.

Cody has already taken root in the family room and plays video games. Mom removed all games that remotely suggest violence and death—but Cody’s doing a good job of making harmless cartoon characters suffer in fresh and inventive ways.

“This game sucks,” he says, “but I like it.”

Brontë’s in the spare room, which I guess isn’t spare anymore, talking to Brew in hushed tones. They stop the moment I enter.

“I was just briefing Brew on the state of the union,” Brontë informs me.

“As in the nation?”

“As in our parents.”

“I’m sure he can see it for himself.”

There’s an unrest in Brew’s face that borders on sheer terror, so palpable I can almost feel it like heat from a furnace. It stands in stark contrast to my own growing sense of well-being. I wonder if Brontë sees it too or if she’s just so happy he’s here, she can’t see how it’s affecting him. The question is why? What is he so worried about?

“I’d better go,” Brontë says, “before Dad finds me in here and decides to lock me away in a tower.” She gives Brew a quick kiss and leaves. I don’t think she ever notices just how deep his fear goes.

“Do you think she’s still mad at me for not calling her right away?”

I think about how to best answer him. “She wasn’t mad,” I say. “Just worried.”

“I didn’t mean to worry her.”

I put up my hand to stop him before he launches into an apology. “I’m sure Brontë understands, but she’s a chronic fixer. She freaks out if she’s not allowed to repair a situation.”

“She couldn’t fix this.”

“Actually, she did,” I remind him. “I mean, you’re here, aren’t you?”

Then Brew looks down, nervously picking at his fingernails, and asks the million-dollar question. “Do your parents know about…about the stuff I do?”

I shake my head. “No—and unless they start smacking each other with two-by-fours, I don’t think they’ll find out.”

“But if they get a bad cut, and it suddenly goes away…”

“Let’s hope they don’t,” I tell him.

He unpacks his bag slowly and methodically. “People in school are talking about what happened, aren’t they?”

I know he’s worried about going back to school. I’m about to tell him that there’s no problem; but I don’t want to lie to him, so I just shrug like I have nothing to say.

“They think I killed him, don’t they?”

I can’t escape the question, so I tell him the truth as tactfully as I can. “There are some imbeciles who have come up with their own version of how your uncle died,” I say; “but most people aren’t that stupid. Still, they might be a little standoffish.”

“I’m used to that.” He crosses the room to put some clothes in the dresser, and I notice he’s limping. In fact, he’d been favoring his right foot ever since he arrived. It’s different from the limp he had when he took Brontë’s sprained ankle. I wonder what that’s all about, but I don’t want to ask.

He looks into the open drawer for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere. “Tennyson…,” he says, “…I didn’t kill my uncle.” And I can see how desperate he is for me to believe it.

“I never thought you did.”

Yet he doesn’t seem relieved. Maybe that’s because I’m not the one he’s trying to convince. As the conversation is headed toward dangerous rapids, I make a quick course correction.

“So…how were the Gortons?”

“I didn’t like them,” Brew says.