Free Hancock Park by Isabel Kaplan Page B

left. When I was alone once more, I poured all the stuffed animals out of the crate and onto the floor in front of me. I was bigger, and the animals were smaller, so it would be harder to hide. I opened my arms wide and pulled all the toys close together on top of me. Slouching down along the wall, I tried to bury myself with the past.

Blank Slate
    M om and Dad were busy searching for a new psychiatrist for me, and I was busy trying to keep my school life together. I wasn’t going to be seeing Sara Elder anymore. She had been my psychiatrist for five years, and suddenly, no more.
    And I couldn’t even figure out whether I was mad, sad, or anything. Sara Elder sent me an e-mail, maybe it was an apology or explanation—who knows. I deleted it.
    My in-box was empty; I could be a new Becky, ready for change. A Becky who didn’t need to pop pills both morning and night in order to be sane. A Becky who didn’t necessarily need a therapist.
    Neither of my parents believed my claim about notneeding a therapist. They supported me being whomever I wanted to be, but they just weren’t sure that I could successfully be me without the aid of a psychiatrist. Throughout the next week, I couldn’t help feeling as though I were holding everything together by a thread.
    â€œFamilies are impossible,” Taylor Tremaine said to me over lunch one day. It was just her and me—we had the same free period, which happened to be right before lunch that day. We had spent Advisory that morning telling our seventh graders what was edible and what to steer clear of in the cafeteria, so we decided to take our extra-long lunch as far from the school cafeteria as possible. That’s how I found myself sitting at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant that Taylor had insisted was simply “the best,” talking about our families.
    â€œMy parents just split up, too,” Taylor offered. “It made me feel like nothing will ever be the same, you know?”
    I did know. “Yeah, it’s just…” My voice faltered. I squeezed a lemon wedge into my Diet Coke. I wanted to talk to Taylor, wanted to tell her that I knew what it was like, having your entire world shaken up and thrown on the ground. But for some reason, I couldn’t. I didn’t know what my problem was. It was as if keeping my emotions bottled up inside gave me a sort of control—a sense of control I desperately wanted to preserve.

Smart vs. Pretty
    L ater that week, I presented to the Parents Association.
    I came home from school—to my mom’s apartment—the day of the presentation, and found Jack taping a miniature video camera to the outside of our front door. “What the hell?” I asked.
    â€œMadonna moved in down the hall!” he explained, reaching for the electrical tape on the floor. “I’m hoping she does something interesting in the hallway, and then I can take the video footage and make a fortune.”
    Inside, Mom was sitting cross-legged, rooting through a big box of shoes on the living room floor. “Fuck.” She threw a pair of Manolo Blahniks to the side, and theylanded near my feet where several other pairs already lay. I dropped my backpack onto the carpet. “Have you seen my Ferragamo flats? I can’t find them anywhere.”
    â€œUh, no, I haven’t. Sorry.” I waded carefully into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “So, tonight’s my PA presentation,” I told the parmesan cheese.
    â€œTonight? I thought it was next week!” Mom tossed a ballet slipper back into the box and ran a hand through her hair. “What time? At school?”
    â€œYeah, at school. At seven.” I shut the refrigerator door and turned out to face her. “You’re coming, right?”
    Mom stood up. “Of course I’m coming! It’s a big night for you.” She walked over to me. “You don’t have to wear your uniform tonight, do