Bruiser by Neal Shusterman

sensation began to go away.
    Then he let go. “Like I said, you just twisted it. You’ll be fine.”
    I stood up and put some weight on it. He was right. I’d been lucky.
    â€œBut just in case,” he said as he stood up, “maybe we shouldhave our picnic here instead of hiking anymore.”
    â€œBut…but what about the falls? And we haven’t even gotten up to the good views.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” he said, and offered a little grimace. “To be honest, I’ve outgrown these shoes—and they’re not exactly hiking shoes anyway. They really hurt.”
    He took a couple of limping, grimacing steps, and I grinned. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” I said. “You’re just trying to make me feel better about not making it to the falls.”
    He shook his head. “No, I’m serious.”
    He limped and grimaced a little bit more. I could see that he was sticking to his story, so I decided not to argue. I took the blanket and spread it out in a clearing, and we had our picnic.
    We talked as we ate and drank, and had a truly wonderful time. It felt good, and I didn’t want it to end. I’m not going to be so stupidly sentimental as to say we were suddenly in love or anything, but something did happen that day. Somehow we had become linked. Entwined. It was out of the ordinary, and out of my control.
    That’s when I realized that I had been wrong from the start: Brewster wasn’t a stray at all. If anyone was lost, it was me; and I could feel nothing but gratitude at having been found.

16) KEELHAULED
    It took a day for that strange feeling to fade, although it never wore off entirely. Eventually I was able to hurl enough reason at it to camouflage it against a background of protective logic. It was hormones. It was adrenaline. It was the endorphins released by the acupressure. There was nothing out of the ordinary going on at all, and I was entirely in control of the situation. Right.
    The following Sunday I invited Brew to join me swimming, and things took a troubling turn.
    On weekends our school opens the pool to the public. It’s an outdoor pool, even though we live in a geographically iffy part of the country when it comes to weather. Why? Because some über-genius decided it was cheaper to heat an outdoor pool through the winter than to put a building around it. In early April few people come to the pool on Sundays, except the diehards. That was fine. I figured it would give Brew andme some space. The rumor mill was cheerfully rolling out reams about us; and I, for one, didn’t want to feed it more pulp by making a grand and glorious public showing among the masses. Knowing that Brew’s dictatorial uncle worked a night-shift kind of life, I planned it for morning, when he’d be asleep.
    â€œI watch my brother on Sundays,” Brew told me when I suggested it. I told him to bring his brother along.
    â€œI don’t have a bathing suit that fits,” he said. I told him shorts were fine.
    â€œWhat if it rains?” he asked. I told him he didn’t have to come if he didn’t want to.
    â€œNo…no, I want to come.” And there was genuine enthusiasm in his voice when he said it. I was relieved, because the way he was trying to worm out of coming made me worried that he had changed his mind about going out with me. Maybe the ankle massage had been one step too close for him. Maybe he now saw me as the flytrap ready to spring closed around him. But he did want to come, and he meant it.
    I had just finished swimming my laps when they arrived. Now, the only other person in the pool was one of the regulars—an old lady I call the Water Lily due to her flowery bathing suit and the way that when you look at her, she never seems to be moving forward, like she had somehow taken root in the pool tiles and all that dog paddling was for naught.
    Brew was still favoring one foot as