Read Online Bruiser by Neal Shusterman - Free Book Online Page A

to be so much more observant, had absolutely no clue that anything was troubling me. Their own personal universes had developed a shell so thick, I don’t think anything was getting through from the outside.
    â€œAre you done, Brontë?” Mom asked, reaching for my dinner plate, not even noticing that I hadn’t eaten a single thing. Carbs, protein, fiber—it all just sat there, as appetizing as plastic to me.
    â€œI’m done,” I told her. She took away my plate and scraped my dinner into the disposal. I guess if I wasn’t so focused onBrew, I might have realized how “off” things were, how our whole family was on the verge of a landslide. Right then I wasn’t seeing anything, though.
    But Tennyson was. He was the one who noticed that Mom and Dad didn’t say a word to each other all evening—how Dad just ate in silence. Tennyson even noticed my lack of appetite.
    â€œStarvation diet?” he asked.
    â€œMaybe I’m just not hungry,” I said. “Did you think of that?”
    â€œI guess it’s contagious,” he said. Only then did I realize he hadn’t eaten much either. In fact, all he had eaten were his vegetables.
    â€œSince when are you a vegetarian?” I asked.
    He looked at me, taking great offense. “Just because I don’t feel like eating meat lately doesn’t make me a vegetarian. I’m not a vegetarian, okay?” Then he stormed away from the table.
    Â 
    After dinner I tried to do my homework, but I simply couldn’t focus. I knew why. I had avoided talking to Tennyson about Brewster, but I couldn’t put it off any longer. He was, unfortunately, the only one I could talk to.
    I found him in the family room, watching basketball. He was slouching in the man-eating sofa—the one that, when we were kids, we could sink into and practically disappear. Itlooked like Tennyson was still trying to do that; but the older we get, the harder that is.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to call you a vegetarian.”
    â€œApology accepted,” he said without looking at me. And when I didn’t leave, he said, “You wanna watch the game?”
    I sat beside him and let the sofa pull me in. We watched the game for a few minutes, and finally I said:
    â€œI saw it.”
    He turned to me, only half interested. “Saw what?”
    â€œHis back,” I told him. “He took off his shirt, and I saw his back. And it’s not just on his back; it’s all over.”
    Tennyson shifted forward out of the folds of the man-eating sofa and raised the remote, turning off the TV, and gave me his full attention. I was grateful that this was more important to him than the game.
    â€œSo, what do you think?” he asked. “Do you think it’s his uncle?”
    Well, I know what I thought, but Brewster swore up and down that it wasn’t true. “I don’t know,” I told my brother. “He’s a conundrum—and there’s still a piece missing from the puzzle.” Whatever that piece was, there was a part of me telling me not to get involved—that it was too much to handle. That you shouldn’t go out on a limb unless you’re absolutely sure the limb can support your weight.
    But a stronger part of me wanted to know everything about Brewster Rawlins and become a part of his story, no matterhow harsh that story was.
    Tennyson opened his mouth to speak again, but I didn’t let him.
    â€œI know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say ‘I told you so,’ then you’re going to look at me with that smug expression you get whenever you’re accidentally right.”
    Then Tennyson did something he rarely does. He caught me by surprise.
    â€œNo,” he said, “I think you should keep seeing him.”
    I tried to read the expression on his face, but with the TV turned off and only dim lights in the room, I