Bruiser (10 page)

“And why would you need tutoring anyway?” Uncle Hoyt said. “You can near about memorize that math book just by lookin' at it.”

“Words, not numbers,” Brew said. “Numbers are different.” Then he dropped the frozen chicken parts in the hot water to defrost. He didn't say anything else for a while. Sometimes it's best with Uncle Hoyt not to say much until you know exactly what he's thinking, and why.

“They shouldn't be making you spend so much time at school,” he finally said. “It's not right. You should be with your family.”

“Do you want to homeschool us like Mom did?” Brew asked.

“I didn't say that either.”

Now it was Brew's leg that got the coffee-stress shake instead of Uncle Hoyt's.

“I'm worried about you, Brewski. That's all. You're never
here anymore. How can we be a family if you're never here?”

Brew turned off the tap but didn't look at Uncle Hoyt. “Sounds like you need a pet,” he said. “Something that'll be waiting for you when you get up, and waiting for you to get home.”

I liked the idea a lot. “Could we get a dog?” I asked. “I'll take care of it better than I took care of Tri-tip. I promise.”

Uncle Hoyt smiled, but it wasn't a yes-smile. “You and Brew once had a dog back when your mom was alive,” he said. “You were too little to remember, Cody; but I'll bet Brew does, don't you? You remember what happened to that dog?”

Brew put all of his thoughts on the chicken parts in the sink and didn't answer. Then Uncle Hoyt laughed big. He was changed from the time we came in. At first he was all nervous and squirrelly, but now he was proud and strutting and funny, like I like him to be. He even looked taller.

“Feeling better, Uncle Hoyt?” I asked.

“Cody,” he said, “a million bucks ain't got nothin' on me.” Which must mean yes. “You leave that chicken in the sink, Brew,” he said. “I'll fry it up for us. I'll even save you the biggest piece.”

Brew went to our room, practically knocking me over on his way out, and Uncle Hoyt went onto the porch to have a smoke. I brought my backpack into our room and saw Brew sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall like he's holding it up.

“You okay, Brew?”

“He's never gonna let me go, Cody.” He rubbed his arms like he was cold; he rubbed his shoulder like it hurt. “He's gonna keep me here, taking his bursitis, his ulcers, and every one of his aches and pains.”

“He's just protecting you,” I reminded him.

“From what? From the world? From Brontë?”

I didn't have the answer, but the thought of Brewster going anywhere scared me.

“Why would you want to leave anyway?”

“Forget it,” he said. “Go watch TV.”

But I didn't. Instead I went out to sit with Uncle Hoyt on the porch, because he's nice to be around when he's in a good mood.

“This is how it should be,” he said. “Sunset on the porch, and dinner in the oven.”

“It's not in the oven yet.”

He laughed, then got quiet for a second, taking a long puff on his cigarette. “Your brother doesn't really go to math tutoring, does he?”

Now I had to think up my own half-truth.

“I'm at the library,” I told him. “I don't know who he's with.”

“Ah! So he's
with
somebody!”

“No!” I told him, trying to back out of what I said, but sometimes words are like quicksand. “I said I don't know—I
don't even know her name!”

He smiled the same smile as when he was talkin' about the dog. Since I didn't know what that smile meant, I slid just a little bit away from him in case my lying was reason to hit me, which it probably was.

“So,” said Uncle Hoyt, “Brewski's got a girlfriend.”

This time I just kept quiet, since the quicksand was already over my head.

“Bound to happen sooner or later,” he said. “Just as long as she doesn't know about him and what he can do. Your brother's not stupid enough to tell her that.”

He took his cigarette out of his mouth and studied it for a second—then he slowly lowered the lit end toward his arm, just beneath his elbow. He pressed the cigarette to his own skin. I gasped. He grimaced and hurled the cigarette away, cursing. There was a red spot on his arm, but only for a couple of seconds and then was gone.

And inside Brew screamed bloodymurder.

Uncle Hoyt brushed away the ash from his arm, which showed no sign of what he'd done.

“You see that, Cody?” he said. “It's
us
that Brew cares about, and God bless him for it. That girl is nothing, nothing at all. Now be a good boy and go tend to your brother.”

I went inside to get the Band-Aids, glad that Uncle Hoyt kept his temper and didn't go foul.

If he touches her, I swear I'm going to brain him with my lacrosse stick and send what little gray matter comes out of his ears to the Smithsonian exhibit on prehistoric man.

What is my mother
thinking
? What's she even doing sneaking around with this guy? He's short, funny looking, and has no business eating meals in a public place with my mother—much less in an outdoor café where a person's offspring might walk by and see her. From what I can see, the only thing he's got going for him is hair, but so does a baboon. You can't even see his face beneath that stupid beard—not that I'd want to. And why does he keep picking at that greasy facial hair anyway? What's he looking for, lice?

How am I supposed to focus on today's game with the image of them sharing a crème brûlée burned into my retinas like a cattle brand? I know she must have seen me. And I know she won't say anything about it when I get home tonight.

The only shred of hope is that the suitcases are still in the basement, and nobody's packing. Sure, Dad's moved into the guest room—but he did that last year when he was the one sharing desserts with a total stranger. “This will pass,” I tell myself. I just wish I could believe it.

But I've got to put it out of my mind—I have a game to think about.

We're on a winning streak, and I intend to keep it that way.

When I get to the field, Katrina's there to cheer me on, along with Ozzy O'Dell and his stupid swim-shaved body and a half-dozen other classmates. What interest Ozzy has in lacrosse, I haven't got a clue. I really don't feel like talking to anyone right now, but Katrina comes up to me.

“So Mr. Martinez is all like
‘¿Dónde está su tarea?'
and Ozzy'd memorized like ten different excuses for not having his homework—in perfect Spanish—so nobody else in the class knows what he's saying; but it makes Mr. Martinez laugh so hard, he's all like ‘That's even better than homework'—and not only does Martinez give Ozzy a homework pass, he gives him
extra crédito
, which is extra credit in Spanish, and—Tennyson, are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah. Extra credit. Very funny.”

In my current state of mind, the last thing I want to do is play lacrosse against the Gators, whose sportsmanship quotient is one step below the World Wrestling Federation. They
send someone to the hospital every other game. But I've been hot for the past few games—strong and focused—playing better than I've ever played before. I can't let this whole thing with Mom take away my edge.

Brontë shows up, I think because she'd rather be here than at home these days. I'm about to tell her that I saw Mom with some short, hairy guy, but I decide to spare her the pain.

“Let me see your knuckles,” she says.

I groan in frustration. “They're the same. Healed. So leave me alone—I don't go asking to look at your nonexistent cut, so don't insist on seeing my nonexistent scabs.”

Brontë finds it amazing that I can just accept Brewster's ability without question.

“How could you not be freaked out by the impossible?”

“He does it,” I tell her, “so obviously it's not impossible.”

My answer just infuriates her. I love it when that happens.

The truth is, I don't have room in my skull to spend endless hours obsessing over what Brewster can do. I have enough to deal with, between school, lacrosse, and the fact that Dad sleeps on a foldout and Mom's having lunch with the Missing Link. What's worse is that Mom and Dad won't talk about what's going on. In my book that's far more surreal than anything Brew can do.

The game begins and I get right into it, living in the moment, putting everything else out of my mind. I'm an attackman—the front offensive line—and the Gators are a
formidable foe. I've got to be quick and alert if I'm going to score against them.

The whistle blows, and we scrap for the ball. One of our midfielders gets it and passes to me. I tear down the field, cradling the ball in the pocket of my stick. I dodge the Gators' defenders and toss it to our right wing—who should pass it back to me, since I've got a clean shot; but instead he goes for it himself, and misses by a mile.

The Gators' keeper is on it in an instant and hurls the ball deep into our territory. It suddenly strikes me that even though Brontë is here, neither of my parents has made it to a game this year.

Suddenly the whistle blows. The Gators have scored. I was so distracted by my own thoughts, I didn't even see it, and I'm furious at myself. I have to stay focused!

“Don't worry,” I call to my teammates. “It's just the first quarter. We'll get it back!”

I line up for the face-off, taking my anger and molding it until I'm a controlled ball of fury, using the lost goal to propel me toward victory.

With possession of the ball again, I barrel through an opening, toward the Gators' goal. I'm almost there when out of my blind spot one of their defenders races in to me. He's big, beefy, and checks me so hard I go flying. There's a pain in my gut and panic in my chest, like the air has been sucked from the planet. The wind's been knocked out of me, and I know
I'm going to be down for a good thirty seconds.

But that's not what happens. Instead the miserable feeling is gone in an instant. Maybe it's all the working out I'm doing, because my stomach muscles held out the worst of it. It's been that way for a few games now. Less exhaustion, quicker recovery on the field. I've hit my stride this year!

The ball's still in my stick, I'm back on my feet, I fire it, the goalie dives, but he's nowhere close.

Goal!

Cheers from the sidelines. Now I'm in the zone, and nothing else matters. This game is mine!

I'm still on fire in the second period.

We let one goal slide—but I score another, tying the game at 2–all. One of the Gators' midfielders elbows me hard, out of view of the refs. I feel a sudden sharp pang in the ribs. I grimace—but the pain is gone in just a few seconds. I've willed it away!

Halftime.

Used to be I'd feel the strain of all the exertion by now, but lately it's like I can run the field forever and never get tired. The coach, who usually pulls me out for the third quarter, sees I'm riding a wave again and keeps me in.
I'm
the formidable foe the Gators need to look out for now!

Third quarter.

The score is 4 to 2. I've scored three of our goals. The Gators are getting nervous, playing sloppy, fouling like mad. I
intercept a pass from their goalie and power toward the goal—but it's not gonna happen. Not this time, because one of their defenders plants his foot right in front of me—an intentional trip—and I fly, my stick launching away from me. I hear the whistle blow even before I hit the ground. It'll cost them a penalty shot; but when I come down, I come down wrong. My head hits at a strange angle, my helmet connecting with a rock that's hidden in the turf. Not even the helmet is enough to protect me from the concussive shock of coming down right on my head.

I can feel my brain rattled, but I regain my senses quickly. Too quickly. How could I not have been hurt by that? I'm up, bouncing on the balls of my feet in seconds—even the refs are surprised.

And that's when I see him.

Brewster is here. He's on the sideline and he's doubled over, lying on his side in pain. Brontë fusses over him; and suddenly I know why my ribs had hurt for only an instant, and why the wind didn't get knocked out of me, and why my muscles feel none of the ache of three quarters of play. Because Brewster's feeling it for me. He's feeling it all—and not just today, but for every game he's been at. It's not my skills that are putting me at the top of my game. It's Brewster.

The ref starts play again—I even get a penalty shot and score—but I can't focus now. I just keep looking over to the sideline until Brew sits up again, recovering from my fall. He
might have my concussion for all I know.

The coach takes me out for half of the fourth quarter, then puts me back in toward the end of the game; but I'm not the player I was ten minutes ago. Now I'm way too cautious, way too slow—because what if I get hurt again? What if I take a blow and Brew absorbs it again? I can't allow that. So for the last five minutes of play, I just go through the motions, half-heartedly crossing the field like my body is made of eggshells and will fracture with the slightest contact.

The final whistle blows. We win, 5 to 2. I'm the hero of the team, but it feels empty. It feels like I cheated. Like the game was rigged, and I'm the only one who knows. Everyone's giving me slaps on the back and high fives—and no one seems to notice how I shut myself down in the final minutes. They probably figure I just got tired from playing so hard.

The second I can break away from my teammates I tear off my helmet and storm toward Brewster. He's standing with Brontë, cheering like the rest of them—but I can see the evidence of this vicious game all over him; and maybe I should feel grateful, but all I feel is angry. Angry and robbed. I'd rather play hard and lose honestly than suffer such a despicable win. He stole more than my pain today.

“Tennyson, you were great,” Brontë says. At first I think she must not get it—she must be clueless; but no, my sister is smart. And suddenly it dawns on me that she knows! Maybe from the first game, or maybe just from today. She knows, and
yet she's okay with it. How could she be okay with it?

I storm toward Brewster, and I raise my hand—I almost punch him—but I can't swing at someone who already looks so beaten down. Instead I point an accusing finger and burn him a brutal scowl.

“Never come to one of my games again!” I snarl.

“You won, didn't you?”

“No, I didn't win—
you
did.” And I storm away, leaving everyone around us gawking.

Katrina tries to intercept me. “Something wrong, Tennyson?”

But I'm not in the mood. “I gotta go back to the team.” Then I run onto the field, trying to put as much distance as I can between me and Brewster Rawlins.