Paint Me a Monster (17 page)

“If we had to decide what to wear every morning, you’d never get to school on time,” I tell Liz.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing we have to wear tunics,” she says, pulling on the blue potato sack dress our headmaster calls a uniform. Liz fools around with the sash, tying a bow with equal openings for each loop.

Why does she care how her bow looks? There aren’t any boys to look good for.

“I’ll bet you can wrap your sash around you twice,” says Liz.

I ignore her, though it might be true.

My backpack hunches my shoulders when I sling it on my back. I have homework and books in every subject to lug to school.

“We’d better walk to school fast. It looks like it’s going to rain,” I answer.

“Our backpacks will get soaked,” Liz says. “Take a big umbrella.”

“I weighed my backpack last night. There are thirty pounds of books inside,” I say, grunting at the thought of having to carry one more thing.

Mom’s voice trails from the stairway, “I have to go out this morning. Get in the car. I’ll drop you off.”

“Wow! Really? Thanks,” I say.

Verna hands us umbrellas and whispers, “Don’t know what makes this day so special.”

I get to the car first and sit next to Mom.

“Just in time, it’s starting to precipitate,” Liz says.

I like the preciseness of the word pre-cip-i-tate. Mental note—good word to use.

The mile-and-a-half drive to school takes only a few minutes—but it’s long enough to know Mom is in a bad mood.

“Don’t expect this tomorrow. Walking to school is good for you. It helps your brain think better,” she says, her face as stern as her voice. “I swear, someone might think you’d melt in the rain. OK, girls, we’re here. Out!”

Liz, drags her backpack out of the car, slings it over her shoulder, and opens her umbrella.

“Hurry up, Rinnie,” Mom says, as if she has to go to the bathroom. I turn to say good-bye when Mom hurls her fist into my stomach. My chest lurches toward my legs and severs the space for air or words. I stumble out of the car, and Mom steps on the gas and heads off.

“Ooh, oohh,” I moan, gasping for breath.

“What happened?” Liz asks.

I shrug and struggle to keep the muscles in my face still so the tears won’t leave my eyes.

Liz balances her backpack, the umbrella, and me, and the two of us stagger up the path. Liz’s body trembles next to mine.

“What did you do?” she says again.

I might come apart and wrap my arms around my body like packing tape. “N-N-Nothing. Why did Mom punch me?”

“I don’t know, Ace,” my sister says. “Are you OK?”

“It hurts . . . hard to breathe . . . walk in front of me, just in case I cry.” This is a secret I want to keep to myself.

At night, when it is dark, I pray.

“Mrs. Kane, please call the police. Mom won’t stop screaming at me. You must be able to hear it.” I will myself into my neighbor’s life. “Look in our window, see Mom act crazy.” I don’t know the words that describe Mom’s craziness. It’s bad enough to ask the neighbor to help me in my prayers. To name what Mom does would be complete betrayal. And that is unforgivable.

“Please call the police. Please get help,” I cry.

Hidden inside lives my fantasy. Mrs. Kane invites me to dinner in her cluttered, just-baked-bread-smelling house. Her kids and I do our homework together, and I fall asleep on the sofa. She doesn’t make me go home. I stay all night and dream of good things—kite flying, a trip to the zoo, blowing bubbles. The glare of my overhead light and Mom’s swearing and raving can’t wake me up. The night with Mrs. Kane is homey, happy, and safe.

But Mrs. Kane doesn’t look in our windows, or call the police, or invite me to dinner. I listen to Mom complain about me. Liz is away at a month-long program in London to study literature and theater arts. She got lucky.

The polish on Mom’s nails doesn’t shield their sharpness. Ten pits form where Mom clutches my arms. Her head is so close to mine, the whites of her eyes are wiped out by blue. Jackhammer jaws spew cuss after cuss at me. Am I supposed to split apart?

My ears hurt; so do my arms. Her grip is too tight to break without deepening the pits. I blink my right eye and then the left, right eye, left eye, right eye, left eye, slowly like the signal of an oncoming train; one blink after another.

“Stop that!” she says.

“Stop what?”

“You know what!”

I tilt my head as if I don’t know what she means. Her hands squeeze tighter around my arms. And I blink one eye and then the other. Blink. Blink. Blink. I hope this will distract her, make her go away.

“Goddammit, STOP IT!”

Mom loosens her grip and drops my arms.

“To hell with you,” she says, storming off.

The blinking worked, though her temper ignited fire in her fingers and branded me, black and blue. It is our colorful secret.

Once I told Gaga and Pop Pop about Mom. I told them she slaps my ears and makes them ring. “I’m afraid of losing my hearing,” I said. I told them that she twists my arms behind me and yanks my shoulders, and once hit me with a belt. Pop Pop looked at Gaga.

“Rose wouldn’t do such a thing,” Gaga says, turning away. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating, and I’m disappointed you would say such a thing.”

Courage has left me, and I’m mute. My family doesn’t believe me. There is no one I can tell. Betrayal is unforgivable. What would family friends like the governor and the mayor think? It’s our little secret.

Like spring, I’m emerging. I have cheekbones. Liz says my head is so thin it looks like it’s shrinking, but I see cheekbones. I like the way my face feels when I stroke downward from my forehead to my jaw. The gentle glide of my hand hitting moguls of bone and hollows of skin is smooth. My fingers drip like syrup off the ridges.

The V made by the bones at the bottom of my neck makes a perfect nook for my chin. When I press my head into the nook, there is no double chin—no extra roll of skin.

I like the way my arms cut into my shoulders and bulge at the bone. I like that my lower arm and upper arm are nearly the same size. Nothing to hide. I’d be a bad magician.

“Nothing to hide up my sleeve,” I’d say.

It feels good to press my leg into my torso when I raise my leg to shave in the shower. There is no squishy stomach to get in the way, just a smooth highway of skin against my leg.

But when I look at the top of my legs, I see tree trunks—thick stumpy tree trunks. My pants say petite, but it isn’t true. I hate my legs. I hate my tree trunk legs. I hate the muscular way they look from tennis and riding. Why couldn’t I have the kind of muscles that don’t stick out, like Alana and Liz? I’ll go for another jog. No more dark meat chicken. It’s fattening.

“You wanted to see me?” I say to Mr. Heuland, my English teacher.

He sits on the edge of his desk and ruffles his hand through his hair. His mouth opens to speak, but instead he clears his throat and cleans his eyeglasses on his nubby sweater. The open window blows autumn into his office.

“Your essay on
The Scarlet Letter
was excellent,” he says. “The examination of hypocrisy and alienation far surpassed our class discussion. You wrote as though you became both Hester and Dimmesdale. This is fine writing, Rinnie.” He taps the scroll of paper that is my essay in his outstretched palm.

“I liked the story. It shows the cost of breaking rules, even unwritten ones—like loyalty. I, I mean, Hester’s life might have been different if she had told who Pearl’s father was. At least she wouldn’t have been alone.”

“Loyalty can be a tricky thing,” Mr. Heuland says. “Especially when it is compounded with love, or duty. Hester became a cripple by her choice.”

“I suppose.” Images of Mom, Carl, Pop Pop, and Dad Barry hover like flies. I gather my hair off my neck and wish I had an elastic to make a pony. It’s getting hot.

“I wish today’s discussion on courage was as stimulating for you,” Mr. Heuland says. “May I see your doodles?”

Mr. Heuland caught me drawing
. “I was listening. I really was. I just didn’t feel like talking.”

“Four days in a row and not a peep? A failing grade on a pop quiz? Spacing out in class? Not laughing at my jokes? That’s not the Rinnie I knew last year. Everything OK?”

“Fine. I’m tired. Too much homework.” I force a yawn.

Mr. Heuland makes that little hum of agreement grown-ups make when they want you to think they believe you, but have something else in mind.

“OK, go home. Rest. But first, finish
Their Eyes Were Watching God
. Here’s a heads up on tomorrow. Come to class prepared to discuss the concept of being true to yourself. I expect big things from you, Rinnie. You have something special.” Mr. Heuland hands me my essay. “Don’t let the Sandman cripple you.” He chuckles.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

“Hey,” Mr. Heuland stops me as I step across the threshold. “If there’s a problem, I can mention you to Mr. Algrin. He’s a good counselor. The school wouldn’t hire him if he wasn’t.”

“I’m just tired.” I yawn again and head for the back stairwell.

“It would be confidential,” Mr. Heuland’s words chase me across the hall.

It doesn’t pay to have the same teacher as your older sister. By the time you have the teacher, he thinks he knows everything about you. But he doesn’t.

“Please, God, please. If you save him and make him well, I promise to quit smoking.”

Mom’s body presses against the closed door to Pop Pop’s bedroom. The skin on her face droops like her tear-filled eyes. Big deal, she’ll give up smoking. Pathetic. Gaga and the doctor are on the other side of the door talking in muted voices. You can’t bargain with God, especially when you’ve contributed to the problem. Maybe she should have thought of that sooner. I’m incidental like a thirteenth place setting. I don’t know where Liz is, maybe in the pink room crying, or in the backyard in the withered garden. That’s where I’d be if I weren’t here. Things live, and they die. I need to see it.

It’s biology and math. Diabetes, plus clogged arteries, plus overweight, plus ice cream every night, and raisins every day, and no exercise equals heart attack. The doctor told Pop Pop to stop eating that stuff. Pop Pop lived the life he wanted. I’m sure I’m sad; I love Pop Pop, but with science as a backbone, it’s hard to cry.

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Why do I feel so ambivalent about Pop Pop?

Where are my tears?

Will I turn into her?

“Watch your step when you get out,” Uncle Matt says. Though he looks like Gaga, his thick hands and rolling walk remind me of Pop Pop. He knows I’m not used to wearing high heels and a long formal gown. My velvet dress slides like a feather duster across the leather car seat. The damp November air sends a chill under my jacket of bunny fur. I hope it doesn’t shed on my dress.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say. “Could you hold the umbrella a little lower? The mist will frizz my hair.”

Liz scoots to the edge of the back seat, hikes her dress around her knees, and steps over the puddle that separates the car from the curb. Tucked under umbrellas, we smooth our black dresses into glossy folds of velvet and satin, tug our white rabbit furs so they rest just below our shoulders, and give Uncle Matt the OK to start walking.

He escorts us through the reception hall to the dining area of the private club reserved for the annual Cincinnati Girls’ School Father-Daughter Dinner Dance. This is the first time I’m invited; the event is for juniors and seniors only. Attendance is mandatory. Mr. Harper, the headmaster, thinks this ritual strengthens school spirit and that will help make us the premier private school in Ohio.

“Let’s look for a table near a corner,” I say. “Someplace tucked away.”

“Back there, to the right,” Liz says.

“Good eye.”

Uncle Matt follows. He’s here to please us.

Narrow aisles squeeze between a maze of chairs. Crisp white linens, crystal glasses, and wreaths of ribbon and flowers decorate the tables. We pass table after table of people dressed in tuxedos and beautiful gowns in our search for a place to sit. I’m mesmerized by how good some of my classmates look.

Courtney should always wear her hair down! Pink is definitely Whitney’s color. I tried on that velvet dress Lisa’s wearing! It looks better on her. It needs someone tall. Wow, Diana looks just like her dad.

“Hi, Rin.”

I look around and see a table crowded with classmates, their faces flushed with laughter. A husky field hockey star named Sara and a man with the same curly hair and skin color block the faces of a girl whose long nails match the deep pink of her dress and that of a man next to her wearing a scarlet cummerbund.

“Rinnie,” the voice says again. “It’s Alana.” She moves her chair to the side so I can see her.

“H—hi,” I say, caught off guard.

“You look really pretty tonight,” Liz says.

“Hi, geezers,” Dad says. He straightens his scarlet cummerbund. “You girls look pretty good, too.”

“Hi, Matt” he says to my uncle. “I’d invite you to sit with us, but—”

“That’s OK,” I spit out. “There isn’t enough room and besides we have a table near the back.”

“Oh, Suzanne is here,” Liz says, looking off into the distance. “I’m going to say hello.”

Liz brushes Dad off with an upward wave of her hand and walks toward the corner table, Uncle Matt at her side.

My heart stopped moments ago, and now I feel my brain shrivel. I can’t think of anything else to say.

“Well, I’ll see you later. Have a good dinner.” I make sure my lips smile when I turn to walk away.

I won’t cry, I won’t cry
, I tell myself.
I won’t cry!
I’m here with my uncle, and my father is here with my stepsister, and that’s how it is.

When I reach the table near the corner, it’s empty, except for Liz’s beaded purse and three 7-Ups with twists of lime on the rims that Uncle Matt ordered.