Bruiser by Neal Shusterman Page B

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.

30) STUFF
    Brewster said I should always be the rag doll, but I never liked that much. I told him I’d rather be Plastic Boy instead, cuz that’s a good name for a superhero.
    â€œYou’re no superhero,” Brew told me, “and don’t go thinking that you are. Think rag doll , not superhero.”
    He says that cuza the time I jumped off the roof and broke his arm. Maybe he’s right, though, on accounta I can’t be Plastic Boy since I don’t stretch. Still, I wish I could have myself a cooler secret identity for the times when Uncle Hoyt goes foul.
    I wanted to tell Brontë-saurus about all that stuff, but Brew said, “A secret identity’s gotta stay secret.”
    â€œEven from her?” I asked.
    â€œ Especially from her,” he said—although I can’t see why cuz they had been talking so much, it’s like they’re inside each other’s brains.
    Brontë-saurus swims good. I know this because of the time I taught her to do a cannonball, and then I beat her in a race across the pool. It was a great day, but it got a little scary because she saw all that stuff on Brew’s body—the stuff we’re not allowed to talk about, like my secret identity. She wanted to know how he got all the bruises—she thought it was Uncle Hoyt hitting him and stuff.
    â€œCody, does Uncle Hoyt beat me?” Brew asked me while looking in my eyes. “Tell the truth.”
    And so I did just like he wanted. I told the truth.
    â€œNo,” I told Brontë-saurus, “Uncle Hoyt’s afraid of Brewster,” which is God’s honest truth. Uncle Hoyt never hits Brew…but that’s only a half of what the truth is, and a half-truth is worse than a lie cuz it’s harder to figure out.
    I could tell she knew something, but she didn’t know what she knew. I could also tell that Brew wanted her all lost and confused about it, which meant they weren’t inside each other’s brains as much as I thought, which made me feel good.
    That day at the pool was fine and sunny and cold, just like the day I’d jumped off the roof. That was back in first grade before I had any sense. See, I was tryin’ to work my way up to it bit by bit. First I jumped from a chair, then I jumped from the porch, then I practiced jumping from the kitchen window over and over till I could do it and land on my feet easy.
    The next step was the roof. That’s what you call logic.
    So I got the ladder out of the shed and climbed up there,and I guess when I was climbin’ that’s when Brew got home from Saturday school—which he goes to a lot since he’s always getting tardies because of the times Uncle Hoyt gets odd and won’t let him leave the house in the morning.
    The thing is, that day I took the ladder and climbed up on the roof, I didn’t even know Brew was home. Wasn’t like I did it on