Paint Me a Monster (16 page)

We watch TV and wait for later when Dad has time to talk, and then we talk about school.

“Are you doing your best?” Dad asks.

Before it’s time to go home, we eat dinner. Allyson makes Rice-A-Roni and roast chicken every time we visit. It must be her specialty. Alana, Amy, and Jake talk about friends from the neighborhood and funny times when Grandma Gardener visited them. I’m quiet. At eight o’clock, it’s time to go home. The Jaguar flies out of Dad Land and lands in my universe.

“Hi, Mom. We’re back.”

Pop Pop wrote a letter. Stamped on the front of the envelope is a picture of a bald eagle on a six-cent stamp. In the corner are the words:

“Miss Rinnie Gardener

Senior Bunk

Camp Katawauk

Denmark, Maine”

Gaga and Pop Pop NEVER write—ever! I do and don’t want to open the letter. The envelope feels thin. It can’t be more than a page. What if Croquette died? What if something else bad happened? Then I remember. Pop Pop took Liz to New York for a long weekend after school ended. We were eating dinner at his house when he broke the news.

“Number One,” he gruffed. “How would you like to go to New York and see Times Square and the play
Sleuth
?”

“Yes, Yes, Yes!” Liz cried. “I definitely want to go to New York.”

“Simon, you can’t take Liz without Rinnie. It’s not nice and Rinnie worked as hard in school as Lizzie,” Gaga said.

“I’m not taking Liz because she worked hard in school. I’m taking her because I think she’ll have fun. She loves theater.”

“Theater or not, don’t you think the girls would have more fun together?”

“My mind is made up. Rinnie, maybe we’ll go to New York next year.”

Gaga didn’t press and Pop Pop didn’t budge. I think he feels guilty.

I am shocked and have to reread his letter:

Dear Rinnie,

I hope camp is fun and keeping you on your toes. Do every activity you can. It costs a lot of money for me to send you there. I’m sure you are one of the top tennis players in camp and will win a Blue ribbon in the annual horse show. Remember to wear your riding helmet and wash your hands as soon as you’re done horsing around. When you get home, I’ll tell you about my coup in the stock market this week. Maybe we can go to dinner at your favorite restaurant when you get home.

Love, Pop Pop

I’m glad he did well in the market this week. It means he’ll be nicer to Mom.

Dear Mom,

I wish Camp Katawauk lasted all year. It’s worth counting all my clothes seven times. Here’s a list of the good things so far. (Some of this you already know.)

I’m second doubles on the tennis team.

Our next swim meet is tomorrow, and it’s against Camp Pine Meadow. Remember, we sunk them last year? Thanks for the advanced stroke lessons over the winter.

Marie (the riding instructor) says I’m definitely going on the four-day riding trip and can ride Little Guy, my favorite pony. YEAH!

My oil painting is finished! It’s my all-time best. I have an artist’s tattoo—oil paint under my fingernails.

Life is like a sundae with all the toppings.

We played matches in tennis to see who would make the team. I was tied a set apiece, 6–3, 4–6, with my opponent. In the first game of the third set, I double-faulted twice in a row and flubbed a return. I was so mad at myself—after all my hours practicing, sweating, and shriveling in the muggy Maine heat.

The tennis instructors beat us (little joke) with the phrase, “Your serve is the only stroke you have total control over. Make it count.”

I slowed down and won the last set, 7–5. Yay! They don’t call me “Ace” for nothing.

I was like the girl in the book you gave me,
Champions Don’t Cry
. I didn’t give up.

Riding is the best though. Marie calls me her Little Flower and lets me help around the stables. I shovel muck, curry the horses, and make sure each horse’s halter and saddle is hung in the right place. My friend Kris and I are the only campers who get to do this. Marie teases me about wearing a bra. She says I don’t need one. That’s because she doesn’t wear one. It’s mortifying when she says this in front of the stable boys. Next weekend, her husband, Kirk (remember him—he was here last year), will join her at camp. He calls me “Marie’s Little Flower.”

My campfire clothes are perfect! It’s a vacation not to wear green or white shorts. I’ve gotten tons of compliments on my Hawaiian shirt and hot pink pants. Thanks for sending my bulky striped turtleneck sweater. Better four weeks late than never.

Now you can see why camp is so wonderful. It’s like the other side of the world. I used to think air currents held birds in the sky. But now I think it’s the freedom to fly that keeps them overhead.

Can’t wait to hear from you.

Love, Rinnie

P.S. This is what I have used up or replaced. Toothpaste, soap, hair elastics (I lost them), stamps, and batteries for my flashlight.

Dear Mom,

Please write to me. My mailbox is collecting spiders and dead flies.

Love, Rinnie.

P.S. I’ve read all my comic books and am saving them for Evan to read.

Yes, I miss everything about you, Katawauk: the smell of pine trees after the rain, walking on soft brown pine needles, the lake shimmering in the sunset, canoeing, sailing, and even diving into your way-too-cold water. I miss sitting on the big rock next to the canoe house—my pew—my place to listen to the waves pull themselves from the lake onto my feet, sponging my ankles, and the owls that hoot at night while the bats dart overhead.

Yes, I miss you. The friendships you offer, the teamwork you insist on, and your opportunities to learn, practice, and become skilled at things like archery, tennis, and riding. And you gave me the chance to discover a different life. I really miss you.

In the dark of night, under the covers, I lie back on the mattress. My pillows are above my head. I put my hands on my diaphragm and touch my ribs. “One, two, three. . . .”

I count as I feel each one. My hands follow the curve of my torso, which slants downward like a sledding hill. My hands stop when they reach the flatlands—the sunken valley between my pelvic bones. The bones rise from my abdomen like high, steep hills. I turn on my right side and place my right arm under my head. My left hand finds the circumference of my upper right arm. The measurement is unchanged. My hand still wraps around the top of my arm with ease. It’s time to close my eyes. It’s time for good dreams.

Today, Verna saw me wrapped in a bath towel. She came to my room to put my clean clothes away. She looked at my shoulders and legs and exclaimed, “Where’s your cushioning girl? Your face is looking like it needs some blowing up! If you’re plannin’ to Chanukah shop with your sister, you’re gonna need long underwear to warm those skinny legs.”

I took it as a compliment. I’m smiling.

Now that Dad Barry is gone, Mom says, “There’s no reason to keep Emmy here at night when you girls can cook dinner and clean up afterward. You can stay up later to complete your homework.”

Mom has no idea how much work the teachers pour on in the beginning of the year. They must think students don’t need sleep. I think it’s a law at Cincinnati Girls’ School (CGS), the private school we attend, that girls have at least five hours of homework a night, which means by the time we grab a snack after school, prepare dinner, eat, and clean up, we’ll get to bed by midnight.

Liz and I make an efficiency plan. I cook. Liz sets the table, fills the water glasses, and lends me a hand. We both clear the dishes, wash, dry, and put them away, wipe down the counters, throw the napkins down the chute, shake out the tablecloth, and sweep the floor. Mom can’t figure out what takes us so long, and we don’t tell her. We take our time with the dishwashing part.

Our time may be hijacked but not our partnership.

Liz is the dishwashing lady in the TV commercial that says, “The plate’s so clean, I can see myself.” She holds the plate like a mirror and angles it to catch the light.

I do the rinsing. My hands plunge into the water, slosh it around, and clutch a clean plate. “My hands are so soft . . . they could be mistaken for a baby’s behind,” I trill.

Mom makes this a job. Liz and I make it our half hour of fame.

The first time I hear Jack’s voice, I want to strangle him.

“Go, shorty, man on your tail . . . pass, pass . . . move those legs!”

His voice chases me up and down Cincinnati Girls’ School’s hockey field, and I bolt. I’m left wing because I’m fast, but not faster than the speed of sound. Who is that? Why is he picking on me?

“Go shorty, GO!” prods his voice.

Guys from Cincinnati Prep Academy for Boys often come by after school to watch our intramural games. After that game, Jack shows up every time we play. One day after a game, he sticks a gold star on my forehead.

“You deserve this,” he says. “You shine.” I bite my lip and smile.

It’s not hockey season anymore. Now I play basketball in gym. But Jack still gives me stars, and now he shines for me.

I left lunch on the counter at home. School served cheese-burgers with baked beans . . . again! Potato chips, cinnamon applesauce—the kind made by adding Red Hots candy. Beans and cinnamon applesauce on the DO NOT EAT LIST I made as a guide. This must be a Halloween meal—food disguised as good for you—too many carbohydrates, too many calories. I took the cheeseburger out of the bun and squeezed it between two napkins to get rid of grease—gross but effective.

The screaming wakes me.

Please, please let Liz be in bed. Make it so it isn’t happening again. Let her sleep. The ranting grows louder.

“You damn kids! I can’t think straight, between you and your grandfather.”

I walk the hall to Liz’s room. The bed sheets are flung back, signaling a hasty exit.

Why doesn’t Mom wake me? I knock on Mom’s door, blocking out the muffled tirade about life’s hardships. “Please let me come in. What’s wrong?”

“Go back to bed,” Mom snaps.

“Liz is in there. She’s always there, but you never wake me.”

I put my ear to the door and hear, “Damn lawyer . . . Pop Pop calls him, the lawyer calls me, and I have to call them both. It’s driving me crazy. You kids don’t cooperate. . . .”

Big sobs. I rattle the knob, more sobs. Mom is crying, and Liz’s voice is slow. “It’s late. I’m tired Mom.”

“Let me in.
I
can help,” I plead.

“Shut up! Go to bed! It’s 3:00
a.m
.”

“The noise woke me, let me in.”

Liz opens the door, slack-bodied. “I can’t take anymore. It’s been hours. I’m going to bed.”

“Nobody cares,” Mom says. “If I weren’t here, you girls wouldn’t notice. It doesn’t matter if I’m alive or dead.”

“Good night, Mom! I have school tomorrow,” Liz goes to her room. I help her remake her bed.

“Damn it. All you think about is yourselves,” Mom barks.

“Mom always wakes you. She never wants me.”

“You’re lucky,” Liz says. “I wish she’d let me sleep. Go to bed.” She rolls over and pulls the sheets around her head. I cross back to Mom’s room.

“Mom? Mom? Goodnight, Mom.”

“Nobody cares,” she cries, shutting the door.

November isn’t a month to be thankful for.

POEM NUMBER ONE

If
Mom
is right,
the best thing about me
is
my hair.
I’m
lacking
charm.
Painted instead
with strokes of
selfishness, stupidity, troublemaking.
What to do?
Hide
the flaw.
Decorate
the surface.
Streak hair, reduce waist, sculpt limbs.
Looking good.
I’m
dressed to flirt,
to tease,
to please.
Mannequin,
me.

POEM NUMBER TWO

Every day,
Every night,
I go to war.
Against myself.
Eat, Whack!
Binge, Stab!
Starve, Thump!
Ambushed by thought.
“Let me alone,
I’ve suffered enough,”
I cry to my master.
My regiment of Rules
rush in,
Double-edged swords in hand.
“Follow us. We’ll protect you.”
And when I don’t,
rules cut me down.
“Liar. Slacker. Weakling!” they yell.
I crawl back,
wounded.
And beg to start again.
I am Rule’s prisoner.

There’s an algebra exam tomorrow, and I have to review with Mrs. Patrick, my math teacher.

“I’ll hurry,” I promise Liz.

This shouldn’t take longer than finding x to the 9th exponential.

“Follow? Follow?” I say mimicking Mrs. Patrick. Each time Mrs. Patrick writes an algebraic equation on the board and gives an example of how it works, “Follow? Follow?” follows. She’s her own multiplication table. Liz had Mrs. Patrick last year, and we both had her the year before. That’s a lot of following, but I’m still lost.

“OK. I’ll wait for you in the library and do homework.”

By the time we walk home from school, Verna’s gone.

“Rinnie, it’s your turn to go upstairs first,” Liz says.

“Come with me. I’ll look first, but come with me.” The house is quiet. Emmy hasn’t worked here for months. “Maybe she’s sleeping.” I cross my fingers. Liz stands behind me, one hand over her mouth.

I try not to think. Instead, I pray, turn the knob, open the door, sweating. We do this every day. It’s a noose that never loosens.

No blood, no pills, no body. “Mom’s not here,” I say, letting go a deep breath.

“Good,” Liz says. “We’re good until tomorrow.”

Eighth, ninth, or tenth grade,
Marbles move beneath my feet
I try to balance,
Imperfectly.