Free Bruiser by Neal Shusterman Page A

hardly recognizable. I practically wanted to put him up as the centerpiece of the table and present him proudly to my parents; but instead I just made introductions, and they all shook hands.
    Then, when everyone was seated, I brought the platter to the table. “ Voilà ,” I said. “ Bon appétit. ” And I unveiled mygastronomical masterpiece.
    Tennyson and Brew just stared at it like it had come from Mars.
    â€œWhat is that?” Tennyson asked.
    â€œIt’s a tri-tip roast,” I said.
    Tennyson looked like he might become physically ill. “Where’d you get it?” he asked.
    â€œThe store. Where else?”
    â€œI’ll pass.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, you’ll pass? You can’t pass! I was cooking all afternoon!”
    Tennyson turned to Brew, and Brew grinned. “Still not eating meat?”
    â€œI’ll eat it when I’m good and ready,” said Tennyson.
    The fact that the two of them had some secret that I wasn’t aware of really bothered me. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
    â€œNot while we’re eating,” said Tennyson, and he loaded his plate with asparagus, announcing that it didn’t make him a vegetarian.
    â€œIt’s a lovely dinner, Brontë,” said Mom; but instead of eating, she got up to clean the pots and pans that I had cooked with, refusing to sit down again.
    Dad said nothing about the meal, or about anything else. He served himself and picked at the food on his plate, glaring down with an intensity that was both cold and hot at the sametime, like he had a vendetta against the roast and hated each and every vicious spear of asparagus before him.
    The silence around the table was awful and simply had to be broken, but no one was willing to do it but me.
    â€œIt’s not usually like this,” I told Brew. “That is to say, it’s not really this quiet. Usually we have conversations—especially when we have guests. Right?”
    Finally Dad took the hint. “So, exactly how long have you known each other?” he asked, but his tone was strangely bitter.
    â€œWe started going out three weeks ago, if that’s what you mean,” Brew said. “But we’ve known each other since elementary school. Or at least known of each other.”
    Dad shoved a piece of meat into his mouth and spoke with his mouth full. “Glad to hear it,” he said as he cut another piece of meat. “You have my blessing,” he said to me. “ Via con Dios .”
    It was the most mad-bizarre thing I’d ever heard my father say. I turned to see Mom’s reaction, but she was still busy washing the pots and pans, keeping her back to the rest of us.
    Finally I lost it. “What’s wrong with you?” I shouted to Mom and Dad.
    No answer for a while. Then Dad said, “Nothing’s wrong, Brontë. I’m just worried about your mother. She’s putting so much effort into that ‘Monday night class’ she teaches, I’m concerned for her health.” He glared at her back like it wasan accusation. Suddenly I realized that it was.
    For a brief moment I met Brew’s eyes, and there was panic in them. I could see the way he held his utensils tightly in his hands, as if he’d have to use them as weapons at any moment. I turned to Tennyson, whose hands were out, palms down on the table; he was looking at his plate as if he were silently saying grace. No, that’s not it, I realized. My brother’s bracing himself. Bracing himself for what?
    And suddenly my blinders fell away, letting the big picture invade my mind in all of its terrible glory.

20) OBLIVIOUS
    Enola Gay is the name of the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and, three days later, on Nagasaki. It flew so high that when it released a bomb, it took one minute and forty-three seconds for the bomb to reach the ground. Actually, I made that part up; but you