Paint Me a Monster (20 page)

“Rinnie the Lionheart, come on in.”

My feet almost glide across the threshold. There’s something about Mr. Algrin’s manner that’s magnetic.

Rinnie the Lionheart
, the words roar inside my head. My cheeks burn with warmth.

“You know, lions are bigger, stronger, and maybe even braver than Rin Tin Tin.”

Mr. Algrin half smiles, almost challenging me.

“You’re brave to come talk,” he continues, “to share your poetry, and the vulnerable side you like to hide. You’re brave to want to make things different.”

His voice, like a soft rain, puddles in my eyes. The heat from my cheeks pools in my heart.

“It takes courage to trust,” I manage to keep my voice level.

“You’re right. And there are different kinds of courage, Rinnie—and different kinds of trust. It’s huge that you trust me. It’s even huger for you to trust yourself.”

I chew a nail until the edge is ragged. The wall separating Rinnie at school and Rinnie at home is disintegrating. How much do I tell? How much do I keep tucked away?

Mr. Algrin reaches over a heap of magazines that remind me of condemned buildings to a row of books on his desk.

“Take a look at this, Rinnie.” He hands me a book the size of a piece of toast.

Harold and the Purple Crayon.

“Hey, this is one of my favorite books!”

“Mine, too,” Mr. Algrin says. “You and Harold have a lot in common.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Harold’s inventive like you.” Mr. Algrin leans toward me, arms resting on his knees in the “I truly mean what I’m about to say” position. “When Harold creates his world, he always takes care of himself.”

“It’s easy with a crayon,” I say. “You draw what you like.”

“You have a box of crayons, Rinnie, with colors like discipline, loyalty, strength, courage . . . you get to draw what you like. It’s your adventure.”

The bell rings for first period. “I’ll think about that,” I say.

Sixty-four rounded harlequin tips, arranged by shade, point up at me. I pinch a crayon, twist it in both directions, and pull the slender stick from the box. Little black letters spell “plum” on its side—a juicy color.

“This plum-colored crayon is very Harold-like,” I say out loud. The fragrance of “new crayon” makes my skin tingle. I hold the crayon and feel a surge of possibility. It’s stepping off a precipice into an unknown adventure.

I draw two parallel vertical lines followed by a horizontal line to connect the vertical posts at the bottom, then an inverted “V” to cap the shape. It’s a house.

Tip, tap, tip, tap, tip, tap. The crayon between my fingers marks time on the tabletop.
Whose house is this? My house?

I place the crayon on the table, chew on a hangnail, and stare at the purple shape. There are no windows, no door, no chimney. No doorbell to ring nor welcoming walkway. No one can get in. No one can get out. It’s like prison.
Who lives here? I want to know. I want to know why.

Newest Entries:

Who names the colors of crayons?

Who lives in the house?

Am I the house?

Our session is almost over when Mr. Algrin takes a blank piece of paper from his desk. “It must be tough to have so little time with your father,” he sums up the past fifty minutes with twelve words.

I shrug and give a nod that says, “Well, yeah, but I’m used to it.”

He makes three columns on the paper. The first is labeled
Things I’d Like To Do This Week
. The second is
Things I’d Like To Do With My Dad
. The third column has no label.

“Homework,” he says, handing me the paper. “Write down four things you’d like to do in the first column. Write down four things you’d like to do with your dad in the second column. Pick something from column two, write it in the third column, and ask your father to do it with you.”

“The third column doesn’t have a label,” I say.

“It will. Think about what it could be.”

I tuck the paper into a book and before I leave I say, “I can’t believe you’re giving me homework.”

“Hi Dad, it’s Rinnie.”

“Hi Buzzer. What do you need?”

“I’d like to go to the tennis club this weekend and play a set of tennis . . . with you.”

“I already have a game both mornings.”

“That’s what makes it so perfect. You’ll already be there. I can hang out in the break room, do homework, and we can play after lunch.”

“It’s a possibility. Let me see if Alana wants to join us for doubles. We can find a fourth on Sunday.”

Alana? No, no, not Alana!
I squeeze my eyes tight and black out Dad’s idea.

“What if just you and I play?”

“Alana will be at the club. She’ll want to hit balls, too.”

“Could you and I warm up for half an hour before we play doubles?”

“No can do, Rin. Maybe for five or ten minutes. My knees won’t take it, and I want to make it through our foursome.”

I wish we could just be us for a change.
“Alright. See you inside Sunday. Look up. I’ll wave to you from the window.” I jiggle the receiver back on phone.

“I have to get out of here,” I scream. I grab my peacoat and snatch my pizzazz hat. Some of the faux diamonds have fallen off—a lump in the oatmeal.

The breeze whisks my hair and stirs my thoughts into a lumpy stew.
I should be grateful Dad watches out for all of us. I wish there was no Alana. I’m selfish. I should be glad we all play tennis. I wish I was more important to Dad.
My hat blows off and cartwheels down the sidewalk.

“
Crap! Crap! Double Crap!” I shriek and stomp the balls of my feet as if I were smashing grapes. A fire hydrant rescues my hat. I pull it over my ears like a helmet and sit on the curb. The muscles in my jaw surrender to the silence and my bum to the cold.

“I may not have gotten the response I wanted, but I accomplished the homework for Mr. Algrin,” I tell myself. “That’s worth something. Maybe an A for Anguish or a B for Bravery, or a C for Compliant.” I walk home, my hand nailing my hat against my head. By the time I reach the front porch, I’ve figured out the label for column three. Things I’ve Survived.

Mr. A. suggested taking a walk, making a phone call, or writing my thoughts down when I want to stuff myself with food. Great ideas, if only I could remember them.

At night before I fall asleep, I lie on my right side, my right arm crooked in a ninety-degree angle by my head. I wrap the fingers of my left hand around my right arm above my elbow and below my shoulder. I can nearly touch my fingers to my thumb. No saggy flesh here. Just lean muscle.

It’s Friday, study hall, 2:00 P.M. Time to see Mr. Algrin.

“Come on in, Rinnie,” Mr. Algrin says when I tap the doorjamb. He cracked open the door so I don’t have to juggle my books and wrestle the handle.

“Wow, your office is,” I pause, “neat.”

It’s unusually clean in a tidy sort of way. Even the papers in the wastebasket look as if they’d been placed there with thought. The room smells like spring.

“A change, isn’t it,” Mr. Algrin says.

I search for the tumble of books and the scrambled piles of magazines. The “CATCH UP” box is empty. A clip has been added to the curtain so it now hangs straight.

“Yeah. Are you OK?” Funny
me
asking Mr. Algrin if
he’s
OK. He isn’t an “I’m the voice of authority” type of adult. He’s more like a “Wanna get a soda? Tell me who you are kind of adult.” I like it.

“I’m feeling good. Great as a matter of fact.” He spreads his arms wide as if to hug the entire room and everything in it with his smile.

“I’m going to be a father.” He nods his head agreeing with himself. “First time. Have to acquire some better habits.”

“A father? That’s great.”

“Do you think so?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Well,” he says, “it is a little intimidating. No one teaches you how to be a standout parent. Tell me, Rinnie, what’s important to you in a father?”

My lips shift to the left. A low thinking sound eases out.

Mr. Algrin sits forward in his chair and cups his chin with his fingers, his thumb supporting his clean-shaven jaw. He looks like The Thinker from one of Mrs. O’Claire’s art books on sculpture.

“A father has to be . . . ” My head presses into the cushioned back of the armchair, and I gaze at the ceiling.
Maybe the answer is coded into the little holes on the ceiling tiles?
I’m quiet.

“Earth to Rinnie. Come in.” He pauses. “What are you doing?”

“Connecting the dots,” I say, still looking at the depressions in the tiles.

Mr. Algrin is relentless.

“Rinnie, what makes a good father?” His voice sounds like he really wants to know.

“Specifically?”

“That works.”

I won’t look at him. I don’t want him to see that this is hard for me.

“Well, you could read stories to your baby even when she grows up and learns to read on her own. Teach her to ride a bike. Play word games. Build a volcano from gravel and glue with her for her science class.
I wish Dad had actually let me help him build.
And you can make green eggs and green milk on St. Patrick’s Day.”
I loved St. Patty’s day.

“All interesting ideas,” says Mr. Algrin. “Did your father make green eggs and milk?”

“Yep. And we had ham, too, like in the book—every St. Patrick’s Day, until he left.”

“Must have been a big change when he left. No more green eggs and milk or games?”

“No more green eggs and milk.” I think of Alana, Amy, and Jake with my dad. I’ve seen them at the country club playing together and been at their dinner table where they laugh and tell stories; I pretended to understand.

“No more games,” I whisper, sitting up straight. I put my clenched hands to mouth. “I think . . . a good father spends time with his child even when he thinks she doesn’t need it anymore. Even when,” a breath ripples in my throat, “even when there are lots of kids, a good father finds time for each one.” I hold tight to my hands and look him straight in the eyes. He doesn’t need glasses to see me.

“Thank you, Rinnie. Thank you. That’s well taken. You are not only smart, but courageous, and someone I’m glad to know. I can learn a lot from you.”

He holds out the jar that contains the blank white slips of paper. “You get to write one this week,” he says.

Maybe if I didn’t eat and disappeared, Dad would notice. He certainly doesn’t see me now.

I place my hands on my waist with my index fingers touching my belly button. Then pivot my hands backward without lifting my thumbs. My top hand crosses the other. I can almost touch the wrist of my bottom hand. On the slip of paper I took from Mr. Algrin’s Fortune Jar, I write:
It’s going to be a good day.

Mr. Algrin has music playing when I enter his office.

“Do you like Gregorian chants?” he asks.

“Never heard one.”

“You’re hearing one now,” he says.

I listen to the words but can’t figure them out.

“Italian,” Mr. Algrin says. “The language is Italian. The chants are named after Pope Gregory I. He was the bishop of Rome in the late 500s and early 600s.”

“Sounds like men heaving a heavy cart uphill to me.”

“How so?”

“Sounds slow, laborious, and monotonous.”

“Or calming, peaceful, and harmonious.” He opens his eyes wide as if he just discovered electricity and smiles. He pulls a small paper portfolio from under his desk.

“I borrowed these from Mrs. O’Claire,” he says, pulling out two pictures.

“This one,” he lifts his left hand, “is the
Mona Lisa
. You’ve seen it before. Some say the beauty of the work is Mona Lisa’s mysterious face, the half-smile. Others hold that the face isn’t beautiful at all. It’s masculine. They say it’s the use of light and dark that makes the painting beautiful.” He places the picture on the table and holds up the second.

“I’ve seen this one before,” I say, smiling broadly. “It is a Kandinsky.”

“Right you are, Rinnie. What do you see when you look at it?”

I think about what Mrs. O’Claire said to consider about modern art. “It has a lot of diagonals, which create action, and the action is emphasized by the bold colors.” I pause. “The colors unite the forms that represent real objects, but the objects appear as abstract. And it’s happy. I like it.”

“Until you said that, I would’ve said it looks like someone threw a pizza on the canvas then took black paint and made some random strokes.”

“I get it. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“And more,” he says.

I wait for him to explain.

“Beauty is the story and the Beholder is the author.”

“I’m lost.”

“Not lost, just wandering, Rinnie the Lionheart. Check your compass. You’re the mapmaker, the author.”

“You’re saying I can choose where to go?”

“And how to get there.”

“If I’m the author, I write the story. I decide if it will be beautiful.”

“Bingo!”

I quiver. Inside my head, I see a luminous haze of moving parts, yet there is clarity. For a moment. Like a shooting star, the image blazes and disappears. My brain’s expanding at the speed of light. Mr. Algrin’s voice nips my cerebral growth spurt.

“This is your adventure.” He stands like an exclamation point punctuating his words. He smiles down on me.

My life. My adventure. I get to write it, I think. And, I do, on the slender slip of paper I pulled from Mr. Algrin’s jar the week before.

Mom has been complaining for months of being bloated every time she eats eggs. But really, it’s every time she eats anything greasy. From her angled lopsided walk, it’s easy to tell she’s in pain. I don’t follow her too closely because she’s been tooting, and it stinks.