Neal Shusterman: Bruiser

In the kitchen, Mom marinates meat for Dad, who’s out back getting the barbecue going—something he rarely does this time of year. I scavenge the fridge, and Mom says, “Don’t ruin your appetite!”

Normal.

How could anything be wrong when everything at home feels so perfectly normal?

By the time I get up to my room and stretch out on my bed, I can feel the last of my frustration leave me. It feels like I’m enveloped in an invisible security blanket. All is well with the world. And all will be well with Katrina—because I’m already working the angles, formulating a plan. There are two things that go straight to Katrina’s heart: injury and victory. Well, Ozzy’s got injury all locked up—but victory is mine. Or at least it will be.

I wouldn’t say I’m a selfish person. No more than anyone else. When it comes down to it, everyone has an agenda, even if we don’t know what it is at the time. There are lots of times I’ll do the right thing even if it’s against my own self-interest, too. It all depends on the circumstances. There are things that shift the balance, though. I know exactly where that balance has shifted when I go into Brewster and Cody’s room that night.

Cody lies on the blow-up mattress, lost in a comic book, while Brew reads a skinny little book of poetry that most guys wouldn’t be caught dead with. His eyes rise over the edge of the book and meet mine.

“You were right about us losing the game,” I tell him.

He turns a page in his book. “It doesn’t take a brain surgeon.”

“No, I guess not.” I fiddle with the doorknob for a moment. “Well, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“About you coming to my games.”

Now he puts down the book, getting more interested. “Why?”

I shrug like it’s nothing. “Just because.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be at your games.”

“Suit yourself.” I turn to leave.

He stops me. I knew he’d stop me. “Maybe I’ll come if you tell me the truth.”

And so I do. Or at least part of it. “Our team needs to win the next few games to qualify for league finals,” I tell him. I don’t talk about Katrina since he doesn’t like her anyway. “If I play well enough, I might even be in the running for MVP.”

That’s when Cody looks up from his comic book, and I realize that he wasn’t in his own superhero universe at all—he’s been right here all along, listening to everything. He knows what I’m asking Brew to do. He knows what it means. Suddenly I feel guilty, like maybe I don’t want a witness.

Brew picks up his book again and pretends to read, but his concentration isn’t there like it was before. “I thought you said it was cheating.”

“I said it feels like cheating. There’s a difference.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says, but I know he’s already decided to do it. It would all be good if it weren’t for Cody. Those eyes of his just look up at me, pupils dilated in the diffused light of the room. Wide, black pools, seeking out galaxies.

Brew and I have an understanding. Brew and I are a team on the field. So what if the coach doesn’t know he has a secret player? I start the game feeling like I can take on the world, but today we’re just taking on the Billington Bullets. They’re highly ranked, and a tough team to beat—but I make it clear what kind of game this is going to be right away. I score in the first minute of play. From the first face-off, I rule the field with unprecedented speed and agility—rising from hard falls, disregarding the hardest of stick checks, and never losing an ounce of energy. I’m golden.

And Katrina is there to see it. I made her promise to come.

“I need you there,” I had told her. “Please…you inspire me.”

I hated to beg, but she has to see me. It will all be for nothing if she doesn’t see.

I keep glancing over at Brew, just to check in and see how he’s holding up. He paces off by himself at the edge of the field, a little worn, a little out of breath. He leans back against the fence and gives me a thumbs-up. I resolve that if I get MVP, I’ll give him the trophy. I’ll keep Katrina.

Halftime! It’s 4 to 1—and I scored all four goals. The coach smiles and looks at me like I’m his own son. “That’s what I’m talking about, Tennyson!” he says. “Show ’em what we’re made of!”

“Can I stay in for the whole game?”

“Keep playing like that and you can stay in till New Year’s!”

The rest of the game is a study in humiliation for the Bullets. With thirty seconds remaining, I seal the Bullets’ fate by scoring my sixth goal of the game. I’ve scored six of our eight goals.

The whistle blows, and it’s all over! My team races to me, and in a second I’m lifted up in the air— levitation by glory! But I don’t bask for too long. As soon as I’m back down on the ground, I’m bounding over to Katrina.

“I’m glad you came!” I pull her in for a quick kiss. She doesn’t resist, but she does try to pull away after a second, because, after all, I’m sweaty.

“Sorry,” I tell her. “I’ll shower and we’ll go out to celebrate.”

“You should celebrate with the team.”

“Plenty of time for that!”

“Listen, Tennyson…I’m happy for you and all, and you were great out there, you really were…but I’m meeting Ozzy.”

I’m listening, but I’m not really hearing, because I’m not over myself yet. “So ditch him,” I tell her. “I know you feel sorry for him and all, and I know I shouldn’t have hit him so hard, and you’re right about how all the stuff going on between my parents was driving me crazy—but I’m okay now.” I put my arm around her, and she pulls away again.

“It’s not about feeling sorry for him…. I was seeing him even before you broke his nose.”

Suddenly it’s like I’ve been smashed in the head with my own lacrosse stick. My million-dollar words get knocked out of my skull, and all I can say is:

“Huh?”

“Actually,” she says, “I kind of thought that might be why you were fighting him.”

“Whuh?”

“I was a little flattered, to tell you the truth.” Then she leans forward and kisses me, but on the forehead, the way you might kiss a small child, or an old dog before putting it to sleep. “You should call Katy Barnett—I know for a fact she’s been dying to go out with you since, like, the Plasticine era.”

“Pleistocene,” I mumble vacantly.

“Right, that one. Well, toodles!”

And she’s gone, strolling away with all the good feelings I thought were mine.

The crash inside me could shake the earth. It feels like a fever. It feels like the flu. And my team is still celebrating. We’ve won the game, and qualified for league finals. Why do I not care?

There’s no rock large enough for me to crawl under right now, and all I want to do is get home— teleport if I could—straight to my bedroom.

In all the commotion I’ve totally forgotten about Brew. I look for him, but he’s gone. He must have left the second the game was over—gone home to nurse my wounds, whatever they might be. Did I get hurt in this game? A little banged up maybe, but nothing major—nothing he didn’t sign on for. I want to find him and talk to him. I need to have someone to commiserate with. Even if he doesn’t talk back, that’s okay.

I say my good-byes to the team as fast as I can, grab my lacrosse stick, and head home, feeling like I might use my stick to take out a few mailboxes along the way, and wonder how I got so psychotic.

Brontë catches me out in the street before I get to the front door and punches me in the arm with the strength of a prize-fighter.