Bruiser Read Free Page B

to think that the Bruiser, with his creepy family and slimy ways, is somehow lower than me? Yes, it does make you a snob , I hear Brontë’s voice telling me in my head. It does, Tennyson, because there’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance. There’s a fine line between being assertive and being a bully. And you’re on the wrong side of both lines.
    We’re not telepathic twins or anything, but sometimes I wonder because once in a while I have fictional conversations with her. It irks me that, even in my imagination, she can always, always have the last word.

6) DECIMATED
    I don’t know where my head is at on Monday. Maybe it’s because I feel a little bit guilty for being so mean to the Bruiser. Anyway, I do my best to suspend judgment on him; and, for Brontë’s sake, I try to keep an open mind.
    It’s not until the end of the day that I run into him in the most awkward and uncomfortable of situations.
    I’m early into the locker room for lacrosse practice, and he’s just getting done with PE. He’s the last kid there—apparently he doesn’t dress with the other kids; he waits until the rest of them are gone.
    The instant I see him, I know why.
    The first thing I see is his back. It’s enough to scare anyone. There’s damage there, strange damage. It’s impossible to tell what has caused it. Scars and pockmarks; discolorations; a big bruise on his shoulder, yellowed around the edges. His backis decimated, like the cratered surface of the moon.
    I just stand there staring. He slips on his shirt, not even knowing that I’m there. Then he turns around and catches me watching him. He knows I’ve seen his back. I stare for a moment too long.
    â€œWhat do you want?” he asks without looking me in the eye.
    I want to match his nasty tone, but I know I have to curb my bully/snob factor. Letting something like that run unchecked will turn you into a creep. My one saving grace is that true creeps don’t ever know they are; and if I’m worried about becoming one, maybe it means I won’t. The only thing I can think of to say is “So what kind of name is Brewster? Were you named after someone?”
    He looks at me like it’s a trick question. “What do you care?”
    â€œI don’t. I’m just wondering.”
    He doesn’t answer me; he just puts on his jacket: a beat-up leather bomber that looks like it has actually seen several generations of war. Still, the scars on the jacket are nothing compared to what I saw on his back. “Cool jacket,” I say. “Where’d you get it?”
    â€œThrift store,” he answers.
    I hold back the urge to say “It figures,” and instead I just say, “Cool.”
    He stands facing me now, shoulders squared. Gunslingerposition. It’s a stance that says “C’mon, I dare you.” He doesn’t trust me, but that’s just fine. I don’t trust him either. I can’t even say I dislike him any less; but now I’m curious and worried, and not just for Brontë but maybe a little bit for him, too. Who could do things like that to his body and get away with it, especially to a guy as big as him?
    â€œSo, what is it you want?” he asks, “because I got things to do.”
    â€œWho says I want anything?” That’s when I realize that I’m in gunslinger position, too, blocking his way out. I step aside to let him pass. I think he expects me to trip him, or kick him or something. I wonder if he’s disappointed when I don’t.
    â€œMy great-grandfather,” he says as he passes. “That’s who I was named after.”
    And he’s gone, just as a bunch of kids from my lacrosse team enter.

7) RECEPTACLE
    Our parents never spanked us. They come from the brave new world of time-out and positive reinforcement.
    I’ve always been a very physical kid, though, always using my fists or my