While the lazy-eyed lunch lady, out of touch with
anything on the far side of the warming trays,
hands a plate of ravioli to Ozzy, which Tennyson
grabs from him and gives to me, asking Ozzy if
he plans to do anything about it because, if he
does, he should fill out his complaint form in
triplicate and shove them in all three of his bodily
orifices,
Which Ozzy has no comeback line for because he’s
still trying to figure out which three orifices
Tennyson might be referring to, if he even knows
what an orifice is, and even though I don’t want
Tennyson fighting my battles for me, I can’t help
but crack a smile, because now I finally
understand what it means to have a friend, and
maybe it’s worth the pain I’ll endure because of it.
Chest press, shoulder press, lats press, squats;
Tennyson is all business in the gym,
“Free weights are the way to go. Machines are for girls.”
Half an hour in, I’m feeling muscles I never knew I had.
Biceps, triceps, deltoids, pecs;
I am Tennyson’s new project,
“You need muscle mass to take on guys like Ozzy.”
Brontë might appreciate some muscle mass, too.
Crunches, curls, extensions, thrusts;
Tennyson is the trainer from hell,
“You want something easier? Go pick flowers.”
He tells me it’ll hurt even more tomorrow.
Low weight/high reps, high weight/low reps;
I’ll learn to love the burn if I don’t puke first,
“You think this is hard? Wait till next time.”
Tennyson says he’ll make a bruiser out of me yet, and laughs.
Elevate heart rate, hydrate, repeat;
Better living through anabolic exercise,
“Great workout,” he says. “And I’m not even sore.”
Right. Because I’m sore for both of us.
Lacrosse,
Soccer’s angry cousin,
Football’s neglected stepchild.
No cheerleaders, band, or stands,
Games are played on the practice field
If you want a chair you bring your own,
Brontë waves,
She’s saved me a spot,
It’s Raptors versus Bulls,
Dinosaur against beast of burden,
I’ve never seen the game played before.
We turn to the match, which has already begun.
Tennyson
Is a starting attackman.
He’s very good, but not great,
He’s a fast runner, but not the fastest,
Still, he makes up for it in bullheaded aggression.
“He’s always bucking for MVP,” Brontë says, “but never gets it.”
A pass,
He catches it
And moves downfield,
Cradling the ball in the net of his stick,
He shoots for the goal and misses by inches.
Then the Bulls power through the Raptor’s defenses;
Goal.
Disappointment.
I feel Tennyson’s frustration,
And I know that Brontë is right:
He’ll be a team captain, but never the star,
Unless he has something to make him invincible.
I’m breathless
As I watch the game,
Then I suddenly realize why;
Tennyson does have a secret weapon
That can make him the star 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.
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.
“You’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.”
“Even from her?” I asked.
“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.
“Cody, 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.
“No,” 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.