Bruiser

I saw the weak hearts of my classmates shredded by

conformity, bloated and numb, as they iced the

wounds of acceptance in the primordial gym,

hoping to heal themselves into popularity,

Who have devolved into Play-Doh pumped through a

sleazy suburban press, stamped in identical

molds, all bearing chunks of bleak ice, comet-

cold in their chests,

Who look down their surgically set noses at me, the

boy most likely to die by lethal injection with no

crime beyond the refusal to permit their swollen,

shredded cardiac chill to fill my heart as well,

Yet out of this frigid pool of judgment stepped

Brontë, untainted by the cold, radiating warmth in

a rhythmic pulse through her veins, echoing now

in mine, just as the slice across her palm is now

my burden, taken by accident, yet held with

purposeful triumph,

As I now reach to double-check the unreliable lock

on my bathroom door, which gives no privacy,

least of all from Uncle Hoyt, who, in fits of

paranoia, must know everything,

everything that goes on beneath his termite-ridden,

shingle-shedding roof,

Where I now carefully peel the bandage from my

hand, revealing shades of brown and red, flesh

damaged and bruised, hoping to redress the

wound before my uncle can find out, the wound

that I have no idea how Brontë got, for in my fuzz-

brained love haze, I forgot to question,

Which will heal without mystery or magic at the

normal pace of life—in a week, two weeks, three

—like the raw-knuckle scabs of her brother, now

mine, too, like the bruises, breaks, and scrapes,

the scars of a lifelong battle that defines me,

Like the fresh wound that cannot be concealed as

my uncle swings open the maliciously disloyal

bathroom door, and getting a healthy look at the

fresh red line sliced across the heel of my hand,

knowing from my unmet gaze that I’m holding a

secret, which gives him permission to hold me

hostage.

“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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 bounds 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.