Free Don't Make Me Smile by Barbara Park Page A

corny, but for some reason I didn’t mind it as much. I guess just because someone is a big cornball, it’s no reason not to like him.
    I just hope that my mother doesn’t think she needs to call Hank every time there’s a holiday, though. If I thought his Easter-egg hunt was dumb, I’d hate to see what Hank would come up with for Halloween.
    Thinking about this worried me a little. I wanted to mention it to my mother, but I didn’t want her to get mad at me all over again.
    Suddenly, I thought about Dr. Girard. I wondered what he might tell me to do?
    There was only one way to find out.
    I went to the phone and dialed his number.
    The voice on the other end was a recording. It said: “Dr. Girard is not in the office right now. At the sound of the tone, please leave your name and telephone number, and Dr. Girard will return your call … 
beep!
”
    â€œThis is Charles Hickle, Dr. Girard,” I saidnervously. “My number is 555–6788. Please call me back. Thanks.”
    After I hung up, I already felt better. Just the idea that there was someone I could talk to helped me more than I thought.

(eleven)
    S O FAR, I’ve talked to Dr. Girard four times. Each time he’s made me feel a little bit better about things.
    Don’t get me wrong, though. I still don’t think I’m ever going to totally get over this. And I still think divorce is a rotten thing for parents to do.
    It’s really hard for me to get used to living just with my mother. It must be weird for her, too. Almost every night, when she sets the table, she accidentally puts out three plates.
    Once in a while, Mom calls me “the man of the house.” I don’t know if she’s trying to make me feel grown-up or what. But I don’t reallylike it. Just because they decided to get divorced doesn’t suddenly turn me into a man. I don’t even shave yet. The next thing you know, she’ll expect me to go to work or something.
    Of course, maybe going to work wouldn’t be so bad. It’s got to be better than school. Because to tell you the truth, school hasn’t been going that well for me lately. I used to be pretty good in school, but ever since the divorce, I’ve had a hard time keeping my mind on stuff. Somehow, learning how brine shrimp lay eggs just doesn’t seem important anymore.
    Right after my teacher found out that things were bad for me at home, she got real nice. She didn’t make me do any work at all, hardly. But teachers don’t stay patient like that forever. Teachers definitely have a limit on their niceness.
    Last Friday after school, Mrs. Fensel handed me a note to take home to my mother. She told me to be sure that Mom saw it.
    â€œI’m going to trust you not to read it first, Charles,” she said.
    What a lie. If she really “trusted me not to read it,” why did she have it all sealed up with tape? Does that sound like trust to you?
    Having to take a note home to your mother isone of the worst things a kid ever has to do. It’s like asking a criminal to cut off his own head, sort of. It’s just not fair.
    All the way home I held the note real loosely in my hand. I kept waiting for a big strong gust of wind to come along and blow it away. But as usual, there’s never a good wind when you need one.
    The same thing used to happen when I was a little kid and I wanted to fly my kite. I would spend about an hour untangling my ball of string, and by the time I got it all ready, the wind had totally stopped. Usually, I ended up dragging it up and down the street a couple of times and putting it away.
    The only time it’s ever windy is when you don’t want it to be. Like when you finish swimming, for instance. I don’t know where the wind comes from, but as soon as you get out of the water, a big gust comes and freezes your tail off.
    Anyhow, on the day Mrs. Fensel gave me the note, the wind was nowhere to