Read Online Anastasia, Ask Your Analyst by Lois Lowry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lois Lowry
Tags: Ages 9 & Up
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WHITE—PRINCE
PURPLE—DOC
This will make It easier for me to know who is who, in case one of them has babies or something.
To identify my psychiatrist, I have put a large MAGENTA spot on his head. (There is, of course, no chance that my psychiatrist will have babies.)
Anastasia looked into the gerbil cage at the little rainbow-colored heads, burrowing into their nests to go to sleep. Then she looked back at what she had written. Despair overwhelmed her.
IN CASE ONE OF THEM HAS BABIES? She hadn't thought of the possibility before. How old did gerbils have to be, before they had babies? If one of them had, say, four babies, then she would have fifteen gerbils, instead of eleven. But what if
two
of them had babies?
Nineteen
gerbils. What if—she could hardly bear to think the thought—all eleven of them had babies? How many gerbils would that make?
Surely some of them were boy gerbils. She thought, suddenly, about a boy in the eighth grade, Kevin Burke, who was one of six brothers. Some families had all boys. Maybe all her baby gerbils were boys.
But she had a horrible suspicion that they weren't.
"Sigmund," she said to her psychiatrist as she climbed into bed, "I may have some problems coming up—problems that no psychiatrist has ever dealt with before."
6
"I've forgiven you guys," announced Anastasia to her parents the next evening, "so I'm going to tell you the plan."
"Forgiven us for what?" asked her mother.
Her mother was standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes. Anastasia had her homework spread out on the kitchen table. Her room was beginning to smell so bad that she didn't like to do her homework there anymore. She was even worried about Frank Goldfish, though he didn't appear to have a nose.
Freud had a nose, though it was crooked, but she wasn't worried about Freud because his nose was plaster.
"For making me do the dishes last night."
Her father looked up. He had spread newspapers on the kitchen floor and lined up all his shoes on them. He was about to start polishing them. "It was Tuesday," he said. "Tuesday is
your night,
Anastasia."
"Well," Anastasia muttered, "I didn't feel like doing the dishes last night."
Her mother turned around. "Nobody ever feels like doing dishes.
I
never do. Dishes are just something you have to do every night whether you feel like it or not. Dishes are the same as laundry, or going to the dentist, or—"
"—or polishing shoes," said Dr. Krupnik, looking up again.
"Right," said Katherine Krupnik. "Just something you have to do, so you do it without even thinking about whether you
want
to do it."
Anastasia poured some salt into the palm of her hand, and tasted it. "Well," she said, finally, "everyone else in the whole world has a dishwasher."
Her father picked up one of the sheets of newspaper that he had on the floor. "Look," he said, and pointed to a photograph in the paper.
Anastasia looked. It was a picture of a long line of people wearing ragged clothes, walking barefoot along a dirt road. "Lebanese refugees flee their war-torn city," the caption began.
"So?" she asked.
"So," said her father, and put the paper back down on the floor. "They don't have dishwashers."
"How do you know? It doesn't say, 'Lebanese refugees, who do not have dishwashers—'"
Her father snorted and began polishing one shoe very vigorously, as if he wanted to murder it.
"Anastasia," asked her mother, "do you argue about everything that way with your teachers at school?"
Anastasia poked at the salt in her hand. "No," she admitted. "Only with you guys."
"Well, I wish you'd cut it out. It's very irritating. I also wish you'd tell us about your plan. I'm really fed up with big fat ugly Nicky Coletti, and if you have an idea, I'd like to hear it."
Anastasia brightened. "I do!" she said. "Listen, Mom, what you do is this. You call Mrs. Coletti and—"
Her mother interrupted. "Dad already said he thinks that's not a good idea."
"No, no, you don't call and yell at her. Call and
PURPLE—DOC
This will make It easier for me to know who is who, in case one of them has babies or something.
To identify my psychiatrist, I have put a large MAGENTA spot on his head. (There is, of course, no chance that my psychiatrist will have babies.)
Anastasia looked into the gerbil cage at the little rainbow-colored heads, burrowing into their nests to go to sleep. Then she looked back at what she had written. Despair overwhelmed her.
IN CASE ONE OF THEM HAS BABIES? She hadn't thought of the possibility before. How old did gerbils have to be, before they had babies? If one of them had, say, four babies, then she would have fifteen gerbils, instead of eleven. But what if
two
of them had babies?
Nineteen
gerbils. What if—she could hardly bear to think the thought—all eleven of them had babies? How many gerbils would that make?
Surely some of them were boy gerbils. She thought, suddenly, about a boy in the eighth grade, Kevin Burke, who was one of six brothers. Some families had all boys. Maybe all her baby gerbils were boys.
But she had a horrible suspicion that they weren't.
"Sigmund," she said to her psychiatrist as she climbed into bed, "I may have some problems coming up—problems that no psychiatrist has ever dealt with before."
6
"I've forgiven you guys," announced Anastasia to her parents the next evening, "so I'm going to tell you the plan."
"Forgiven us for what?" asked her mother.
Her mother was standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes. Anastasia had her homework spread out on the kitchen table. Her room was beginning to smell so bad that she didn't like to do her homework there anymore. She was even worried about Frank Goldfish, though he didn't appear to have a nose.
Freud had a nose, though it was crooked, but she wasn't worried about Freud because his nose was plaster.
"For making me do the dishes last night."
Her father looked up. He had spread newspapers on the kitchen floor and lined up all his shoes on them. He was about to start polishing them. "It was Tuesday," he said. "Tuesday is
your night,
Anastasia."
"Well," Anastasia muttered, "I didn't feel like doing the dishes last night."
Her mother turned around. "Nobody ever feels like doing dishes.
I
never do. Dishes are just something you have to do every night whether you feel like it or not. Dishes are the same as laundry, or going to the dentist, or—"
"—or polishing shoes," said Dr. Krupnik, looking up again.
"Right," said Katherine Krupnik. "Just something you have to do, so you do it without even thinking about whether you
want
to do it."
Anastasia poured some salt into the palm of her hand, and tasted it. "Well," she said, finally, "everyone else in the whole world has a dishwasher."
Her father picked up one of the sheets of newspaper that he had on the floor. "Look," he said, and pointed to a photograph in the paper.
Anastasia looked. It was a picture of a long line of people wearing ragged clothes, walking barefoot along a dirt road. "Lebanese refugees flee their war-torn city," the caption began.
"So?" she asked.
"So," said her father, and put the paper back down on the floor. "They don't have dishwashers."
"How do you know? It doesn't say, 'Lebanese refugees, who do not have dishwashers—'"
Her father snorted and began polishing one shoe very vigorously, as if he wanted to murder it.
"Anastasia," asked her mother, "do you argue about everything that way with your teachers at school?"
Anastasia poked at the salt in her hand. "No," she admitted. "Only with you guys."
"Well, I wish you'd cut it out. It's very irritating. I also wish you'd tell us about your plan. I'm really fed up with big fat ugly Nicky Coletti, and if you have an idea, I'd like to hear it."
Anastasia brightened. "I do!" she said. "Listen, Mom, what you do is this. You call Mrs. Coletti and—"
Her mother interrupted. "Dad already said he thinks that's not a good idea."
"No, no, you don't call and yell at her. Call and
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