Neal Shusterman: Bruiser

I don’t know where my head is at on Monday. Maybe it’s because I feel a little bit guilty for being so mean to the Bruiser. Anyway, I do my best to suspend judgment on him; and, for Brontë’s sake, I try to keep an open mind.

It’s not until the end of the day that I run into him in the most awkward and uncomfortable of situations.

I’m early into the locker room for lacrosse practice, and he’s just getting done with PE. He’s the last kid there—apparently he doesn’t dress with the other kids; he waits until the rest of them are gone.

The instant I see him, I know why.

The first thing I see is his back. It’s enough to scare anyone. There’s damage there, strange damage. It’s impossible to tell what has caused it. Scars and pockmarks; discolorations; a big bruise on his shoulder, yellowed around the edges. His back is decimated, like the cratered surface of the moon.

I just stand there staring. He slips on his shirt, not even knowing that I’m there. Then he turns around and catches me watching him. He knows I’ve seen his back. I stare for a moment too long.

“What do you want?” he asks without looking me in the eye.

I want to match his nasty tone, but I know I have to curb my bully/snob factor. Letting something like that run unchecked will turn you into a creep. My one saving grace is that true creeps don’t ever know they are; and if I’m worried about becoming one, maybe it means I won’t. The only thing I can think of to say is “So what kind of name is Brewster? Were you named after someone?”

He looks at me like it’s a trick question. “What do you care?”

“I don’t. I’m just wondering.”

He doesn’t answer me; he just puts on his jacket: a beat-up leather bomber that looks like it has actually seen several generations of war. Still, the scars on the jacket are nothing compared to what I saw on his back. “Cool jacket,” I say. “Where’d you get it?”

“Thrift store,” he answers.

I hold back the urge to say “It figures,” and instead I just say, “Cool.” He stands facing me now, shoulders squared. Gunslinger position. It’s a stance that says “C’mon, I dare you.” He doesn’t trust me, but that’s just fine. I don’t trust him either. I can’t even say I dislike him any less; but now I’m curious and worried, and not just for Brontë but maybe a little bit for him, too. Who could do things like that to his body and get away with it, especially to a guy as big as him?

“So, what is it you want?” he asks, “because I got things to do.”

“Who says I want anything?” That’s when I realize that I’m in gunslinger position, too, blocking his way out. I step aside to let him pass. I think he expects me to trip him, or kick him or something. I wonder if he’s disappointed when I don’t.

“My great-grandfather,” he says as he passes. “That’s who I was named after.”

And he’s gone, just as a bunch of kids from my lacrosse team enter.

Our parents never spanked us. They come from the brave new world of time-out and positive reinforcement.

I’ve always been a very physical kid, though, always using my fists or my body as a battering ram. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been hauled into the principal’s office for fighting. I’ve given my share of black eyes and bloody noses and gotten my share of them as well—and playing lacrosse, well, there’s never a time when I don’t have some bruise on my body, somewhere.

But the kind of things I saw on the Bruiser made his nickname hit home for me. None of those marks could be explained away innocently. He didn’t get that way from fighting, or from sports. He got that way from being the human receptacle of someone else’s brutality.

Mom teaches a class on nineteenth-century realism on Monday nights, so that’s Dad’s night to not cook. He orders fast food just as skillfully as Mom does. The three of us sit at the dinner table eating KFC on flimsy paper plates with plastic sporks. Whoever invented the spork should be killed. Dad peels the breading from his chicken and gives it to Brontë, allowing her to savor all eleven herbs and spices that make it so finger-lickin’ good.

“I saw the Bruiser today,” I tell Brontë as we eat. “Brewster, I mean.”

“And how did you torment him?” she snaps.

I don’t take the bait. Instead I say, “It was in the locker room. He had his shirt off.” I take a bite of my chicken, chew, and swallow. “Have you ever seen him with his shirt off?”

Dad looks up from his skinless chicken and talks with his mouth full. “Exactly why would she have seen him with his shirt off?”

“Oh, puh-lease!” she says to him. “Let’s not get out the heart paddles, Dad; he’s never been bare chested in my presence.” Now Brontë turns her attention to me, studying me, trying to figure out what sinister maneuver I’m working here. The truth is, I’m just curious as to what she knows, or at least what she suspects.

“Why would you ask that question?” she says; but since I don’t know any more than what I saw, I don’t want to tell her.

“Never mind,” I say, “it’s not important.” I try unsuccessfully to scrape the last of the mashed potatoes from the bottom of the Styrofoam cup with my spork.

“You are so obtuse!” Brontë says, exasperated.

I am calm in my response. “Do you mean stupid, or angular? You need to be more specific with your insults.”

“Jerk!”

“No thanks,” I tell her. “I much prefer the Colonel’s seasonings to Jamaican spice.”

It probably would be in my best interests to leave Brontë alone for the rest of the night and not push things, but I can’t do that. After dinner I go up to Brontë’s room. Her door is open, but still I knock timidly. I’m never timid, but tonight I am. Brontë must notice because she looks up at me from her homework, and her standard expression of annoyance changes. Now she looks curious, maybe even a little concerned, because she asks, “What’s wrong?”

I shrug. “Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you about Brewster.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Brontë says.

“I know,” I say to her, “but I think you should listen.”

She crosses her arms, clearly ready to dismiss anything I say.

“You know where he lives, right?” I ask.

“He lives in a house,” Brontë says, “just like we do.”

“And have you met his family? His uncle, I mean, the one he lives with?”

“Where are you going with this?” Brontë asks.

“Does he talk about his uncle?”

“No,” says Brontë.

“Maybe you should ask him.” Then I leave it in her hands and turn to go; but when I glance back, I can see her staring at her homework, pencil in hand but doing no work. Good. She’s thinking about it. I don’t know what she’ll do, but she’s thinking about it. I don’t even know what I want her to do.

Our neighborhood has the distinction of being one of the fastest-growing planned communities in the state. Look at an empty field, now blink; and when you open your eyes, there’s a whole housing development there. Blink again; this time there’s a new mall right next to it. I can imagine farmers staring, bewildered, at a jungle of pink stucco and red-tile roofs, wondering how their cornfield became a subdivision while they weren’t looking. In reality those farmers sold their plots of land for ridiculous prices and made out like bandits, so I can’t feel sorry for them. But then there are whole plots of land where the owners held out for more money and missed the boat.