Neal Shusterman - Bruiser

“Yeah, they did seem a bit cold….”

Brew closes the dresser drawer. “No—I mean I couldn’t like them. Because if I did, I’d have osteoporosis, arthritis, varicose veins, and who knows what else.”

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying, then the truth dawns on me. If he had liked them, he’d have ended up taking on all of their infirmities—even the ones he didn’t know about.

“I had to do stuff to make them hate me right away,” Brew says. “Steal things, break things on purpose. It was easier to dislike them if they didn’t like me first.”

“Sort of a preemptive strike,” I say. Only now do I begin to really understand how difficult it must be to carry the weight of his strange ability. He has to live his life in an emotional bubble—never caring—or he’d never survive. It’s a huge deal that he’s let Brontë and me into that bubble. I think back to the very first time he shook my hand—how he hesitated as we stood there in his kitchen. I had no idea what a huge decision he was making at that moment.

“Well, don’t start breaking stuff around here,” I tell him, “or you and I are gonna have to revisit that black eye.”

“I won’t,” he says.

“I mean…you do like our family, right?” He hesitates—just as he did that time he shook my hand. I feel like the fate of the world is resting on his answer, and I don’t know why.

“Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, I do.”

“Is it true? Because I won’t believe it unless I hear it from your mouth—did the Bruiser actually move in with you?”

“Yeah,” I tell Katrina. “Him and his brother.”

It’s lunchtime on Monday—Brew’s first day back at school. Katrina sits across the table from me, gaping like she might expel the salad she just ate. “That’s just insane!”

“It wasn’t my idea,” I tell her, and get mad at myself for lying. Why do I feel I have to lie to her about it?

“Well, I hope you lock your door at night, because I don’t want to be interviewed on CNN or something about how my boyfriend was murdered in his sleep.”

I squirm on the bench, feeling like I’ve developed a nest of ants under my skin; but it’s just Katrina. “Leave the guy alone,” I say; “he’s not so terrible.”

“No? Well, Ozzy O’Dell says—”

“I don’t care what Ozzy O’Dell says; he’s a moron.”

Katrina’s speechless, like she’s the one I just insulted. “I’m sorry,” she says, finally realizing that Bruiser-bashing is not a sport I engage in anymore. “If it’ll make you happy, I’ll tell everyone what a perfectly, wonderfully normal guy the Bruiser is.”

I wonder if she even remembers his actual name. Did I know his name before Brontë started dating him? “You don’t have to do that either,” I mumble.

She cocks her head and studies me, screwing up her lips. “Listen, I know what you’re going through. When my parents got divorced, I was all stressed- out, too.”

“My parents are not getting divorced.”

“Divorced, separated, whatever—the point is, temporary insanity goes with the territory, so I understand why you’re so snippy, and it’s okay.”

Hearing that just makes me feel more “snippy,” because maybe she’s partly right. But on the other hand, my parents have stopped fighting, and there’s a sense of balance returning to the house. Well, maybe not balance, but a kind of cushioning—like we’re all inside a big bounce house, and no matter how hard we hit the wall, we’ll just rebound.

“I’m fine with my parents,” I tell her. “And they’re fine, too.”

She sighs. “Denial is normal. You’ll get over it.” She gives me a slim grin and a knowing nod, then says, “So, are we studying tonight?”

“Not tonight,” I tell her. “I’ve got too many things going on at home.” Which is true on one level and false on another. I don’t have anything specifically that I have to do; but lately I’ve been feeling more and more like a homebod—not wanting to go out—and when I am out, I want to get home as quickly as possible. Maybe Katrina’s right. Maybe the turmoil in my family is affecting me. All I know is that, in spite of it, when I’m home I feel safe, like nothing can hurt me.

Once in a while our school has half days, and the teachers spend the afternoon “in service,” which I think must be group therapy for having to deal with us. On those days a bunch of us usually go to the shopping center across the street. We hang out at the Burger King, or Ahab’s Coffee, or the smoothie place, depending on the length of the line.

Usually my friends are pretty cool, except, of course, when they’re not. And it’s not only my friends that I hang out with, because they have friends, too, not all of whom I like. But as is the way with these things, you tolerate the bozos your friends bring to the table.

So, I’m sitting in the smoothie place with the usual suspects, drinking smoothies and munching on chips, when in walks Brewster, who gets in line— only I don’t see him first; my friend Joe Crippendorf does. Crippendorf looks at me and says under his breath, “Guess they’ll serve anyone in here.”

It gets several snickers from around the table. I take a long suck on my smoothie and say to Crippendorf, also beneath my breath, “Uncalled for.”

He gets the message right away, and he’s wise enough to stop. However, one of the bozos my friends have brought along today is Ozzy O’Dell, the hairless wonder, who takes it upon himself to pick up where Crippendorf left off.

“He’s here because they’ve got a new flavor,” Ozzy says. “Citrus Psycho.” A few of the same characters laugh, which just encourages him. “Yeah,” Ozzy continues, “it’s full of fruits and nuts.”

Crippendorf tells Ozzy he’s a moron, and it’s seconded by a couple of others; but there are still a few who are laughing.

“I’d shut it if I were you,” I warn him.

But Ozzy thinks he’s on a roll. He goes right over to Brew. “So, Bruiser, how is it you’re back at school and not in jail for what you did? You must have a good lawyer.”

Now only two kids give the slightest chuckle—the rest realize that Ozzy has crossed the line; but Ozzy’s the kind of cretin who needs only one person’s laughter to sustain his stupidity—his own.

I stand up. “O’Dell, why don’t you sit your waxed ass down and leave him alone.”

“Oh, sorry,” he taunts, “I forgot you two are like brothers now, right? Or is it sisters?”

Now everyone’s looking at me and making that low ooooooh sound that precedes most high school confrontations.

“Are you gonna let him get away with that?” says Crippendorf, because your friends just love to stir the water when they smell blood.

I keep my cool; but when I see the look on Brew’s face, I know I must retaliate. I grab Ozzy’s smoothie, which he left on the table, and take a long sip— gurgling it in my mouth—and I say, with my mouth bubbling with smoothie, “Is it my imagination or is this smoothie saliva flavored?” Then I put the straw back in my mouth and backwash every last bit down the straw and into the cup, along with some potato chip bits that were still in my mouth.

Even Brew grins at that—but Ozzy sees the grin and goes after him. “What are you smiling at?” He pushes Brew against a glass display case, which rattles loudly enough to draw the manager’s attention.

“Hey!” yells the manager. “Take it outside!”

Ozzy turns to me, getting all red—not just on his face but on top of his shaved head as well. “You’re buying me a new one!” he demands.

But we both know that that’s not gonna happen, so he steps forward and pushes me.