Paint Me a Monster (24 page)

“You’re pretty like a mermaid,” I said. But she didn’t hear. She was being important. I want to sail with Mom one more time. I hold the memory close and we rock, nestled in the wave of a mattress sea. The sea is calm, but inside me, swells grow.

I whisper, “Mommy. Mommy.” Sobs wring my body. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Tears trickle sideways from my eyes and into my hair, releasing the scent of shampoo—fresh, unblemished, succulent. I choke the smell in.

“God,” I whisper. “I want to shampoo my life.” A wad of sadness gathers in the back of my throat. I won’t stuff it down. Not like the cinnamon cake, or the apple strudel, the brownies and frosted cookies. I won’t make it a part of me anymore. I think of the words on the fortune I pulled from Mr. Algrin’s cup.
Look for answers where the eyes can’t see
. I close my eyes. Nothing is visible. And I rock on the bed.

Liz and I have been living with Gaga. Everything is different here. The air is fresher, the light lighter. I take deeper breaths. I think it’s the same for Liz, but we don’t talk about it. We just smile more and worry about different things.

Gaga found a position for Verna with the youngest daughter of Miriam Wallis, one of the women she plays golf with. Miriam’s daughter has two little boys. It’s too far to walk to the Wallis’s, but I can ride my bike or drive if Gaga lets me use her car. It’s different though. Verna isn’t ours anymore.

I place my hands below my rib cage, index fingers touch in the center. I flip my hands to feel my ribs from the back. I count each rib and relax. The measurement hasn’t changed since my funeral binge last month. It’s going to be a good day.

“Good Morning, darling,” a voice coos from above. I rub my face in the downy pillow and take one last smell of last night’s sleep.

“Morning, Gaga. Thanks for waking me.”

“I love waking you girls, and I look forward to doing it until you both are away at college.”

I love waking to Gaga’s lilting voice, though I miss the sound of Verna’s pebbles hitting my window. I miss hurrying downstairs to open the door for her. It was our ritual. Now there is a new one. Liz, Gaga, and I breakfast together every day.

“I’ll be downstairs waiting for you,” she says, scuttling off in her worn terrycloth slippers and wraparound cotton robe.

As usual, dressing’s a breeze. It’s the same look every day: white blouse, light blue tunic, white socks, and saddle shoes. I grab my navy sweater, standard issue with the uniform, and glance in the mirror. I know a ponytail is a good choice for my needs-a-wash hair.

The familiar smell of buttered toast and café au lait climb the stairs. I hurry to catch it.

The Asian men painted on the breakfast room walls still pull their rickshaws and the women still carry their umbrellas. There are three of us, though it’s more like a gathering of old friends: the four-story tower of toast on a chipped plate, the half glasses of orange juice, coffee cups promising a warm start to the day. Liz and I have devoured skyscrapers of toast at this table. Gaga isn’t Julia Child, but she does make the most delicious drenched-in-butter, thinly sliced, golden-brown toast. Sometimes with cinnamon and raisins.

“Mmmm.” My mouth’s watering. Gaga bites delicately into what I want.

“Have some toast,” she says.

Liz carefully puts two halves together and bites along the edges.

“It looks yummy, but I think I’ll make an egg white.”

Her face changes tenor just a note, flatter.

“Rinnie . . . ”

“Tennis,” I interrupt and make up. “Have to stay in shape.” I don’t want to tell Gaga carbohydrates are fattening and butter abominable. I hope Liz will keep her mouth filled with food so she can’t tell either. Gaga won’t understand. Carbohydrates along with heath bars are her favorite food groups. The café au lait is compromise enough. I bring my egg to the table.

“That looks gross,” Liz says. “It’s so, so white.”

“It’s very tasty,” I counter. “And full of protein.”

I notice the tower of toast resembles rubble from a tornado. Little chunks of picked-at bread lie next to scattered crumbs.

“Better hurry or we’ll be late for school,” Liz says.

The anemic egg white looks up at me. “You’re right,” I say to no one. “It’s very white.”

Buttered cinnamon toast, orange juice, café au lait, oatmeal raisin cookies at lunch, and bagels and cream cheese for an after-school snack taste a whole lot better than egg whites and plain vegetables. In two months, my body’s become food rich from rich food, and my wealth is apparent even in a not-so-baggy-anymore tunic. In two more months, I’ll be the wealthiest-looking girl at CGS.

Mr. Algrin asks me if I want to talk about Mom.

I say, “Not really.”

I want to be alone. I just pigged out—again. I rock back and forth trying to pacify the ache in my stomach. Arm over arm, I feel like I’m on fire. Electrified. My mind speeds through every red-light warning: EXIT THE KITCHEN. LEAVE NOW.

Victim count
: One.
Implements Engaged
: A dozen donuts, half a loaf of cinnamon bread, frozen cookies.
Methodology
: Biting, chewing, spitting out, biting, chewing, and swallowing.
Missing Evidence
: Statement as to why I stuff my mouth with things I don’t like—ginger chews, root beer suckers, honey toffees? Why I cram stale potato chips and disgusting Fritos down my throat?
Theory
: Food doesn’t talk back, it doesn’t leave. It caters to me, withstands my curses, and is my voice when I can’t speak. Food is my repellent to keep connections at a safe distance. It fills the gaps. Yea, though I walk through the valley of food I shall fear no evil. For thou shalt comfort me.

POEM 1

A little winged thing,
You bore into my soft spot.
Deposited your eggs.
Covered them with secretions.
Suffocating malleable virtue.
How old was I?

POEM 2

S-Scornful, sarcastic, scarring,
H-Her gift to me
A-An alienating accessory,
M-Mea culpa
E-Eeeek.

POEM 3

Shame is the outfit
A child picks out, puts on, plays in,
While someone else
Shows him, shushes him, submerges him
In
Not good enough
Or
All wrong.
Who said,
“Clothing does not make the man?”

“Second semester, juniors get to choose an elective. It’s the first time I’ve had a choice in my education. I’ll be working in the pre-kindergarten two afternoons a week,” I tell Verna.

We huddle in the enclosed alcove between the door to the inside of the Wallis house and the door to the outside.

“What do you know about little children? You never baby-sat a child in your life,” she says. “But you was a good little kid so there’s hope. I always said you were an angel—when you was asleep.”

“The headmaster thinks it’s a good fit,” I say, tipping my nose a little higher than where it had been. I keep to myself that he’s a dork and doesn’t know me from a hill of beans. “What’s important is that I interact well.”

“You’ll do fine, girl. I know you will.” Verna steps closer to the door. I know she’s checking to see if Mrs. Wallis is headed toward where we stand.

I’m finally not following in Liz’s footsteps. She chose horticulture as her elective but never grew into it.

“I will never be Booker T. Washington,” Liz fumed weekly. She did water the plants in the living room well. They’re still alive.

Thoughts of returning to pre-kindergarten circle like pinwheels. Everything seemed pretty good then.

The hallways in the pre-kindergarten are mosaicked with children gathering flowers, leaves, and fruit. It’s sweet so I decide to name the rooms after desserts. Mrs. Fox’s room, my assigned room, is Cupcake. It’s sandwiched between Sugar Cookie and Banana Pudding. All of them have windowed doors with yellow shades. When I walk into Cupcake, the scent of new linoleum and warm bodies greet me.

Pre-kindergarteners warble over the childish clang of metal cars and emergency vehicles. In a corner is a full-length mirror reflecting a crowd of kids in oversized hats and dress-up clothes that drag on the floor. Other children, carrying plastic baskets, shop inside a cardboard grocery store; still others huddle over stockpiles of wood blocks. They look like bear cubs guarding honey pots. A few kids sit on pillows. Their crossed legs balancing books spread open. I want to play in this room!

A stout woman, hair pulled back in a bun, wades through little people and waves me in.

“Welcome to pre-kindergarten! You must be Rinnie. I’m Mrs. Fox.” She turns off the light. “Christopher, would you kindly keep your hands to yourself,” she says. “Shawn, come stand next to me, please.”

It takes less than a minute before all eyes are on us.

“I’d like to introduce Rinnie to everyone. Rinnie is going to help me teach this semester. Let’s welcome her to our room with our class cheer.”

Eighteen voices sing out of unison:

“We are the cupcakes, sweet and friendly, cupcakes.
Every time we pla-aay we learn to share and sa-aay,
May I help you, Please and thank you.
We are the cupcakes sweet and friendly cupcakes. YAY!”

Eighteen squirming bodies jump in place.

“Thank you, everyone. That was an exuberant welcome! You are excellent singers,” Mrs. Fox claps. “Go back to your business. There’s still time to play before circle. Rinnie will come by and introduce herself.”

The kids scurry to play house, pour and sift sand at the sand table, play with puppets behind a makeshift wall of stuffed animals, shop at the grocery store, dress up, and guard their blocks.

A chubby girl dressed in green overalls tugs my uniform.

“Will you tie my shoe?”

She looks like a brussel sprout. I look down at hair matted with curls, orangey-brown eyes, and a radish of a nose.

“Please,” she adds, sticking her rhinestone-studded shoe on my leg, laces dangling on either side.

“Sure,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“Melissa.”

I bend over, take the laces, and show her how to make them into two loopy bunny ears.

“Melissa, watch me cross one bunny ear over the other and push it under the first one. It’s like a rabbit hopping into his hole,” I say. “Look! He’s popping back out.” I pull the lace upward.

She smiles. “Do the other one.” She sticks her left shoe out and unties the laces.

“Will you help me?”

She nods.

“I’ll make one ear and you make the other,” I say.

When the shoelace is tied, I say, “I like your shoes. The emeralds and diamonds are beautiful.”

“I know. Look at my socks.” She sticks one leg in the air and almost topples over.

“I’d like to have sparkly shoes and socks like yours. When they don’t fit you anymore may I have them?”

She gazes at me. “You’re silly,” she says and hop-skips toward the grocery store.

“Silly is good. There isn’t enough silly in the world,” I answer.

Mrs. Fox is reading to the children while they rest. I gravitate to the easels and pick up a short-handled brush marinating in a jar of dense turquoise. It’s just the right size for small hands.

I move the brush as if it were a feather tickling the paper. I can feel it as if I were the paper. The sensation is luscious. I think of silky maple syrup dripping over French toast. I make another stroke, only bolder and with yellow paint. I slide and twist the brush into wide curves back and forth, side to side, until the still-wet turquoise becomes luminous green. The colors are mouthwatering. I dip my finger into the red liquid and write my name. My first piece of pre-kindergarten art.

Newest Entries:

Is everyone teachable?

Are there “re-dos in life”?

When does art become Art?

Muted laughter catches my attention at the easel. Two boys fence with drippy paintbrushes and splatter the floor with orange and green drips that meld into brown. Plastic smocks protect their clothes, but their arms are zigzagged with orange and green brush strokes.

“Hey guys, not a good idea,” I say, trying to disarm them without being gored with paint. “Whatever you get paint on, you’ll have to clean up.”
I sound like my mother.
“Why not use the paper. It’s easier to carry home than the floor.”

“Huh?”

“I want to show you something. By the way, my name is Rinnie.”

I squat in front of the easel so we’re all the same size. “Do you know there are art superheroes? Jackson Pollock is one of them, and he
loves
to paint by splattering colors all over his paper. He dribbles paint all over his work sort of like what you were doing with each other. Are you Jackson Pollocks?”

I get another odd look.

“I’m Luke, and he’s Sam,” says a mud-puddle brown mess. “Is Jackson Polk a grown-up?”

“Yes,” I say, smiling. “Mr. Pollock is a grown-up that likes to make drippy paintings. I have a great idea!”

I tear paper from the roll behind me and double it over onto the already wet floor.

“Luke, you stand on this side of the paper by me. Sam stand across from Luke over there,” I point to a clean spot on the floor. “Here, two for you and two for you.” I hand them each two paint-soaked brushes. “Now dangle your brushes over the paper, move your arms, and see what happens. Ready, set, go!”

Luke rocks his arm slowly back and forth. Ribbons of paint stream from his brushes making long ticker-tape lines.

“My drips are red explosions. It’s blood,” Sam says.

“Time out,” I say and have the boys change places. “Now paint on top of your friend’s painting. Time in.”

Mrs. Fox walks by. “Interesting approach, Rinnie. We have cleanup in ten minutes,” she says. “You might want to start sooner.”