He took his cigarette out of his mouth and studied it for a second—then he slowly lowered the lit end toward his arm, just beneath his elbow. He pressed the cigarette to his own skin. I gasped. He grimaced and hurled the cigarette away, cursing. There was a red spot on his arm, but only for a couple of seconds and then was gone.
And inside Brew screamed bloodymurder.
Uncle Hoyt brushed away the ash from his arm, which showed no sign of what he’d done.
“You see that, Cody?” he said. “It’s us that Brew cares about, and God bless him for it. That girl is nothing, nothing at all. Now be a good boy and go tend to your brother.”
I went inside to get the Band-Aids, glad that Uncle Hoyt kept his temper and didn’t go foul.
TENNYSON
31) FORMIDABLE
If he touches her, I swear I’m going to brain him with my lacrosse stick and send what little gray matter comes out of his ears to the Smithsonian exhibit on prehistoric man.
What is my mother thinking? What’s she even doing sneaking around with this guy? He’s short, funny looking, and has no business eating meals in a public place with my mother—much less in an outdoor cafe where a person’s offspring might walk by and see her. From what I can see, the only thing he’s got going for him is hair, but so does a baboon. You can’t even see his face beneath that stupid beard—not that I’d want to. And why does he keep picking at that greasy facial hair anyway? What’s he looking for, lice?
How am I supposed to focus on today’s game with the image of them sharing a
The only shred of hope is that the suitcases are still in the basement, and nobody’s packing. Sure, Dad’s moved into the guest room—but he did that last year when he was the one sharing desserts with a total stranger. “This will pass,” I tell myself. I just wish I could believe it.
But I’ve got to put it out of my mind—I have a game to think about.
We’re on a winning streak, and I intend to keep it that way.
When I get to the field, Katrina’s there to cheer me on, along with Ozzy O’Dell and his stupid swim- shaved body and a half-dozen other classmates. What interest Ozzy has in lacrosse, I haven’t got a clue. I really don’t feel like talking to anyone right now, but Katrina comes up to me.
“So Mr. Martinez is all like
“Yeah, yeah. Extra credit. Very funny.”
In my current state of mind, the last thing I want to do is play lacrosse against the Gators, whose sportsmanship quotient is one step below the World Wrestling Federation. They send someone to the hospital every other game. But I’ve been hot for the past few games—strong and focused—playing better than I’ve ever played before. I can’t let this whole thing with Mom take away my edge.
Bronte shows up, I think because she’d rather be here than at home these days. I’m about to tell her that I saw Mom with some short, hairy guy, but I decide to spare her the pain.
“Let me see your knuckles,” she says.
I groan in frustration. “They’re the same. Healed. So leave me alone—I don’t go asking to look at your nonexistent cut, so don’t insist on seeing my nonexistent scabs.”
Bronte finds it amazing that I can just accept Brewster’s ability without question.
“How could you not be freaked out by the impossible?”
“He does it,” I tell her, “so obviously it’s not impossible.” My answer just infuriates her. I love it when that happens.
The truth is, I don’t have room in my skull to spend endless hours obsessing over what Brewster can do. I have enough to deal with, between school, lacrosse, and the fact that Dad sleeps on a foldout and Mom’s having lunch with the Missing Link. What’s worse is that Mom and Dad won’t talk about what’s going on. In my book that’s far more surreal than anything Brew can do.
The game begins and I get right into it, living in the moment, putting everything else out of my mind. I’m an attackman—the front offensive line—and the Gators are a formidable foe. I’ve got to be quick and alert if I’m going to score against them.
The whistle blows, and we scrap for the ball. One of our midfielders gets it and passes to me. I tear down the field, cradling the ball in the pocket of my stick. I dodge the Gators’ defenders and toss it to our right wing—who should pass it back to me, since I’ve got a clean shot; but instead he goes for it himself, and misses by a mile.
The Gators’ keeper is on it in an instant and hurls the ball deep into our territory. It suddenly strikes me that even though Bronte is here, neither of my parents has made it to a game this year.
Suddenly the whistle blows. The Gators have scored. I was so distracted by my own thoughts, I didn’t even see it, and I’m furious at myself. I have to stay focused!
“Don’t worry,” I call to my teammates. “It’s just the first quarter. We’ll get it back!”
I line up for the face-off, taking my anger and molding it until I’m a controlled ball of fury, using the lost goal to propel me toward victory.
With possession of the ball again, I barrel through an opening, toward the Gators’ goal. I’m almost there when out of my blind spot one of their defenders races in to me. He’s big, beefy, and checks me so hard I go flying. There’s a pain in my gut and panic in my chest, like the air has been sucked from the planet. The wind’s been knocked out of me, and I know I’m going to be down for a good thirty seconds.
But that’s not what happens. Instead the miserable feeling is gone in an instant. Maybe it’s all the working out I’m doing, because my stomach muscles held out the worst of it. It’s been that way for a few games now. Less exhaustion, quicker recovery on the field. I’ve hit my stride this year!
The ball’s still in my stick, I’m back on my feet, I fire it, the goalie dives, but he’s nowhere close.
Goal!
Cheers from the sidelines. Now I’m in the zone, and nothing else matters. This game is mine!
I’m still on fire in the second period.
We let one goal slide—but I score another, tying the game at 2–all. One of the Gators’ midfielders elbows me hard, out of view of the refs. I feel a sudden sharp pang in the ribs. I grimace—but the pain is gone in just a few seconds. I’ve willed it away!
Halftime.
Used to be I’d feel the strain of all the exertion by now, but lately it’s like I can run the field forever and never get tired. The coach, who usually pulls me out for the third quarter, sees I’m riding a wave again and keeps me in. I’m the formidable foe the Gators need to look out for now!
Third quarter.
The score is 4 to 2. I’ve scored three of our goals. The Gators are getting nervous, playing sloppy, fouling like mad. I intercept a pass from their goalie and power toward the goal—but it’s not gonna happen. Not this time, because one of their defenders plants his foot right in front of me—an intentional trip—and I fly, my stick launching away from me. I hear the whistle blow even before I hit the ground. It’ll cost them a penalty shot; but when I come down, I come down wrong. My head hits at a strange angle, my helmet connecting with a rock that’s hidden in the turf. Not even the helmet is enough to protect me from the concussive shock of coming down right on my head.
I can feel my brain rattled, but I regain my senses quickly. Too quickly. How could I not have been hurt by
