Read Online Anastasia, Ask Your Analyst by Lois Lowry - Free Book Online
Authors: Lois Lowry
Tags: Ages 9 & Up
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evening for example, I was discussing dependent relations with him."
"Dependent relations? You ought to ask him what to do about your Uncle George." He turned to Mrs. Krupnik. "Did I tell you that George wrote and asked me for another loan? He wants to invest in a kiwi-fruit farm."
"Your brother George
is
a kiwi-fruit, if you ask me," said Katherine Krupnik.
"I have enough problems of my own," said Anastasia. "If you want to ask a psychiatrist about Uncle George, you have to buy your own psychiatrist."
"How much did Freud cost?" asked her father.
"Four-fifty."
"When you're through with him, will you sell him to me for a discount?"
Anastasia thought that over. She wasn't sure she'd ever be through with Freud. On the other hand, if he was going to keep coming up with unintelligible responses, like the one about dependent relations, maybe she
should
sell him.
"I'll think about it," she told her father. "In the meantime, I could let you have an ashtray shaped like a pair of hands, real cheap."
"No thanks. I like my old hubcap."
Anastasia cringed. It was just one more embarrassing thing about her father. Once, years ago, he had had a car that he loved. When the car got so old that it couldn't be repaired anymore, he junked it, but kept its hubcaps. He used them for ashtrays. He called them his 1957 Ford Thunderbird Memorial Ashtrays, and there were four of them, in four different rooms of their house. Talk about
gross.
Every time friends came over, Anastasia had to stand in front of the hubcaps, so that her friends wouldn't notice them and ask what they were. Just one more in the long list of humiliations in her life.
"Anyway, about Sam—" she began.
Her mother sat up straight suddenly. "Anastasia," she said, looking at her watch. "It's almost nine o'clock. And it's Tuesday."
"Oh, MOM," she wailed.
"Your night for the dishes. They're in the sink."
"I PUT SAM TO BED. DO I HAVE TO DO ALL THE HOUSEHOLD CHORES?"
"No, but you have to do the dishes on Tuesday and Friday. You were a part of the negotiations when we created that schedule, Anastasia."
"But we had
lasagna
for dinner!"
"You love lasagna."
"Not on
Tuesday!
It makes the plates all yucky! It's practically impossible to clean lasagna plates!"
"Try using detergent for a change," her mother suggested dryly. "I've seen you, the way you wash dishes with just water and no soap."
"Spy," muttered Anastasia.
She got up from the couch, groaning. "I'm so tired," she said. "I ache all over. I may have a wasting disease."
Her father had picked up the newspaper again. Her mother had started in on a whole new cable; she was counting the stitches in her knitting.
"You don't even care," said Anastasia in an astounded voice. "You don't even
care
that I may have a wasting disease!"
Her mother reached for the sheet of knitting instructions. "So do I, sweetheart," she said wearily. "Mine's called motherhood."
"I had a plan," called Anastasia as she plodded down the hall toward the kitchen, "about Nicky Coletti. A truly great plan."
She opened the kitchen door and looked at the lasagna plates in the sink. Worse, she looked at the lasagna casserole, empty and crusted with cheese and tomatoes, on the kitchen table. "But I may never tell you guys about it!" she yelled.
Silence. She could picture them there, in the study, both of them smiling sardonically, just like Sigmund.
The dishes were finally finished. Anastasia put on her pajamas and then rummaged through her top bureau
drawer until she found an old jar of hand lotion. She smeared some into her dishpan hands. It really wrecked your skin, using detergent. Twice in the past six months at least, she had used detergent, and both times she had had to use hand lotion afterward.
She still had Freud's head turned backward. She was kind of mad at Freud, and she didn't plan to consult him again tonight.
Instead, she looked guiltily at her Science Project notebook. She looked guiltily at her gerbil cage. Already she had
"Dependent relations? You ought to ask him what to do about your Uncle George." He turned to Mrs. Krupnik. "Did I tell you that George wrote and asked me for another loan? He wants to invest in a kiwi-fruit farm."
"Your brother George
is
a kiwi-fruit, if you ask me," said Katherine Krupnik.
"I have enough problems of my own," said Anastasia. "If you want to ask a psychiatrist about Uncle George, you have to buy your own psychiatrist."
"How much did Freud cost?" asked her father.
"Four-fifty."
"When you're through with him, will you sell him to me for a discount?"
Anastasia thought that over. She wasn't sure she'd ever be through with Freud. On the other hand, if he was going to keep coming up with unintelligible responses, like the one about dependent relations, maybe she
should
sell him.
"I'll think about it," she told her father. "In the meantime, I could let you have an ashtray shaped like a pair of hands, real cheap."
"No thanks. I like my old hubcap."
Anastasia cringed. It was just one more embarrassing thing about her father. Once, years ago, he had had a car that he loved. When the car got so old that it couldn't be repaired anymore, he junked it, but kept its hubcaps. He used them for ashtrays. He called them his 1957 Ford Thunderbird Memorial Ashtrays, and there were four of them, in four different rooms of their house. Talk about
gross.
Every time friends came over, Anastasia had to stand in front of the hubcaps, so that her friends wouldn't notice them and ask what they were. Just one more in the long list of humiliations in her life.
"Anyway, about Sam—" she began.
Her mother sat up straight suddenly. "Anastasia," she said, looking at her watch. "It's almost nine o'clock. And it's Tuesday."
"Oh, MOM," she wailed.
"Your night for the dishes. They're in the sink."
"I PUT SAM TO BED. DO I HAVE TO DO ALL THE HOUSEHOLD CHORES?"
"No, but you have to do the dishes on Tuesday and Friday. You were a part of the negotiations when we created that schedule, Anastasia."
"But we had
lasagna
for dinner!"
"You love lasagna."
"Not on
Tuesday!
It makes the plates all yucky! It's practically impossible to clean lasagna plates!"
"Try using detergent for a change," her mother suggested dryly. "I've seen you, the way you wash dishes with just water and no soap."
"Spy," muttered Anastasia.
She got up from the couch, groaning. "I'm so tired," she said. "I ache all over. I may have a wasting disease."
Her father had picked up the newspaper again. Her mother had started in on a whole new cable; she was counting the stitches in her knitting.
"You don't even care," said Anastasia in an astounded voice. "You don't even
care
that I may have a wasting disease!"
Her mother reached for the sheet of knitting instructions. "So do I, sweetheart," she said wearily. "Mine's called motherhood."
"I had a plan," called Anastasia as she plodded down the hall toward the kitchen, "about Nicky Coletti. A truly great plan."
She opened the kitchen door and looked at the lasagna plates in the sink. Worse, she looked at the lasagna casserole, empty and crusted with cheese and tomatoes, on the kitchen table. "But I may never tell you guys about it!" she yelled.
Silence. She could picture them there, in the study, both of them smiling sardonically, just like Sigmund.
The dishes were finally finished. Anastasia put on her pajamas and then rummaged through her top bureau
drawer until she found an old jar of hand lotion. She smeared some into her dishpan hands. It really wrecked your skin, using detergent. Twice in the past six months at least, she had used detergent, and both times she had had to use hand lotion afterward.
She still had Freud's head turned backward. She was kind of mad at Freud, and she didn't plan to consult him again tonight.
Instead, she looked guiltily at her Science Project notebook. She looked guiltily at her gerbil cage. Already she had
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