Last Night I Sang to the Monster Read Online Free PDF

me.”
    I wanted to ask him if he’d teach me too. But I didn’t.
    After the hike, we went out for pizza and we talked about things, not important things, but just things. I told him about Mr. Garcia, how he played the trumpet and Dad wanted to know if I had ever wanted to play an instrument, and I told him, “No. I’m not musical. But I like to draw.”
    “Really?” he said. “I didn’t know that.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I like to draw and I like to paint.”
    There was an almost-smile on his face. Maybe he was thinking of his father who had been an artist. “I’ve never seen anything you’ve done.”
    “I keep it all at school. In the art room.”
    “I’d like to see your work.” God, my dad looked so brilliant. Like there was a light inside him. He put his hand on my shoulder. “I mean it,” he whispered. He looked into my eyes. And it was really weird because I thought he was really looking at me. And I wasn’t used to that. I wanted to cry—but I didn’t.
    “Are you any good?”
    I knew he was making a joke.
    “I’m okay.”
    “I bet you’re better than okay.”
    Not that he knew. “I’m not awful.”
    “You’re a good kid,” he said.
    I wanted to tell him that I liked to drink and that I’d done coke and that I wasn’t a good kid at all. It killed me that he thought I was good. But I just sort of nodded. Even though I knew I wasn’t a good kid, I’m glad my dad said that—even though he was lying to himself.
    The really screwy thing was this: I got it into my head that maybe things could be different. Maybe things couldn’t be different for mom or for Santiago. But things could be different for me and my dad. Maybe they could be. That’s what I got into my head that night before I went to sleep.
    Maybe our lives would get better.
    Maybe Dad wouldn’t drink as much.
    Maybe I wouldn’t drink as much.
    Maybe we didn’t have to be so sad all the time.
    Maybe we didn’t have to walk around looking at the ground. Maybe we could look up sometimes and see the sky. I mean, why not? I was happy that night before I went to sleep.
    But nothing changed.
    My dad’s drinking got worse after that.
    My drinking got worse too.
    I never showed my dad any of my art. Maybe he’d never really wanted to see it.
    My mom started living internally—all the time. Her life had become one long episode.
    One night she climbed in my bed. She called me Ernesto. Ernesto, that was my father’s name. She reached down and put her hand between my thighs. I didn’t know what to do. I was stunned out of my mind.
    My heart was beating really fast and all these things were racing through my head. I jumped out of bed and threw on some clothes and I grabbed one of my dad’s bottles and ran out of the house. I didn’t come home for two days.
    When I came back no one said a word. It was as if I’d never been gone. Nothing got better.
    Adam is a big believer in change. I don’t know where that guy came from. Same place as Mr. Garcia—that’s my thinking. Monday through Friday he shows up. He says that in life you have to show up every day. He’s an expert at showing up. I wonder what kind of parents he had, him and his eyes that are as blue as the sea, eyes that see me but don’t see me. No one sees me. He tells me I should look in the mirror and say: “I am capable of change.” Like I’m really going to do that. God did not write change on my heart.
    I think sometimes I hate Adam.
    I think sometimes I want to get a bat and pretend he’s a windshield.
    My father wasn’t right about me. I’m not a good kid. Yeah, look, I’m just a piece of paper with the word sad and a bunch of cuss words written on it.
    A lousy piece of paper. That’s me.
    A piece of paper that’s waiting to be torn up.

REMEMBERING
    I was talking to Adam in his office. I don’t know why we call it talking since really it’s an official appointment with my therapist. You know, therapist to patient. It’s not as if we’re friends.