Bruiser

41) INCOMMUNICADO

There’s no funeral for Uncle Hoyt.

Instead, his ex-wife has him quietly cremated and the ashes shipped back to her in Atlanta, where she will do whatever angry women do with their ex- husband’s ashes. Even so, the guy has it easier than Brewster, who has to suffer through The Week From Hell.

FRIDAY: Uncle Hoyt dies under mysterious circumstances.

SATURDAY: There’s no word from Brewster, and all we get are rumors from neighborhood kids—not just rumors about how it happened, but where Brew and Cody are now. Brontë and I are completely out of the loop, and it drives us nuts. There’s not a single reliable source of information, and all the possibilities are as nerve-racking as SAT choices:

A) “I hear the Bruiser shot his uncle and ran away.”

B) “I hear the Bruiser strangled his uncle, and the FBI is holding him.”

C) “I hear his uncle was whacked by the Mafia, and now the Bruiser’s in the witness protection program.”

D) “I hear Bruiser never actually had an uncle, and Ralphy Sherman says they found radioactive material in the basement.”

We’re the only ones who know Brew well enough to know the answer is E) None of the above.

SUNDAY: Brontë, who has never thrown a punch in her life at anyone but me, gets into a death match cat fight in the street with some cheerleader who calls Brewster a psycho. The offending young lady won’t be shaking her pom-poms anytime soon.

“Welcome to the Dark Side,” I tell Brontë. She is not amused.

MONDAY: In school, word comes down that Uncle Hoyt’s autopsy revealed a blood clot in the brain. It was a stroke, but it’s too late to shut down the rumors and the mindless whispers by asinine students that it’s just a cover story and that Brewster killed him. We still don’t hear from Brewster. TUESDAY: Brontë accosts our school psychologist —a tall, slithery man who, in my opinion, doesn’t exactly engender an air of safety and trust. He claims doctor/patient confidentiality and won’t say much of anything at first—but Brontë has a way of charming snakes.

She seems much more relaxed after she finally breaks through to some actual facts. Brew and Cody were taken in by Mrs. Gorton—Cody’s old kindergarten teacher, now retired. She lives near Brew’s house, saw the police at their place, and took them to her house when social services didn’t show.

It was a full day before a social worker even arrived at their door.

WEDNESDAY: We finally receive a call from Brew and get a clearer picture. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Gorton are very big in their church, which means setting an example as Pillars of Virtue and doing the whole What Would Jesus Do? thing. Of course, the problem with them being an example is that Brewster and Cody have to be examples, too: living testimonies to the grace of God. Brew’s the last person to want that kind of spotlight.

“It’s much too Huckleberry Finn-ish for me,” Brontë says after she gets off the phone with him. “They’re keeping Brew and Cody under lock and key as they try to ‘civilize’ them. They wouldn’t even let Brew call me until today. Even in jail they give a person one phone call, don’t they?”

I suspect that Brew has other reasons for going incommunicado, but I keep my suspicions to myself.

THURSDAY: Brew still hasn’t resurfaced at school, and there’s no indication when, or even if, he ever will. Perhaps they’re transferring Brew and Cody to someplace else.

That afternoon Brontë pays a visit to the Gortons with me in tow for moral support.

“Brewster and Cody aren’t at home,” Mrs. Gorton says when she answers the door; but her story doesn’t wash, because Cody runs out and nearly tackles Brontë with a hug.

“Brewster’s sleeping,” Mrs. Gorton says—but I see him peeking out between the upstairs blinds then ducking back out of sight. For a Pillar of Virtue, Mrs. Gorton sure does lie a lot. She tells us that the boys have been seeing doctors for much of the week, apparently for both physical and psychological assessments. Considering Brewster’s various contusions, which were clearly gifts from their late uncle, many doctors were in order.

“I just want to talk to him,” Brontë pleads.

“He doesn’t want to see anyone now.” This time she’s telling the truth—and Brontë knows it, too, because I can see how hurt she is by it.

“Give him this, please,” she says. “Tell him it’s from Brontë.” Then she hands Mrs. Gorton one of those little pastel-colored volumes of bad inspirational poetry—the kind they sell in greeting card stores—definitely not the kind of poetry that Brewster likes; but the woman takes one look at the flowery book and is almost moved to tears.

“Of course I’ll give it to him, dear.”

We walk home, mission failed.

“Do you really think he’ll like those cheesy poems?” I ask.

“It wasn’t for him; it was for her,” Brontë explains. “To win her over so the next time I come by she’ll let me in.”

I stand corrected: Mission accomplished.

FRIDAY: Brontë’s investigative eavesdropping into teachers’ private conversations reveals a problem: In a situation like this, social services bends over backward to make it easy to become a foster parent—basically, anyone without a criminal record can get approved—and since the Gortons had already taken in Brew and Cody, they were being put on the fast track to foster parenthood. However, Mr. Gorton, in his youth, did six months for auto theft before he found religion; and although his criminal history was history and God stuck like glue, it didn’t matter. The couple came up short in the eyes of the law.

Now it’s only a matter of time before their application is denied. Then Brewster and Cody will be pulled out of the Gortons’ home and taken to a state facility, where love and concern get divided like cake at a wedding.

42) DICKENSIAN

That weekend Brontë comes up with the Big Idea. I knew it was coming.

It’s Sunday, and we’re out front washing Mom’s car. It looks like it’s about to rain, but it’s something to get us out of the house. Something to keep our minds and hands occupied—because you know what they say about idle hands and all. We soap up the car, not even paying attention to the fact that one of the windows is open and we’re getting the upholstery wet. Mom won’t yell at us about it. She doesn’t yell at us much since she’s afraid we’ll yell back—and lately we have much more powerful ammunition than she does. It’s a clear indication that Brontë and I are now the superpowers within our own family, and you don’t attack a superpower. Frankly, though, I’d much prefer to have stability return to the region.

“You know what will happen to them once the Gortons get denied,” Brontë says. “They’ll end up in some orphanage or workhouse or something.”

“Don’t be Dickensian,” I tell her. “They don’t have workhouses in this day and age”—although I’m not quite sure what modern, twenty-first-century orphanages are like. All I know is that once a month there’s a big shocking-pink plastic bag around our doorknob screaming for clothes donations for “the something home for something-something children.” I also know that Brewster’s terrified of being sent to one.

“Wherever they end up, it won’t be good,” she says, wringing out her sponge like she’s trying to strangle it.

I know exactly where she’s going with this—like I said, I’ve been waiting for it—but I don’t want to deny her the satisfaction of getting there, so I play dumb. “Maybe they’ll get other foster parents,” I suggest.

“The last thing Brewster and Cody need is to be handed off over and over again.” She soaps up the hood of the car in serpentine curves as she wends her way to her point. “It just seems so ridiculous,” she says, “when we have a spare room big enough for both of them.”

I sponge the back window in small, even circles, taking my time before feeding her the line she already knows is coming. “Dad’s living in the spare room.”

She shrugs. “So what? It won’t be forever.”

I don’t comment on that, because the future can hold many things when it comes to our father’s sleeping arrangements. He could move back into the master bedroom with Mom; he could move out; he could pitch a tent in the backyard—the roulette wheel is still spinning and there’s no telling if Dad, God rest his soul, will land on a black or a red number.

“Even if we could give them the spare room,” I tell her, “do you really think Mom and Dad would allow you and your boyfriend to live under the same roof?”

“They’re very progressive,” Brontë counters, “and besides, we’re not sexually active, thank you very much.”

I smirk. “You say that now.”

She hurls her sponge at me. I duck and it hits the mailbox.

“Forget it,” she says, exasperated. “Forget I said anything. It was a dumb idea anyway.”

But she’s wrong about that, and I think about that day playing basketball—and how good both Dad and I felt with Brew in the mix, changing the whole family dynamic. Maybe what our little roulette wheel needs isn’t black or red but a nice dose of double- zero green.

I retrieve my sister’s sponge and hand it back to her. “I’ll have to be the one to suggest it,” I say, “because if it comes from you, no matter how progressive they are, they’ll freak out.”

“No, forget it; with everything that’s going on between Mom and Dad, the last thing they need is two kids with issues in the house.”

I smirk again. “Don’t you mean four?”

She sneers but holds on to her sponge, having deemed my comment not sponge worthy. “Actually six,” she says, “if you include Mom and Dad.”

I hose off the suds and hand her a towel for drying. “Leave it to me,” I tell her, because although I don’t often mess with Mom’s and Dad’s heads, when I do, I’m pretty good at it.

43) AUDACIOUS

Dad’s in the spare bedroom grading papers on Emerson. Mom is out, probably with the Ewok. They’re rarely home at the same time except in the evenings. The first things I notice when I enter the room are the suitcases. Two of them. They’ve migrated from the basement. A pair of no-nonsense gray roll-aboards made of sturdy ballistic nylon. They can catch a bullet, and your suit would still stay pressed.

The cases are not being packed; but they sit ominously in the corner, waiting for the day, the hour, the moment when Dad will use them and move out. I try not to think about them as I approach my father.

“Papers from your grad students?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, “although to read these essays, you’d never know.”

Looking at the essays, I can see handwritten notes between every line. You could create a whole second essay from what he’s written back to them.

“Busywork,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re filling the hours with busywork so you don’t have to think about stuff with Mom. I get it.”

He rubs his forehead like Advil is in order. “Is there something you want, Tennyson?”

I pick up one of the essays and casually pretend to read it. “I guess everything’s relative,” I say. “I mean, what’s going on in our family is nothing compared to what happened to Brewster Rawlins. What’s happening to him, I mean.”

Dad continues red-inking his students’ work. “Sometimes you have to count your blessings.”

“Brontë’s all broken up over it.”

Finally Dad puts down the paper he’s reading. “Are they still dating?”

It surprises me that he doesn’t know that; but then, these days nothing should surprise me. Rather than make assumptions about how much he knows, I bring him up to date—the fact that Brew and his brother have no family and that Mr. Gorton’s ancient criminal record leaves everyone royally screwed. I don’t tell him about the healing thing because I’m not an idiot.

Once I’m done with the saga of woe, Dad throws me a glance—I think by now he knows what’s coming—then he returns to his work. “Too bad we can’t help,” he says.

“Actually, we can.”

“Absolutely not!”

This was okay; I was expecting this. Walls don’t fall without effort.

“We’re in no position to take them in,” he says. “Besides, someone else will; and if not, well, I’m sure social services will take fine care of them.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Dad sighs. “Are you completely clueless, Tennyson? Do you have any idea how bad the timing is? Do you even see what’s going on between your mother and me?”

“I see everything,” I tell him coldly. “I see more than you.” And I believe that’s true.

“So then, case closed.”

That expression “case closed” makes me look over at the two suitcases standing against the wall like a pair of hollow tombstones.

“Maybe taking them in will change things,” I suggest to my father. “What if putting ourselves out for someone else is just what we all need? What you and Mom need…” Dad sighs. “Putting ourselves out for someone else? Now you sound like your sister.”

“Then you’d better listen, because me sounding like Brontë is one of the signs of the apocalypse— and if the end of the world is coming, good deeds could earn you Judgment Day brownie points.”

He doesn’t laugh. His shoulders are still slumped; his attitude has not changed. “It’s a nice idea, but we can’t do it. Now, please—I really have a lot of work to do.”

I sit there a moment more, pretending to weigh the validity of the things he’s said. I pretend like I’m getting a clue.

“You’re right,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I bothered you.” I shift in my chair as if I’m getting ready to stand up and leave. Then I say, “Mom would never allow it anyway.”

I can practically hear the hairs on his neck bristling. “Then for once your mother and I would be in agreement.”

“Well, yeah…,” I say. “But even if you wanted to take them in, she’d shut it down.”

He still won’t look at me. “It’s not like your mother makes all the decisions around here.”

“No?”

He taps his red pen on his stack of essays. Finally he turns to look at me. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re trying to manipulate me into taking in Brewster and his brother.”

I don’t deny it. “Is it working?” I ask.

He laughs at that. Now all bets are off. I don’t know how this is going to play out. Then Dad says, “If you want it to work, you need to make me think it’s my idea.”

” I t was your idea,” I say in total deadpan seriousness. “You suggested it just a second ago.”

He laughs again. “My mistake.” And he shakes his head at my bald-faced audacity. He thinks about it for a moment, or pretends to think about it—I don’t know who’s toying with whom anymore. Then he says, “I’ll discuss it with your mother, and we’ll make a joint decision.”

“That’s all I can ask,” I say, “that you and Mom give serious thought to a decision that Brontë and I will remember for the rest of our lives.”

He studies me with that tentative gaze of parental evaluation—you know the one: It’s both a little bit proud and a little bit frightened at the same time. Then he says, “So shines a good deed in a weary world.”

I know this one! I snap my fingers and say, “Shakespeare—The Merchant of Venice.”

“Actually,” says my father, “I was thinking Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka, but both answers, A and B, are valid.”

Mom and Dad have their discussion, and the answer is still no. The Gortons are denied foster-parent status less than a week later; and as soon as social services can wade through their own paperwork, Brew and Cody will be sent to “the something home for something-something children,” vanishing into the system, never to be seen again.

If the wall Mom and Dad have erected is going to fall, it has to fall soon. It’s Brontë who completes the erosion process, turning herself into a human tsunami, as if it’s a secret superpower. Although I’ll never admit it to her, I’m in awe, and a little bit frightened of her now. I’m there when Jericho falls. It begins with a phone call, which I’m about to pick up; but Brontë, seeing the number on the caller ID, stops me. It rings one more time, and I hear Mom take the call in the hallway. We both listen.

“Excuse me, you’re from whose office?” we hear Mom say. “An attorney? What’s this all about?”

I don’t like the sound of that. When your parents are living on a fraying tightrope, a call from a lawyer is a very bad sign. I turn to Brontë, but the look on her face is more anticipation than dread.

“Let me get this straight—you’re calling for Brontë? Why would you want to speak to my daughter?” Mom listens for a moment more, then Brontë whispers to me: “They won’t tell her a thing— attorney/client confidentiality.”

“You hired a lawyer?”

“Consulted,” Brontë tells me. “Consultations are free.”

The phone call ends abruptly with Mom saying, “No, wait, don’t hang up,” which they obviously do.

Since no one in our family sits down for dinner together anymore, Brontë makes a point of eating with Mom. I join them because I love a good fireworks display. But instead it’s painfully quiet until Mom says, “Brontë, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

I know that Mom means to broach the topic of the phone call, but instead Brontë blindsides Mom with something else.

“I’ve decided to quit the swim team.”

“That’s not what I… what?”

“I’ve decided I need to get a job instead. I’ve been told that self-sufficiency is the first step.”

Mom’s still mentally backpedaling, trying to catch a gear. “First step toward what?”

“To becoming an emancipated minor.”

Mom takes a deep breath and lets it out, the dots finally connecting in her head. The fact that Brontë actually called a lawyer makes it hit exceptionally hard. “And why would you want that?” she says, trying to sound bright and unbothered by it.

“Well, you have to admit that you and Dad have not exactly been warm and nurturing lately. And the fact that you won’t consider helping Brewster and Cody makes it very clear this is not a place I want to be.”

Then Mom looks Brontë in the eye with the cold gaze of a serious parental warning. “Listen to me, because I will only say this once, Brontë,” she says. “I will not be blackmailed by you.”

Brontë holds the gaze, and strikes back with equal force behind her words. “Actions have consequences, Mom. You taught me that. Your actions are no exception.”

Then she gets up and strides out of the kitchen.

Now I’m alone with Mom, who’s no longer eating. “Wow,” I say; and since I really am blown away by what Brontë has just done, I say “Wow” again, truly speechless.

That night I ask Brontë if she really means it. She seems terrified by the question.

“I don’t make idle threats,” she says—and I suddenly realize that she’s not scared of our parents’ response; she’s scared of her own determination, because if Mom and Dad don’t do something for Brew and Cody, she will quit the swim team, she will get a job, and eventually maybe she will go all the way with her threat to become emancipated.

I want to comfort her somehow; but again, all I can say is “Wow.” Nothing more is said about it until the following day, but then Dad tells Brontë and me that he and Mom are “open to considering the possibility of maybe temporarily helping Brew and Cody if no one else steps forward.”

They schedule an appointment with the social worker, who comes by our house the same day. I suppose she’s trying to make up for botching things the day Uncle Hoyt died. She must have sold used cars in a previous life, because although Mom and Dad keep insisting all they want is information, the appointment ends with an application, fingerprinting, and a background check. “So you’ll already be approved as foster parents should you decide to move forward,” the social worker says; but I think our parents know full well that there’s no closing this door once it’s open.

“God bless you,” the social worker tells them. “God bless you both.”

Then Brontë smothers Mom and Dad in kisses in a way she hasn’t done since we were little. “I love you both so, so much!” she tells them. “I knew you would do the right thing.” Our phone rings a week later. Sometimes when the call is momentous enough, you know exactly who’s calling and why even before you pick up the phone. I’ve never been one to believe in that kind of intuition, but lately I’ve had to broaden my mind to a whole range of things I used to dismiss. When that phone rings, I know just as certainly as I know my own name what the call is about even before Dad says, “Hello?”

44) CATHARTIC

The Gortons drive Brew and Cody over early on Wednesday evening. Mrs. Gorton is all teary-eyed as she hugs Cody, as if she’s either sending him off to summer camp or handing him over to agents of Satan.

They chat with my parents briefly. Brew shakes my parents’ hands tentatively as they welcome him. Cody doesn’t bother with such formalities; he’s already raced in and has made himself at home. All the while I notice the Gortons never make eye contact with Brewster; and when they tell him good- bye, there’s a chilly formality to it, like they’d rather not say anything to him at all. They hurry to their car, they drive off, and there it is: Brewster Rawlins, creepy dude deluxe, is now my foster brother.

This is the first time we’re seeing Brew face-to- face since his uncle died. Not a big deal for me, but I know it’s a big deal for my sister. He stands at the threshold sheepishly, holding a small suitcase that contains all the worldly possessions he chose to salvage from the farmhouse. He faces Brontë in our foyer in a guarded standoff in which nothing much is said.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Yeah.”

Walking on eggshells cannot begin to describe the moment—and the dinner that follows is the very definition of discomfort…or at least it starts that way.

The mood is set right away by Cody, who can’t stop talking about how they found Uncle Hoyt. “He was all pale, like the blood been sucked outta him.” To hear him tell it, you’d think the man got attacked by a chupacabra—and I’m sure the story gets wilder every time he tells it. By now Cody has had a haircut, compliments of the Gortons, and he looks semicivilized. Still, he keeps shaking his head like he’s trying to fling hair out of his face. That habit’s not going to go away for a good while.

“And his eyes,” says Cody, “they was open and all bulgy, like he saw a ghost!”

“It’s very sad,” Brontë says. “Would anyone like some milk?”

“Did you hear everything in the house was all broke up?” Cody says. “Nothing left—like he blew it apart with his mind before he died!”

“That’s enough, Cody,” Brewster says under his breath; but my mom gently pats Cody’s hand.

“Talk about it all you want, Cody,” she tells him. “It’s very cathartic to talk it out.”

I can see Cody mouthing the word cathartic with a grimace, like it’s a verbal Brussels sprout; and I wonder if our parents are going to inflict him and Brew with a daily power word, too.

If nothing else, this has forced Mom and Dad to sit at the same dinner table again—and Mom has actually cooked a meal. Okay, so it’s lasagna from Costco, but at least she turned on the oven and put it in!

“I know you’ve had a rough time of it,” Mom says, mostly to Brew, “but from here on in, you don’t have to worry about anything.”

“More lasagna?” says Brontë. I think she believes that if everyone’s mouth can be kept full, there’s less chance that someone will say something unfortunate.

“How’s your basketball coming?” Dad asks Brew.

“Haven’t played since that time with you guys.”

“Well, we’ll have to do it again.”

It’s as if our parents have begun a new competition to see who can be more compassionate to troubled youth.

“I hope you boys are okay with the guest room,” Mom says.

And I say, “So, where will you sleep, Dad?”

I just meant it as a simple question, but then realize that this is one of those unfortunate moments Brontë has been trying to avoid. I shove some lasagna in my mouth, but it’s too late. I glance to Mom, who fusses with her napkin rather than look at me. The fact that no one has discussed with Brontë and me how this is all going to work is yet another symptom of the downed communications line within our family.

“Well, Tennyson,” says my father, “I suppose I could room with you….” He tries to be flip and funny when he says it, but he can’t mask the tension thundering in just behind his words.

“Sure, whatever,” I say. I think this is the first time in years I’ve used the expression “whatever,” as it’s on our family’s list of banned slang; but when I say it, there’s an audible breath of relief from both of my parents.

Then Brontë says, “You and Mom have shared a bed for seventeen years; I don’t think it’ll kill you to share it a little while longer.”

He takes a few moments to chew, and then Dad says, “True.” I can sense no emotion in his response either way.

Brontë, who was so determined to shut everyone else up just a minute ago, is still not done. “I mean, we have a situation, and we should all make the best of it; isn’t that right, Mom?”

“We’ll work things out to the best of our ability,” my mother says. She really should run for Congress.

“Now, you know this isn’t permanent,” Dad reminds us all.

“Yes, sir,” says Brew.

“But we are more than happy to have you here for as long as it takes,” Mom adds.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Brew. No one in memory has ever called my parents sir or ma’am.

“I’m sure they’ll find a more appropriate family who’d be willing to take both of you in.”

“And,” adds Dad, “who aren’t quite as strange as us.”

“Don’t worry,” Brew says, looking over at Brontë with a grin. “I like strange.”

She gives him a playful love-hit, which sends Dad to prickly, uncomfortable places. “The guest room has its own bathroom,” Dad says. “It’s convenient— you’ll never need to go upstairs.”

Brontë drops her fork on her plate for effect. “My God, Dad, why don’t you install motion sensors on the stairs to make sure he doesn’t come up at night?”

“Don’t think we haven’t thought of that, dear,” says Mom in her I-can-be-as-impertinent-as-you voice, and for a moment—just the slightest moment— things feel almost normal.

45) PALPABLE

An hour after dinner, I can hear Mom and Dad in their bedroom discussing Cody-and-Brew-related details.

Their bedroom.

I like the fact that I can say that again. This is the most Mom and Dad have said to each other in weeks. It must be a relief to have someone else’s crisis to take the place of their own. I suppose surrogate stress is a kinder, gentler form of trauma. As I listen to their muffled voices, I feel confident that things will be okay. Brew and Cody have been here for just a couple of hours and already their presence is making a difference. I can only hope that those good feelings stay.

Cody has already taken root in the family room and plays video games. Mom removed all games that remotely suggest violence and death—but Cody’s doing a good job of making harmless cartoon characters suffer in fresh and inventive ways.

“This game sucks,” he says, “but I like it.”

Brontë’s in the spare room, which I guess isn’t spare anymore, talking to Brew in hushed tones. They stop the moment I enter.

“I was just briefing Brew on the state of the union,” Brontë informs me.

“As in the nation?”

“As in our parents.”

“I’m sure he can see it for himself.”

There’s an unrest in Brew’s face that borders on sheer terror, so palpable I can almost feel it like heat from a furnace. It stands in stark contrast to my own growing sense of well-being. I wonder if Brontë sees it too or if she’s just so happy he’s here, she can’t see how it’s affecting him. The question is why? What is he so worried about?

“I’d better go,” Brontë says, “before Dad finds me in here and decides to lock me away in a tower.” She gives Brew a quick kiss and leaves. I don’t think she ever notices just how deep his fear goes.

“Do you think she’s still mad at me for not calling her right away?”

I think about how to best answer him. “She wasn’t mad,” I say. “Just worried.”

“I didn’t mean to worry her.”

I put up my hand to stop him before he launches into an apology. “I’m sure Brontë understands, but she’s a chronic fixer. She freaks out if she’s not allowed to repair a situation.”

“She couldn’t fix this.”

“Actually, she did,” I remind him. “I mean, you’re here, aren’t you?”

Then Brew looks down, nervously picking at his fingernails, and asks the million-dollar question. “Do your parents know about…about the stuff I do?”

I shake my head. “No—and unless they start smacking each other with two-by-fours, I don’t think they’ll find out.”

“But if they get a bad cut, and it suddenly goes away…”

“Let’s hope they don’t,” I tell him.

He unpacks his bag slowly and methodically. “People in school are talking about what happened, aren’t they?”

I know he’s worried about going back to school. I’m about to tell him that there’s no problem; but I don’t want to lie to him, so I just shrug like I have nothing to say.

“They think I killed him, don’t they?”

I can’t escape the question, so I tell him the truth as tactfully as I can. “There are some imbeciles who have come up with their own version of how your uncle died,” I say; “but most people aren’t that stupid. Still, they might be a little standoffish.”

“I’m used to that.” He crosses the room to put some clothes in the dresser, and I notice he’s limping. In fact, he’d been favoring his right foot ever since he arrived. It’s different from the limp he had when he took Brontë’s sprained ankle. I wonder what that’s all about, but I don’t want to ask.

He looks into the open drawer for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere. “Tennyson…,” he says, “…I didn’t kill my uncle.” And I can see how desperate he is for me to believe it.

“I never thought you did.”

Yet he doesn’t seem relieved. Maybe that’s because I’m not the one he’s trying to convince. As the conversation is headed toward dangerous rapids, I make a quick course correction.

“So…how were the Gortons?”

“I didn’t like them,” Brew says.

“Yeah, they did seem a bit cold….”

Brew closes the dresser drawer. “No—I mean I couldn’t like them. Because if I did, I’d have osteoporosis, arthritis, varicose veins, and who knows what else.”

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying, then the truth dawns on me. If he had liked them, he’d have ended up taking on all of their infirmities—even the ones he didn’t know about.

“I had to do stuff to make them hate me right away,” Brew says. “Steal things, break things on purpose. It was easier to dislike them if they didn’t like me first.”

“Sort of a preemptive strike,” I say. Only now do I begin to really understand how difficult it must be to carry the weight of his strange ability. He has to live his life in an emotional bubble—never caring—or he’d never survive. It’s a huge deal that he’s let Brontë and me into that bubble. I think back to the very first time he shook my hand—how he hesitated as we stood there in his kitchen. I had no idea what a huge decision he was making at that moment.

“Well, don’t start breaking stuff around here,” I tell him, “or you and I are gonna have to revisit that black eye.”

“I won’t,” he says.

“I mean…you do like our family, right?” He hesitates—just as he did that time he shook my hand. I feel like the fate of the world is resting on his answer, and I don’t know why.

“Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, I do.”

46) SUBCUTANEOUS

“Is it true? Because I won’t believe it unless I hear it from your mouth—did the Bruiser actually move in with you?”

“Yeah,” I tell Katrina. “Him and his brother.”

It’s lunchtime on Monday—Brew’s first day back at school. Katrina sits across the table from me, gaping like she might expel the salad she just ate. “That’s just insane!”

“It wasn’t my idea,” I tell her, and get mad at myself for lying. Why do I feel I have to lie to her about it?

“Well, I hope you lock your door at night, because I don’t want to be interviewed on CNN or something about how my boyfriend was murdered in his sleep.”

I squirm on the bench, feeling like I’ve developed a nest of ants under my skin; but it’s just Katrina. “Leave the guy alone,” I say; “he’s not so terrible.”

“No? Well, Ozzy O’Dell says—”

“I don’t care what Ozzy O’Dell says; he’s a moron.”

Katrina’s speechless, like she’s the one I just insulted. “I’m sorry,” she says, finally realizing that Bruiser-bashing is not a sport I engage in anymore. “If it’ll make you happy, I’ll tell everyone what a perfectly, wonderfully normal guy the Bruiser is.”

I wonder if she even remembers his actual name. Did I know his name before Brontë started dating him? “You don’t have to do that either,” I mumble.

She cocks her head and studies me, screwing up her lips. “Listen, I know what you’re going through. When my parents got divorced, I was all stressed- out, too.”

“My parents are not getting divorced.”

“Divorced, separated, whatever—the point is, temporary insanity goes with the territory, so I understand why you’re so snippy, and it’s okay.”

Hearing that just makes me feel more “snippy,” because maybe she’s partly right. But on the other hand, my parents have stopped fighting, and there’s a sense of balance returning to the house. Well, maybe not balance, but a kind of cushioning—like we’re all inside a big bounce house, and no matter how hard we hit the wall, we’ll just rebound.

“I’m fine with my parents,” I tell her. “And they’re fine, too.”

She sighs. “Denial is normal. You’ll get over it.” She gives me a slim grin and a knowing nod, then says, “So, are we studying tonight?”

“Not tonight,” I tell her. “I’ve got too many things going on at home.” Which is true on one level and false on another. I don’t have anything specifically that I have to do; but lately I’ve been feeling more and more like a homebod—not wanting to go out—and when I am out, I want to get home as quickly as possible. Maybe Katrina’s right. Maybe the turmoil in my family is affecting me. All I know is that, in spite of it, when I’m home I feel safe, like nothing can hurt me.

47) DECIMATING

Once in a while our school has half days, and the teachers spend the afternoon “in service,” which I think must be group therapy for having to deal with us. On those days a bunch of us usually go to the shopping center across the street. We hang out at the Burger King, or Ahab’s Coffee, or the smoothie place, depending on the length of the line.

Usually my friends are pretty cool, except, of course, when they’re not. And it’s not only my friends that I hang out with, because they have friends, too, not all of whom I like. But as is the way with these things, you tolerate the bozos your friends bring to the table.

So, I’m sitting in the smoothie place with the usual suspects, drinking smoothies and munching on chips, when in walks Brewster, who gets in line— only I don’t see him first; my friend Joe Crippendorf does. Crippendorf looks at me and says under his breath, “Guess they’ll serve anyone in here.”

It gets several snickers from around the table. I take a long suck on my smoothie and say to Crippendorf, also beneath my breath, “Uncalled for.”

He gets the message right away, and he’s wise enough to stop. However, one of the bozos my friends have brought along today is Ozzy O’Dell, the hairless wonder, who takes it upon himself to pick up where Crippendorf left off.

“He’s here because they’ve got a new flavor,” Ozzy says. “Citrus Psycho.” A few of the same characters laugh, which just encourages him. “Yeah,” Ozzy continues, “it’s full of fruits and nuts.”

Crippendorf tells Ozzy he’s a moron, and it’s seconded by a couple of others; but there are still a few who are laughing.

“I’d shut it if I were you,” I warn him.

But Ozzy thinks he’s on a roll. He goes right over to Brew. “So, Bruiser, how is it you’re back at school and not in jail for what you did? You must have a good lawyer.”

Now only two kids give the slightest chuckle—the rest realize that Ozzy has crossed the line; but Ozzy’s the kind of cretin who needs only one person’s laughter to sustain his stupidity—his own.

I stand up. “O’Dell, why don’t you sit your waxed ass down and leave him alone.”

“Oh, sorry,” he taunts, “I forgot you two are like brothers now, right? Or is it sisters?”

Now everyone’s looking at me and making that low ooooooh sound that precedes most high school confrontations.

“Are you gonna let him get away with that?” says Crippendorf, because your friends just love to stir the water when they smell blood.

I keep my cool; but when I see the look on Brew’s face, I know I must retaliate. I grab Ozzy’s smoothie, which he left on the table, and take a long sip— gurgling it in my mouth—and I say, with my mouth bubbling with smoothie, “Is it my imagination or is this smoothie saliva flavored?” Then I put the straw back in my mouth and backwash every last bit down the straw and into the cup, along with some potato chip bits that were still in my mouth.

Even Brew grins at that—but Ozzy sees the grin and goes after him. “What are you smiling at?” He pushes Brew against a glass display case, which rattles loudly enough to draw the manager’s attention.

“Hey!” yells the manager. “Take it outside!”

Ozzy turns to me, getting all red—not just on his face but on top of his shaved head as well. “You’re buying me a new one!” he demands.

But we both know that that’s not gonna happen, so he steps forward and pushes me.

I only remember fighting Ozzy O’Dell once. It was back in second grade. He threw these weird windmill-like punches, which was probably an early sign that the swim team was in his future.

“Outside,” the manager says, “or I call the cops!” Apparently he doesn’t care how much blood is spilled as long as it’s not on his property.

I storm outside, and Ozzy’s right behind me, along with everyone else.

I probably look pretty angry, but actually I’m not. It’s weird. All I feel is a desire to end this and get on with my day—but when I glance over at Brew, he’s clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. He’s got enough anger for both of us. I know that it’s my responsibility to shut Ozzy up, because if I don’t, it’ll never end. He’ll go on tormenting Brew, spreading lies, and making the Bruiser’s life miserable.

I get in Ozzy’s face. “You don’t know anything about anything, so from now on you’re gonna keep your mouth shut about the Bruiser or I swear I’ll rip out your spleen and make you eat it.” The spleen line usually works, because it’s one of the more mysterious organs and so any threat involving it is deeply troubling. In this case, however, Ozzy O’Dell has his own deeply troubling response.

“You’re a nut job, just like him—even Katrina thinks so! She told me!”

As I reel from this below-the-belt blow, more kids begin to gather. Now my voice comes out as a warning growl. “You have until the count of three to get out of my sight.”

He doesn’t even wait for the count; he starts swinging right away—the same odd, roundhouse punches but much more powerful than they were in second grade. I’m caught off guard, and he lands one right on my mouth, then backs away to let it sink in.

Part of me welcomes this chance to put Ozzy in his place—but suddenly I realize something. Brew is holding his mouth. It’s bleeding. It’s swelling. He’s taken the punch Ozzy landed on me! I’m pretty sure I can beat Ozzy in a fight but not without taking substantial damage of my own. But any damage I take will bounce right to Brew… and everyone will see! Everyone will know, and his life will become the living hell he’s feared for so long.

I can’t let that happen.

The only way to prevent outing him as an empath is to end this quickly and decisively. I can’t just take Ozzy down…I have to take him out. And fast.

I fend off Ozzy’s next round of swings, and he backs off for a moment of taunting.

“You think you’re so smart, so cool,” Ozzy says, “like the world owes you something because of it.”

“I don’t want to fight you, Ozzy.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t!” And he comes at me again.

There’s a set of unspoken rules we live by when it comes to fighting. We can’t help it. It comes from living in a civilized world. Even when you’re fighting your hardest, somewhere deep down, you know how far you can go. But today the rules are gone. Today I fight not to win, but to destroy.

I start in on Ozzy with perfectly controlled methodology.

A sharp sock to the eye: He’s slightly dazed.

An upper cut to the chin: His head snaps back. A powerful piston-punch to the gut: He doubles over, his face jutting toward me.

Then the fourth and final punch. Holding nothing back, I put the full force of my will behind my fist and send it on a decimating collision course with his nose.

I feel bone breaking against my knuckles. He stumbles back, and blood immediately begins to gush from his face, spilling onto the ground. He collapses to his knees, screaming and bringing his hands to his face. He’s forgotten the fight; he’s forgotten me; all that’s left for Ozzy in this moment is the blood, the pain, and the pavement.

The crowd around us that was so quick to cheer and jeer now falls silent behind Ozzy’s wet, nasal wails.

Crippendorf looks at me and shakes his head. “Dude, that was so… uncalled for.”

All I can do is stand there and stare at Ozzy as he bleeds on the sidewalk until Brew grabs me and pulls me away.

48) FALLOUT

“Thanks for taking out the team’s star sprinter,” Brontë says when Brewster and I get home. Somehow the news got home even before we did. “Do you realize you’ve just turned Ozzy from a standard school ass into a sympathetic victim? Was that your intent?”

“It was self-defense!” I tell her. “There are witnesses to prove it!”

“Witnesses enough to keep you out of juvie?”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. “Yes,” I tell her, then Brew chimes in.

“Ozzy started it—everyone heard Tennyson say he didn’t want to fight, but Ozzy came after him.” He gives her the details—how I had stood up for him. She is both horrified and impressed by the smoothie backwash, which I suspect will go down in local history.

“Someday, Tennyson,” she says, “I’m convinced there’ll be bulletproof glass and armed guards between our conversations.”

“Ozzy has lots of friends,” says Brew. “What if his friends lie and say you started it?”

“Relax,” I tell Brew, impressed by my own calmness.

Even my parents, whose reaction-factor could usually rattle the house off its foundations, are unexpectedly rational. Dad sits me down calmly for the obligatory “What were you thinking?” speech and talks about putting me in an anger management program.

“I wasn’t angry when I hit him,” I tell him—which is true. I probably should have been, but I wasn’t. I was just taking care of a problem.

He and Mom call the O’Dells and offer to pay all of Ozzy’s medical expenses; but the O’Dells—who are disgusted both with me and with their own son— refuse, and want to have absolutely nothing to do with us. The threat of a lawsuit looms like a storm cell.

And yet, in spite of all that, things seem as normal as normal can be. Mom and Dad sit in the family room together—in separate chairs, but still in the same room—sharing communal laughter as they watch a dumb sitcom.

I spend most of the night sitting at my desk trying to do homework while fielding calls from my friends —since everyone who wasn’t there wants to know how it went down.

When I hang up from one of the calls, I see Cody standing right beside me. I jump a little, not expecting him to be there.

“Is it true you killed a kid?” he asks.

“No!” I tell him. “I broke his nose.”

“Oh.” Cody seems both relieved and disappointed. “Well, ninjas know how to break your nose so the bone goes right into your brain and you die.”

“I’m not a ninja,” I remind him. He seems both relieved and disappointed by that, too. Then he thinks about it some more. “Are you gonna get like Uncle Hoyt?” he asks, then he looks at me, waiting for an answer. It makes me shiver, because I know he’s looking for something in my eyes—maybe something he saw in his uncle’s eyes—and I hope to God he hasn’t found it in mine.

“I’ll never hit you or your brother, Cody.”

“That’s not what I mean….” And still he’s looking. A little kid’s gaze can be innocent; but sometimes their eyes are so wide, they catch all kinds of things older eyes don’t. Kind of like those radio telescopes that stare at empty space so hard and so long they find thousands of galaxies in the darkness. Cody’s gaze reaches a little too deep, and I have to look away.

“Just don’t be like him, okay?” he says, then he leaves, and I’m glad for it—because once he’s gone I start to feel pretty good about things. Not just good, but great. In fact, I fall asleep that night feeling a bizarre bliss that flies in the face of everything going on in my life. I know I should probably wonder why, but who questions a good feeling? Better to just enjoy it. The fight with Ozzy seems too small and too far away to matter. So do the old fights between my parents. Ancient history. And all the fallout is little more than stardust settling on my shoulders.

Contentment. I could get used to this feeling.