Bruiser

by Neal Shusterman

  “Get that cut today, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didja take it from Cody?”

  “No.”

  “That boy’d cut his head off with safety scissors.”

  “I didn’t take it from Cody; it happened at school.”

  My uncle knows about the things I can do—the pain that I take—and knowing makes him still crazier and more protective, but of himself, not of me.

  I muffle the screaming wound with a white gauze square; but nervous, tense, I press too hard and wince, a small twitch almost imperceptible, and he’s looking at me with searing intensity, seeing all.

  “Hurt?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It don’t look like nothing.”

  “It’ll heal.”

  “You gonna tell me how you got it?”

  He, with zero trust, zero tolerance, zeroes in on my eyes that once knew only how to betray me but lately have learned the wicked wartime trick of holding secrets in a darker place and coding them to a cipher my uncle isn’t clever enough to crack.

  “I told you it’s nothing. Some girl in the hallway.”

  “Some girl?”

  “Coulda been something sharp on her backpack; I don’t know.”

  “And you’re saying I should believe that?”

  “I’m saying you should take your dump and let me be.”

  And, as I leave the bathroom, my uncle hurls a warning scowl to remind me that mouthing off will buy me a world of punishment, but not today, because it’s not worth his time, then he closes the door to take the call of nature, leaving me to stride, giddy with relief, down the hall and into the room I share with my brother,

  Where Cody plays with plastic army men, and he, the general of a pigsty battlefront, glances at my bandaged hand but asks no questions, sibling-smart in his willful ignorance, knowing he can’t know, because eight-year-olds don’t just tell secrets, they sing them on every unwanted wavelength, and since Cody’s mouth betrays him even more often than my eyes betray me, he doesn’t ask, because he knows he can’t sing to our uncle the things I haven’t told him,

  So the wound remains secure as I lie on my bed, like a blood oath aching a sweet reminder of the secret I share with Brontë, this moment marking the first time I’ve seen my gift as a wonder and not a curse,

  For standing between Cody and his pain is my obligation, and standing between my uncle and his pain is my rent, but the pain I coax from Brontë is my joy.

  25) EPIC

  I will not give in

  To an interrogation

  Even from Brontë

  On a day in the park where wind-torn clouds sweep a frenetic sky in vivid Van Gogh strokes, while Brontë and I read Homer on the grass, studying for an epic exam of cyclopean proportions, I will not give in to the interrogation,

  As Cody jumps from a tree, oblivious to the strain he puts on my shins, then climbs again recklessly, no thought of consequences, his survival skills a casualty of his painless existence, I will not give in to the interrogation,

  While Brontë leans into my lap, and I read The Odyssey aloud, feeling her need to know grow stronger the longer I avoid it, until she notices that I’m reciting the book entirely from memory, and she finds the first question to begin the barrage—but just as Odysseus resists the sirens, I will not give in to the interrogation.

  “You memorized The Odyssey?”

  “So what? Homer did it, and I’m not even blind.”

  “The whole thing?”

  “Only the parts I’ve read.”

  “That’s amazing, Brew.”

  “It’s just something I do.”

  “Like the healing?”

  “It’s not healing; it’s stealing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The pain doesn’t leave; it just jumps to me.”

  “How do you explain that?”

  “I don’t.”

  As the sun hides behind the shearing clouds, the temperature plunges and frustrated mothers race to their children, coats at the ready to battle the schizophrenic day, and Brontë ignores the breeze, knowing the sun will strobe on again in a moment; yet if she’s cold she does not care, because she’s begun the inquisition,

  And I wonder if her need to know is stronger than my need to remain unexposed.

  “How did it start?

  Do you choose who you heal?

  How do you choose?

  Who do you choose?

  Does anyone know?

  How does it work?

  Do you have to be touching?

  Why won’t you answer?

  Aren’t you listening?

  Brew?”

  Even as I offer Brontë nothing but silence, her hand ventures beneath my shirt, roaming my back to make a gentle accounting of my wounds—asking me if it hurts, telling her that it does, just a little—then her hand moves around to my chest, and just as I realize she’s not feeling wounds anymore, she tickles my neck, giggles, and pulls back her hand, and I think how different this is—how I’ve never been teased, at least not like this, not the way a girl teases her boyfriend, And the raw power of that thought makes me surrender, giving in to the interrogation, willfully spilling forth things I’ve never told a soul.

  “For as long as I can remember I’ve stolen,

  Ripping all the hurts from the people I love,

  And from no one else.

  I don’t choose it,

  I don’t want it,

  But because they found a place in my heart

  I steal their pain as soon as I’m near them,

  And all because I got caught caring.

  But those others,

  ALL the others,

  Dripping their disapproval like summer sweat,

  They’re on the outside,

  And I will never let them in.

  Never.

  Let them keep their broken bones,

  Shed their own blood,

  I hate them.

  I have to hate them, don’t you see?

  Because what if I didn’t?

  What if I suddenly started to care?

  And their friends became my friends,

  And every ache and pain,

  Every last bit of damage,

  Drained from them to me,

  Until I was nothing but fractures and sprains,

  Cuts and concussions,

  But as long as I keep them on the right side of resentment,

  Despising them all,

  I’m safe.”

  Listening keenly, passing no judgment, Brontë takes it all in, then leaning close, she kisses my ear, healing me in a way she will never understand, and she whispers, “But you did choose to care about Tennyson and me. You let us in, Brew.”

  So I nod and whisper back: “Promise you’ll close the door behind you.”

  26) ENUMERATION

  Here are the ten things

  I will never tell Brontë

  Or anyone else:

  1) My father could be one of five men I’ve met,

  And after having met them,

  I don’t want to know.

  2) Cody’s only my half brother, but he doesn’t know it.

  I once knew his father, but not his last name,

  Or where to find him.

  3) Men were constantly falling in love with my mother,

  They thought she took away their innermost pain.

  But that was actually me.

  4) We once joined a cult that eventually changed its name

  To The Sentinels of Brewster.

  I don’t want to talk about it.

  5) My mother developed ovarian cancer.

  But I couldn’t take it away;

  I have no ovaries.

  6) She left us with Uncle Hoyt when she first got sick;

  She knew if it spread to other organs,

  I would get it, too.

  7) She called me every day until she died.<
br />
  I still talk to her once in a while.

  When no one’s listening.

  8) Someday I want the government to find me,

  And pay me millions of dollars

  To sit near the president.

  9) Someday I want to be on a Wheaties box,

  Or at least on the cover

  Of TIME magazine.

  10) Someday I want to wake up and be normal.

  Just for a little while.

  Or forever.

  27) ORIFICE

  With neck hairs standing on end, secret panic tripping in my brain, I cross into the petri dish of despair, the chasm of chaos, the school cafeteria,

  Where larval troglodytes of blue and white collar breeds practice the vicious social skills of peacock preening and primate posturing amid the satanic smell of institutional ravioli,

  When I reluctantly join the line for food, I avoid all eyes but notice, across the cafeteria, Tennyson and his girlfriend, Katrina,

  Who cling to each other like statically charged particles, and I wonder if Brontë might cling to me in the same way, even while under the judgmental glare of the hormonal high school petting zoo, if she didn’t avoid the cafeteria on principle,

  When a hairless ape named Ozzy O’Dell forces his way in front of me as if I’m nothing more than a piece of soy-stretched meat lurking in the ravioli and calls me the nickname he would much rather call the special ed kids, if he could get away with it.

  “Hey, Short-bus, make some room.”

  “No. The end of the line’s back there.”

  “I don’t think so—we’re in a hurry.”

  “So am I.”

  “For what? Freak practice?”

  While he laughs at his own idiotic joke, I think how, in the past, I would just let it go, but meeting Brontë has changed me, and I’m boldly standing up for myself in places that used to give me vertigo, so as the lazy-eyed lunch lady hands Ozzy a plate of ravioli, I tell him how shaving his head for swim team was not a good idea, because it emphasizes how small his brain is, the same way his Speedo emphasizes how small other things are,

  Which makes his friends laugh at him instead of at me, and Ozzy laughs, too, telling me it’s so funny I deserve to get my ravioli first, because I’ve earned it, then he hands over his plate full of the slithery, sluglike pasta pockets, and I’m confused enough to think that maybe he’s sincere, because I don’t know the rules of the game,

  When he rests his finger on the edge of my tray, not forcefully enough for the lazy-eyed lunch lady to notice but enough to shift the balance and flip the whole tray, turning the ravioli into projectile pasta, splattering every available surface, including the expensive fashion statements of several speechless kids,

  Who believe Ozzy when he calls me a clumsy waste of life, all eyes turning in my direction as if I’m the one to blame, and I know I’m beaten because as much as I want to expel my fury right in his face, as much as I want to play whack-a-mole on his hairless head, I can’t, and wouldn’t they all laugh from here to the edge of their miserable universe if they knew that the boy most likely to fry was incapable of lifting a finger to hurt anyone, even if the hurt was earned.

  With nothing left but humiliation and red sauce, I just want to escape, until Tennyson arrives out of nowhere, barging his way between us, casting himself as an unlikely avenger, and says,

  “Got a problem, Ozzy?”

  While the lazy-eyed lunch lady, out of touch with anything on the far side of the warming trays, hands a plate of ravioli to Ozzy, which Tennyson grabs from him and gives to me, asking Ozzy if he plans to do anything about it because, if he does, he should fill out his complaint form in triplicate and shove them in all three of his bodily orifices,

  Which Ozzy has no comeback line for because he’s still trying to figure out which three orifices Tennyson might be referring to, if he even knows what an orifice is, and even though I don’t want Tennyson fighting my battles for me, I can’t help but crack a smile, because now I finally understand what it means to have a friend, and maybe it’s worth the pain I’ll endure because of it.

  28) ANABOLIC

  Chest press, shoulder press, lats press, squats;

  Tennyson is all business in the gym,

  “Free weights are the way to go. Machines are for girls.”

  Half an hour in, I’m feeling muscles I never knew I had.

  Biceps, triceps, deltoids, pecs;

  I am Tennyson’s new project,

  “You need muscle mass to take on guys like Ozzy.”

  Brontë might appreciate some muscle mass, too.

  Crunches, curls, extensions, thrusts;

  Tennyson is the trainer from hell,

  “You want something easier? Go pick flowers.”

  He tells me it’ll hurt even more tomorrow.

  Low weight/high reps, high weight/low reps;

  I’ll learn to love the burn if I don’t puke first,

  “You think this is hard? Wait till next time.”

  Tennyson says he’ll make a bruiser out of me yet, and laughs.

  Elevate heart rate, hydrate, repeat;

  Better living through anabolic exercise,

  “Great workout,” he says. “And I’m not even sore.”

  Right. Because I’m sore for both of us.

  29) SURREPTITIOUS

  Lacrosse,

  Soccer’s angry cousin,

  Football’s neglected stepchild.

  No cheerleaders, band, or stands,

  Games are played on the practice field

  If you want a chair you bring your own,

  Brontë waves,

  She’s saved me a spot,

  It’s Raptors versus Bulls,

  Dinosaur against beast of burden,

  I’ve never seen the game played before.

  We turn to the match, which has already begun.

  Tennyson

  Is a starting attackman.

  He’s very good, but not great,

  He’s a fast runner, but not the fastest,

  Still, he makes up for it in bullheaded aggression.

  “He’s always bucking for MVP,” Brontë says,

  “but never gets it.”

  A pass,

  He catches it

  And moves downfield,

  Cradling the ball in the net of his stick,

  He shoots for the goal and misses by inches.

  Then the Bulls power through the Raptor’s defenses;

  Goal.

  Disappointment.

  I feel Tennyson’s frustration,

  And I know that Brontë is right:

  He’ll be a team captain, but never the star,

  Unless he has something to make him invincible.

  I’m breathless

  As I watch the game,

  Then I suddenly realize why;

  Tennyson does have a secret weapon

  That can make him the star of the game.

  I wonder what he’ll do when he figures it out!

  Stealing

  The thunder

  Of a stick check

  To his right shoulder.

  I bear the pain in silence

  For fear that Brontë might see,

  Scraped knee

  Hidden by my jeans,

  I could leave but choose to stay,

  To surreptitiously sustain the blows,

  Because if I am now Tennyson’s project,

  It’s my right to make him my project as well.

  Final whistle,

  A Raptor victory!

  Tennyson scored three goals,

  And barely broke a sweat while doing it.

  I kiss Brontë in the excitement of the moment.

  Can she tell that I’m drenched beneath my Windbreaker?

  And what if

  When I get home,

  Uncle Hoyt sees me,

  Notices all the fresh bruises,

  And knows that I’ve taken things,

  From far beyond the boun
ds of our family?

  I shudder

  At the thought of him

  Knowing about my secret life.

  I could tell myself it would be all right,

  That he could do no worse than he’s already done,

  But there’s a pit in my uncle’s soul,

  and I’ve never seen the bottom.

  I hope I never do.

  CODY

  30) STUFF

  Brewster said I should always be the rag doll, but I never liked that much. I told him I’d rather be Plastic Boy instead, cuz that’s a good name for a superhero.

  “You’re no superhero,” Brew told me, “and don’t go thinking that you are. Think rag doll, not superhero.”

  He says that cuza the time I jumped off the roof and broke his arm. Maybe he’s right, though, on accounta I can’t be Plastic Boy since I don’t stretch. Still, I wish I could have myself a cooler secret identity for the times when Uncle Hoyt goes foul.

  I wanted to tell Brontë-saurus about all that stuff, but Brew said, “A secret identity’s gotta stay secret.”

  “Even from her?” I asked.

  “Especially from her,” he said—although I can’t see why cuz they had been talking so much, it’s like they’re inside each other’s brains.

  Brontë-saurus swims good. I know this because of the time I taught her to do a cannonball, and then I beat her in a race across the pool. It was a great day, but it got a little scary because she saw all that stuff on Brew’s body—the stuff we’re not allowed to talk about, like my secret identity. She wanted to know how he got all the bruises—she thought it was Uncle Hoyt hitting him and stuff.