It was then that I made the connection—and made it so powerfully, I almost gasped. Brewster Rawlins. This is the boy they call the Bruiser! Always a little too big to be picked on, a little too mad-creepy to be in anyone’s clique. He was always just there, through elementary school and middle school, lingering in the background. I’d been in a couple of classes with him over the years, but it had been like we were on different planets.
It was hard to reconcile the memory of that kid with the boy I met that day—but one thing was certain: Brewster was a stray, and someone most definitely needed to take him in.
15) HOWLINGLY
In defiance of Tennyson’s campaign to remove Brew from my life, I made every effort to see him as much as possible. All right, I’ll admit my motives were mixed, but they didn’t stay that way for long. Spite against my brother, compassion for a stray, and general curiosity quickly gave way to something deeper—something more real and maybe even more dangerous, because when you truly start to care about someone, you become vulnerable to all sorts of things. I think Brew knew that better than anyone.
Our first date at Wackworld was a disaster thanks to Tennyson’s meddling, and I was determined that our second date would be a success. But what would that date be? During school that week we saw each other at lunch, and he offered to take me to the movies, as most guys do. The movie-date must have been invented by a guy: no possible way to have a conversation, and a darkened room suitable for other activities. Right.
“We’ll get to that,” I told him. “Maybe. But for now, how about doing something where I get to see your eyes?”
He started to look a little nervous, and his hands retreated into his pockets. I knew what he was thinking: He thought I wanted to be taken to a restaurant—and I knew enough about him to know that money was an issue.
“I was thinking maybe a picnic,” I told him.
He was visibly relieved. “Could be fun,” he said, then added, “as long as your brother doesn’t come popping out of the picnic basket.”
I laughed—a little nervously, because I didn’t put it past Tennyson to find some way to sabotage it if he knew. Keep in mind, this was right after the Wackworld incident, so I had every reason to fervently believe Tennyson was the enemy.
“My brother won’t know about it,” I said.
And he didn’t. No one did. That Saturday, as far as anyone in my family knew, I was off to meet some friends at the mall; and since I’m such a bad liar, I made sure it was the truth. I did exactly that; I stayed at the mall with friends for a whole twenty minutes and then took off for the head of Mulligan Falls trail. My backpack was full of sandwiches and condiments, and a blanket. Brew was bringing the beverages—“Considering that your name’s Brew, I think it’s appropriate,” I had told him, although I did have to clarify that I wasn’t suggesting he bring beer.
When I arrived at the trailhead he was already there, pacing back and forth, perhaps worrying that I wouldn’t show. I said hello, giving him a hug. He smelled very Mennen; just the right amount of mildly scented antiperspirant, which, in my book is far more enticing than a boy who reeks of cologne. I find cologne suspicious. Like carpet deodorizer.
“I had to tell my uncle I’m at Saturday school,” he told me, “so that gives us a few hours.”
Hearing that surprised me. “Why can’t you just tell him the truth?”
“Weekends are family time. He prefers me home.” And that’s all he said on the subject of his uncle.
We took a look at the trail map. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked. “After all, I was voted Most Likely to Receive the Death Penalty.”
“Oh… you heard about that?” I felt a bit embarrassed to be part of a student body that would behave so hurtfully. It never made it into the yearbook, but everyone knew about it. “Actually,” I told him, “I feel safer with you than with most other boys in school.”
“Thanks… I think.”
We took the trail up and out of our community. Housing developments disappeared behind towering trees, and in just a few minutes it felt like we were hours from civilization. It had been an exceptionally wet winter, and the falls were so powerful with the spring thaw, we could already hear the roar even though we were still half a mile away.
“So, tell me something I don’t know about you,” I asked as we walked. I tried to make eye contact with him, but the question made him self-conscious, and he looked away.
“What kind of thing?”
“Anything,” I said. “That you have webbed feet or a vestigial tail. That you’re color blind, or a sleepwalker, or an alien lulling humanity into a false sense of security.”
I thought he’d laugh, but instead he just said, “I’m none of those things. Sorry.” He helped me over a jagged boulder, thought for a moment, then said, “I’ve got a photographic memory, though.”
“Really!” It was much more interesting than any of the things I had suggested, except maybe for the alien—but all things considered, I much preferred that he be terrestrial anyway. “So if you’ve got a photographic memory, by now you must know the poems in that Allen Ginsberg book by heart.” I was just kidding, but a moment later he launched into “Howl,” reciting it word for word. And this is no short piece—it’s one of those poems that goes on forever. I was impressed, but also unsettled, because, like he said, he liked angry poetry, and “Howl” is a regular fury-fest. Rage against the establishment and all that. As he spat out the words, they became more and more caustic, like a volcanic blast. I imagined I could see superheated steam venting into the air around him as he spoke.
Then when he got to the part about drinking turpentine in Paradise Alley, he forced himself to stop. He was out of breath, like he had just run a sprint. I could tell he was still marginally volcanic inside, but he quelled it quickly.
At that point any other girl would have said, “Thank you, it’s been interesting,” then shot up a rescue flare. But I’m not any other girl. “Very impressive,” I said, then added, “Howlingly so.”
“Sorry I got a little carried away.” He took a deep breath and released it. “Sometimes I feel things very deeply, y’know?”
“How deeply?” I asked.
“Bottomless, kinda.”
And I believed it, too. There was something about his sheer intensity, and the way he could harness it, that captivated me. Controlled danger. A safely chained extreme. Was anger the only emotion he experienced so powerfully, or was it that way with everything?
I found myself leaning forward to kiss him. Why, you may ask? Well, don’t ask, because I don’t have an answer—I just couldn’t stop myself. It was just a peck, really, and I moved so quickly that our teeth bumped. Not exactly romantic in the traditional sense of the word, but I don’t think traditional was in either of our vocabularies.
He was stunned for a moment, then said something he probably hadn’t meant to say out loud. “You’re a very strange girl.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I try.”
I turned to continue down the path, but I’ll admit I was partially stunned myself, because I didn’t look where I was going. My foot slipped on a boulder, got wedged in a crevice, and I went down. I felt a sharp, searing pain in my ankle even before I hit the ground, and I yelped. My blanket-stuffed backpack kept the rest of me from getting hurt, but the rest of me didn’t matter if my ankle was out of commission.