Neal Shusterman - Bruiser

“I’m sure we can,” I said before Brew could respond. “Thank you.”

Amanda got up and left, satisfied, but Joe lingered. “Hey, Brewster,” he said, “all the years I’ve known you, I’ve kinda been an idiot. Maybe not as bad as Ozzy, but still, I was.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brew said.

But Joe wouldn’t let it go as fast as that. I found that admirable. “Well, it wasn’t right. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that I, for one, think you’re okay.”

“Thanks, Crippendorf.” And the fact that Brew called him by his last name solidified their friendship. Joe left, and Brew just sat there kind of dazzled— and with good reason. This was more than just my handpicked circle of close friends; this was a grassroots movement. People love jumping on bandwagons, and no bandwagon is more inviting than that of an unassuming hero. Sure, Brew might just have been the flavor of the week and next week everyone would forget, but some of these newfound friendships were bound to linger. I gave him a hug tight enough to adjust his spine in a chiropractic sort of way.

“See?” I told him. “Everything’s changing for you.”

He tucked his invitation into his pocket and didn’t say a word.

That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I went downstairs for a midnight snack. I couldn’t help but peek in through the open door of the guest room as I passed, admittedly hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of Brew in his boxers, which I have only seen when it’s my turn to fold the laundry.

Brew was sitting up in bed, fully dressed, knees to chest; and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

“Brew?”

He rolled out his shoulders. “Cody had a nightmare,” he said, although from what I could see, Cody was sleeping soundly. Brew, on the other hand, showed no sign of having slept at all.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. “If something’s wrong and you want to talk about it…”

He didn’t say anything at first. Then he lowered his head, shaking it. “I just… I just don’t think I can do this, Brontë.”

“No one’s expecting you to do anything.”

But when he turned to me, the weighty look in his eyes said otherwise. I glanced away. “I’ve been thinking about Uncle Hoyt,” he said.

The mention of the man’s name made me uncomfortable. I know we should have respect for the dead, but why should we respect those who hadn’t earned it in life?

“Uncle Hoyt told me to hate the world—that it was the only way I’d survive.”

“What a terrible thing to say.”

“But what if he was right?” He looked at me, pleading for me to tell him that his uncle was wrong. I wanted to hold him, but that would be breaking the golden rule. While in this house, Brew could not be my boyfriend. An awful rule… but considering the fact that I was sitting on his bed in a clandestine midnight encounter, feeling the things I was feeling, well…that made it a necessary awful rule.

“Your uncle was not right. About anything,” I told him. “What’s the point of living if you’re going to hate the world? Guard your heart if you have to, but don’t shut it away.”

He smiled. “‘Guard your heart.’ My mother used to say that.” It was the first time he’d ever spoken of his mother. I waited for more, but that’s all he chose to share. “It’s going to be fine,” I told him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I got up to leave, but before I reached the threshold, he said:

“I killed my uncle.”

I froze in the doorway. There were a hundred different things that flew through my mind at that moment. Everything from Most Likely to Receive the Death Penalty to the unthinkable concept that all those ridiculous school rumors could be right. But I had enough rational thoughts swimming around to see through to what he meant rather than what he had said. I turned back to him.

“Your uncle died of a stroke.”

“Yes,” Brew admitted. “But I was there. I could have saved him. He asked me to, but instead I left him to die.”

Hearing that left me speechless for a moment. I took a look at his left leg—the one that had developed the sudden, strange limp. That wasn’t a twisted ankle; it wasn’t going away. Only now did I realize where it had come from, and why he harbored such guilt. The thought of Uncle Hoyt putting Brew in that position—of asking Brew to die for him—just made me even more furious at that miserable man.

“You took more than your share of pain from him,” I pointed out. “That day, and every day before. It was his life to lose, not yours.”

He nodded; but it was just an acknowledgment, not acceptance. I don’t know if anything anyone could say would convince him. It’s hard to understand how someone who has such power to transform the lives of those he touches could still feel so desperate for redemption.

“Your uncle used you, right down to the moment he died,” I told him. “I swear to you, Brew, no one’s ever going to use you like that again.”

I’m off my game, and I’m not feeling right.

The coach knows that something’s up with me. He pulls me out at the half. We’re down 6 to 3 against an easy team. I haven’t scored once.

I’m nervous and unsettled. I tell myself it’s because Katrina’s not at the game. She’s always at the game. She’s kind of like my good-luck charm. I keep hoping she’ll show up and that when she does I’ll be able to get my head clear. What’s more, my lack of focus is contagious. I guess I affect the mood of the team far more than I realize, because my teammates keep missing passes and obvious opportunities to score, getting crankier by the minute.

It’s Katrina. Has to be. She didn’t even text to let me know she wasn’t coming. She hasn’t called or texted me for two days; and when I call her, I just get left in voice mail purgatory.

I watch the game, miserable on the bench as we give up another goal. By the fourth quarter all I want to do is go home.

We’re shut out by one of the worst teams in the league. While the other team celebrates their surreal and unexpected victory, our coach lays into us, which is just what we deserve—or at least I deserve it. If we lose one more game, we won’t even qualify for league finals. Killer practices all next week.

I should go straight home, but I don’t. Instead I take a detour to Ahab’s—our neighborhood coffeehouse trying painfully hard to be Starbucks, down to the obvious rip-off names of their drinks. I figure I’ll stop in for a Phrappuccino to console myself, but even before I reach for the door, I see them inside.

Katrina sits beside a bald kid with a bandaged face.

And his hand is on her knee.

All of a sudden it’s Mom and the fur ball all over again; and I keep walking, never going inside, trying to figure out which of the two sights is worse: Mom and her boyfriend or Katrina and Ozzy. Now more than ever I just want to get home.

So Katrina’s playing nurse again, just like she did when we first started going out. She’s taken in the wounded while hitting my ejection button in one smooth stroke. And how unfair is it that I can’t even walk in there and punch him out since I already broke his freaking nose? Home! The second I get in the front door and close it behind me, I start to feel better. I find Brontë in the living room working on some project with Brewster. Papers are spread on the coffee table.

Brontë looks up when she sees me. “How was the game?” she asks.

“They lost,” Brew says.

“How can you tell?” she asks.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“The game went fine,” I say, not wanting to get into it. It’s over. Now that I’m home, it’s history. Even thinking about Ozzy and Katrina doesn’t feel quite so horrifying.