Bruiser by Neal Shusterman Page A

he walked, a whole weekafter the hike, and I remember thinking how one day in bad shoes can ruin you for a week.
    I swam to the edge of the pool to greet Brew and his brother and peeled off my swim cap, because it’s not humanly possible to look good in a swim cap. Then I did a quick drop to the bottom and pushed off to the surface so that my hair became a shimmering waterfall instead of a tatty ball of nastiness.
    â€œThis is Cody,” Brew said. “Cody, this is Brontë.” I reached out of the pool to shake the boy’s hand. He looked up at the snarling dinosaur painted on the wall behind the pool—our school mascot—and read the team name beneath it. “Are you a raptor?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I told him. “I’m a Brontë-saurus.”
    He laughed at that. Then he removed several layers of mismatched clothes until he was down to his bathing suit and leaped wildly into the pool without even checking the water—which was cold, even by competitive swimming standards.
    Brew shivered with a sympathetic chill when his brother hit the water.
    â€œDid you see me?” Cody asked excitedly when he resurfaced. “Was that a cannonball?” And although it was more like a mad leap from the Titanic , I said, “Wow, you made quite a splash,” which told him precisely what he needed to hear without lying to him. Then I turned to Brew, who still stood there with his hands in his pockets.
    â€œCome on in; it’s not that cold once you get used to it.”
    Cody, who had migrated down to the shallow end, called out to us. “Hey, watch me do a handstand!” He disappeared beneath the surface, produced some whitewater, then stood up again, arms spread in “ta-DA” position, seeking universal approval. “How was that?”
    â€œTry it again,” I told him. “It’s easier if you keep your feet together.”
    While Cody occupied himself with underwater handstands, Brew strolled along the edge of the pool toward the shallow end, and I kept pace with him in the water.
    â€œAre you coming in?” I asked.
    â€œMaybe later,” he said. “I just ate.”
    â€œCome on; it’s not like you’ll be swimming in a riptide,” I told him. “If you get a cramp, I promise I’ll save you.”
    Reluctantly he went to the steps, took off his shoes and socks, then waded gingerly into the shallowest part of the pool. The water didn’t even come up to his waist. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, and it was already soaking up water at his waist and wrists.
    â€œAren’t you going to take off your shirt?” I asked. Even before he responded, a spasmodic brain cell sparked out something Tennyson had said: “Have you ever seen him with his shirt off?” I mentally pinched the brain cell like a gnat and extinguished Tennyson’s unwanted intrusion.
    â€œIs it okay if I keep it on?” Brew said.
    â€œSure,” I told him. “Did you know that in the old days, men’s bathing suits included shirts?”
    â€œI’ve heard that.”
    â€œAnd if a man took it off in a public place, he was thrown in jail.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œNo, but I wouldn’t put it past people in those days. The Victorian era was very uptight.”
    Apparently I didn’t snuff out Tennyson’s question fast enough, because it had acted like a pilot light, igniting my own curiosity. Why didn’t Brew want to take off his shirt? It’s not unusual for people to be shy about their bodies. They might feel their flesh tone is a little too pasty or their love handles are, shall we say, a little too “Michelin” in nature. I knew one boy who had a scar down the center of his chest from open-heart surgery as a baby. He hated taking off his shirt. Could it be something like that? Well, whatever Brewster’s reason, I would deny my curiosity and respect his modesty. Truth be told, I