Paint Me a Monster (6 page)

“The clouds look like the steam room at the club,” I say. A hostess brings Lizzie and me Cokes with straws. The fizz in my Coke spits on my lips.

“They’re not steam, they’re cold,” Liz says. “Things inside the earth are hot. Things outside the earth are cold.”

“Like what?”

“Lava and rocks,” Liz says. “Lava’s hot. Rocks are cold.”

I think about walking barefoot on the stone wall of our garden and their warm tops after an afternoon of sun. I think about the cold dampness of stones when I turn them over to look for sow bugs. All the stones in the shade are cool.

I have a lot of time to think about things that are hot and things that are not. Liz sleeps and a drop of drool dangles on her bottom lip. After a while, it falls off and makes a perfect circle on her purple blouse. I watch it dry. Liz will not believe me when I tell her she drools.

The plane rumbles and vibrates under our seats. I tighten my seat belt and shake Liz awake.

“Listen!” I whisper, squeezing her arm.

“It’s OK, Rinnie. That’s the noise the wheels make when they lower for landing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Uh huh. I’ve heard it before.” They are so big it makes the plane wobble.

A frightened breath untangles from my chest.

Maybe Liz is right about the clouds. She is very smart.

“Lizzie! Welcome back!”

“Lou!”

Lou swishes curved bangs out of her eyes. Her ponytail fans her neck and a strand of hair catches on her “counselor” badge.

“We have a new theater counselor,” Lou says and unsnags her hair. “And she loves musicals.” Liz loves musicals, too. “How about that, songbird?” Lou says.

A list of names stamped with a big red tree falls from the pocket of Lou’s shorts. She stoops to pick it up and is freckle to freckle with me. Her breath goes in my nose. Bubblegum.

“Lou, this is my sister, Rinnie.” Liz pats me like our dog. Lou pops a bubble.

“Here’s your name on my list, Rinnie. It’s nice to meet you. You’re going to have a lot of fun this summer.”

“I know! Lizzie told me,” I say.

She hands me a bandana the color of pine needles with the words “Redwood Camp, 1962, Cold Spring, New York” sewn in white.

“Every new camper gets one of these,” Lou says.

The three of us climb into the bus that waits to take us to Camp Redwood. It’s filled with flashes of arms and legs, dashing across aisles, giggling, shouting—comic books and candy, popping through the air.

“Hi everyone,” Liz joins the talkers. “This is my sister, Rinnie.”

I smile a big tooth smile and give a little wave. We find a seat next to Lou, and she offers us some gum. Liz takes two and gives one to me. She is looking after me.

Lou counts heads and we roll down the bumpy road, singing. I think camp might be OK.

The entrance to camp is edged by two trees that hold a banner with the words,
Welcome Campers. Redwood Waits with Adventure.

“One more song!” Liz shouts. I plaster my hands over my ears. I barely hear voices, and this new no-sound is soothing.

The bus lurches forward. Boom! I clutch the seat in front of me and swallow my gum. The bus is stuck between the two trees that hold the banner.

“Everyone out. We’ll hike it from here,” Lou says. Our first Redwood adventure begins. “Someone will get our gear later.”

My shorts are stuck to my legs with sweat. I lick the salty corners of my mouth and think of the fizz from the cold Coke I drank on the plane.

“Where are the red trees?” I ask Lou. She laughs and says there are no red trees at Camp Redwood. It’s just a made-up name.

No red trees? I wonder what else is made-up at Camp Redwood. I march into camp behind Liz.

“Girls, today we pick up balls that have flown over the fence into the trees,” Julian, the tennis teacher, says.

This is the third time my cabin is scheduled to play tennis. The first two times it rained. Eight girls hold new rackets. We have never stepped on the red and green courts that are divided by a dirty white net. I wonder what the nets are for. Julian sits by the fence and plucks at the strings of his racket. I gather tennis balls with my bunkmates and balance as many as I can on my racket. Julian waits for us to bring the balls to him. I’m glad we don’t have to walk inside the fence. I don’t want to be locked inside a cage, in the woods, so far from my sister.

A bell rings and Julian says it is time to go back to the bunk. On the way, we pass a building called The Ark. Inside, campers are practicing for a play. Liz is onstage dressed in a man’s suit.

“Hi Liz!”

“I can’t talk now, Rinnie.”

“Will you come to my bunk before supper?”

“I can’t, I have dance rehearsal.”

“Can I come back and watch you?”

“No, the play’s a surprise.”

“How about after rehearsal?”

“Sorry, Rin. My bunk’s having a scavenger hunt.”

“But I want to show you something, a big bruise.” I yell in a whisper, “I miss you.”

“Can’t hear you, sorry.”

I catch up to my bunkmates and half hurry to put on my swimsuit that has real bows all over the front. It’s time for sailing.

The Sunfish boats are slippery, narrow, and easy to fall off. Last time my sailing partner was a camper who thought I knew how to sail.

“Jibe!” she shouted. “Pull the sheet.”

“I don’t see any sheets,” I said.

“The line, the white rope,” she yelled, pointing with her head.

I snatched the line to my chest. Round and round the Sunfish spun. I felt like water—swirling, swirling—into the hole at the bottom of a toilet bowl. The Sunfish toppled into the cold water and waves made it hard to hold on.

“Please, God, don’t let the flesh-eating fish get me, please make the lake-snakes swim to the other side,” I prayed aloud. I whipped my legs through the water. If nothing could catch me, nothing could eat me.

My partner pulled the Sunfish upright and helped me onto its deck. Some of the bows on my swimsuit were untied and tangled together.

“There are no water snakes in this state,” she said. “And the fish are too small to bite you.”

I believe her, but just in case she’s wrong today, I still pray while I make sure my ribbons are tied real tight.

The sides of the sun-bleached dock are rough and splintery. I’m careful not to rub against them while I wait for waterskiing to begin. A whistle blows and we line up on the dock.

“Waterskiing is safe as long as you follow the rules,” Greg, the instructor, says. He’s tan, and his arms have big muscles. Greg talks into a megaphone to make sure everyone hears him.

“Wear a life preserver and follow the hand signals you have learned. If you fall, stay put. The boat will come back and get you.”

Mommy says to try everything. I take a deep breath. Standing on water looks fun but tricky. One by one, someone helps each girl put skis on. One by one, each girl jumps in the water. One by one, a boat jerks each girl away.

The safety instructions are posted on the door to the supply closet. I read them one more time before getting my skis. Next to the rules is a poster. It says, “Never get in the way of the motor on the boat.” There is a picture of a boy lying on his tummy. He got in the way of the motor. His back is ripped open and his red, wavy insides are showing. Could Greg and his big muscles have pulled him away from the motor? That boy didn’t have fun.

“Stop pushing me.”

“First give me the bag of pistachios.” Sally, the bunk bully, is picking on Kira again.

“Stop snatching! I’m telling the counselor,” Kira whines, her bottom lip sticking out like a swollen slug.

“If you tell, I’ll break your head,” Sally says, shoving a fistful of nuts in her mouth.

“Give me my pistachios,” Kira says.

“Crybaby,” Sally says, throwing the open bag of nuts on the floor.

Kira bursts into tears.

“Hey, clean it up,” I say.

“Oh yeah, I’m really going to listen to another shrimp,” Sally says.

“Clean it up, Sally,” I say again.

“Follow me, bozo,” she says, slamming the door.

We walk to the weed patch on the side of the bunk. Sally lunges, grabs my hair, and pulls really hard. She’s heavy, but I’m quick. I plow into her stomach headfirst. Sally’s grip on my hair opens, and she buckles to the ground. I’m on her stomach and punch, one, two, three, four, five times, until she pants, “I give!” and promises if I stop, she won’t bother Kira again.

“Not good enough,” I pant.

“I won’t tease anyone,” she huffs.

I press my elbow into her armpit and get close to her face. Four-ish blurred watery eyes look up at me.

“Owww! I’ll tell Kira I’m sorry. Please, let me go.”

I crawl off Sally. A hand tugs on my arm. It’s my counselor.

“What’s going on here? Are you girls OK?”

Sally lowers her look and coughs out, “We’re fine, just wrestling.” She gets up and rakes her fingers through her short hair to pick out weeds.

“Next time find a softer patch of ground to wrestle on. You could get hurt here,” the counselor says. “And remember, you’re girls.”

When the counselor leaves, Sally hurries inside. I follow and watch Sally sniffle and use her arm to wipe her nose. Then she says, “I’m sorry, Kira,” before hiding her head under her pillow.

Even though it is much too early to get up, I hear footsteps through the screened window next to my bed. A boy counselor and a girl counselor move between the scratchy brown tree trunks, their feet snapping twigs.

Rinnie, don’t move a muscle, don’t make a sound, I tell myself. Look! They’re
holding hands
! He’s
kissing
her—on the mouth! My shoulders hunch around my neck to quiet a snort. Haha! Their secret is my secret, too. It’s harder to make my bed on the top bunk, but the view is perfect.

Dear Mommy and Daddy,

Tomorrow I will be home. Here’s what I will miss at Camp Redwood. I will miss swimming and looking out the window from my bunk bed. I will miss sitting on the hill after supper and reading comic books. Next year, maybe I can go to a different camp with no sailing, waterskiing, or tennis.

Love, Rinnie

P.S. Say hi to Verna, Emmy, Evan, and Croquette and tell them I’ll be home soon.

Mommy is downstairs knitting, and Daddy is kissing Evan goodnight.

“Be quiet, or Daddy won’t tell us a story when he comes in,” I tell my stuffed animals. I pull the blanket over our heads, but I hear Daddy’s slippers slide over the carpet and stop by my night table.

“Rinnie, why are you lying on the edge of the bed? You’re going to fall off.”

“I can’t move. My animals need room,” I say.

Daddy looks for a place to sit down so he isn’t squishing anyone and reaches for my hand. We thumb wrestle once, and he begins, “Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess who loved to climb trees. Her name was Princess Rinnie. The princess had a brother and a sister, but Rinnie was the only one strong and agile enough to climb the tangle of trees in the enchanted forest.
High ho high ho, up the knotty old trunk I go
,” Daddy sings, in a girl voice.

“Princess Rinnie knew a magical bird lived imprisoned on the highest branch of the highest tree, and no person had been able to free the beautiful bird. ‘What a sad life to be able to see everything in the world for miles, yet no way to be a part of it,’ Princess Rinnie said. ‘It must be lonely.’

“It was then she decided to use her strength, balance, and bravery to rescue the bird. One afternoon, Rinnie slipped into the forest of jumbled trees and grasped branch after branch, pulling herself up over gnarled trunks, until she could see everything in sight for miles and miles. Princess Rinnie had found the tallest tree.”

“Huh?” I say. I can’t keep my ears open anymore. I feel Daddy’s good-night kiss on my cheek, and his hand leaves mine.

“What happennn?” My lips won’t move to make room for the words.

“I guess you’ll have to find out tomorrow night, sleepyhead,” Daddy says. He walks away, but before he closes my door he sings, “Princess Rinnie climbed my tree. Princess Rinnie rescued me. And to her I sing my praise. She’ll live happily all her days.”

Layers of satin splash over my shoulders like a waterfall. The cold material gives me goose bumps. The bottom of my dress kisses the floor. In the mirror, I look like a purple flower, a fairy flower, tied in the middle with a fairy bow—almost as good as the ones Mommy ties.

I pat the lumps of hair on the top of my head that stick up from my Alice-in-Wonderland hairdo and hide as many bumps as I can with barrettes. Then I slip my baby-powdered feet into the glittery, silver, plastic high heels that grow pink feathers on their stretchy bands. My fairy shoes, my magic shoes, they take me everywhere I want to go.

I am on my way to a Princess Ball—far, far away. So far away, I can’t hear doors slam or Mommy and Daddy fight.

All night long, I dance until it’s time to turn into a pumpkin. Then I go home where everyone is asleep. The house is quiet. No doors slam, no parents scream. Mommy doesn’t say “You son of a bitch.” It’s OK to take off my magic shoes.

Mrs. Burrell greets me in the hallway of Endicott Elementary with a huge happy hello. She is glad to have me in her third grade class. We turn our desks toward the chalkboard and begin a new lesson.

Mrs. Burrell teaches us about poetry and how Mother Earth makes changes when winter melts into spring. She decides the best way for us to learn about poetry and the seasons is to write a song about squirrels, birds, and spring weather. We have to make the last word of each line in the song rhyme. For me, this is like searching for treasure. I hunt inside my head for the prize—golden words. When my name is called, words tumble out. The class shouts ideas until the blackboard is a garden of yellow-chalk words. I love Mrs. Burrell. She’s the best teacher.