Bruiser (17 page)

I can't deny that things were changing in our family. It began at the very moment Brewster and Cody moved in; but it grew slowly, subtly enough for me to believe it was my own simple optimism. You see, when things are finally starting to go right after a whole lot of wrong, you can either focus on the good, or you can zero in on everything else that isn't.

Most people go one way or the other: the glass half full or the glass half empty. It's a rare skill to be able to see it both ways at the same time, and I, unfortunately, do not have that skill. All I could see was that Brew and his brother were saved, and my derailed family was back on sturdy tracks, thank you very much.

Yet as right as things were, Brew was having a harder and harder time. It was worse when he was home. He was constantly exhausted, like the walls themselves were draining life away from him. He was constantly on edge, like our house
was teetering on a precipice that only he could see.

And then he saved Cody from the tower.

I wasn't there when it happened, but half a dozen people captured it on video. It made the news, and turned Brew into an overnight hero—and although his fame lasted for the typical fifteen minutes, the shadow under which he had always lived was obliterated by the spotlight. That should have been a good thing.

“Hi, Brontë, mind if we sit by you?”

It was Amanda Milner and Joe Crippendorf, who may or may not have been an item—and enjoyed maintaining the mystery. This was the third visitation at our lunch table that day by unexpected apparitions.

“We were just leaving,” Brew said.

I put my hand over his, which was sufficient enough to keep him from bolting. “No we weren't.” I slowly began eating some questionable Jell-O that I had originally planned to avoid. “Have a seat.”

They slid in with us. Amanda is what I would call a midrange friend. Not close enough to share deep secrets with but certainly close enough to choose each other as partners for the occasional class project. Joe is the easygoing kind of goofball you don't mind having around, unless he's surrounded by
other such goofballs.

“We think what you did was great, Brewster!” Amanda said.

Everyone knew about it—if they hadn't caught the news, they had heard it on morning announcements, when the principal lauded Brew's feat and awarded him an honorary varsity letter.

“It was no big deal,” Brew said modestly, clearly wishing this would all go away.

Joe rapped him on the arm. “Man, I don't know if I would've had the guts to do that. Way up there? All that electricity?”

Brew just shrugged. “I had to—he's my brother.”

“Yeah,” said Joe. “I've got a brother, too. And if he was up there and it was up to me to save him, his name would probably be
Splat
right now.”

They asked us about how it happened, then talked a bit about the whole foster thing and how cool our parents are to let Brew and me live under the same roof.

“We have a strict rule that we're just friends at home,” I told them. “We're only dating when we're out of the house.” And since we were currently out of the house, I rubbed his arm, taking advantage of the fact.

“I'd break that rule in five minutes,” said Joe. Amanda nudged him with her elbow, and he laughed. Brew laughed a little, too, before he caught himself.

“So listen,” said Amanda, pulling out two envelopes with heart stickers sealing them closed. “I know it's corny and all,
but my parents are throwing me a sweet sixteen, and I wanted to invite you two.” She handed Brew an invitation, and he just stared at it. “I hope you can make it.”

“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.

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.