Read Online Hancock Park by Isabel Kaplan - Free Book Online

seem to stop. Apparently, this wasn’tnormal, so my mom asked her psychiatrist for a recommendation, and a phone call was made to Sara Elder.
    I spent a year, from fifth grade to sixth grade, sitting in Sara Elder’s office for an hour each week, oftentimes refusing to talk to her at all, upset that my parents had forced me into therapy in the first place. It wasn’t until the end of sixth grade, when I was obsessively organizing my bookshelves every weekend—alternating between arranging the books by genre, author, and title—that I thought maybe talking to Sara Elder could help. It occurred to me that she wouldn’t have any idea how to help me unless I talked to her and told her what I wanted help with. She may have been a doctor who worked with the mind, but that didn’t mean that she could read it.
    Jack one-upped me for his Get Into Therapy card. (He sees a different psychiatrist than I do, of course, in order to provide us with our necessary “personal space.”) He started in the fifth grade, too, so by the time of the divorce he’d been going for only about two years. His act of insanity was pretty brilliant. In response to the school bully and Jack’s personal tormentor, August Cartwright, calling him a Jew and making it clear that it was the worst thing a ten-year-old boy could be, Jack hacked into his elementary school computer system and set up a web site that portrayed August as a Nazi in full Heil Hitler mode.
    Jack’s private elementary school was concerned and definitely not pleased. Neither were my parents, although they were certainly impressed with Jack’s Web design skills.

Jagged Little Pill
    I woke up on Monday morning, said good-bye to my mom and to my dad, and went to school. I could almost pretend that everything was normal, but I couldn’t avoid the inevitable. Because just a few hours later, my mom and dad would no longer be living in one house.
    And neither would I.
    I was surprised at myself. I had anticipated being upset, but instead I felt numb. I spent all of last-period English staring at my watch, willing the seconds to pass more quickly—not because I couldn’t wait to get out of school, see Sara Elder, and go to my mom’s new apartment—but because I just wanted to get it all over with.
    After school, I drove to Westwood to Sara Elder’s office.A bag in my trunk held pajamas, an extra uniform, jeans, a sweatshirt, and my medications. It was almost as though I were going to a friend’s house to sleep over—except not. I had directions to the new apartment, and after I finished with Sara Elder, I was supposed to head over there.
    My appointment was for four o’clock, and after years of making this drive, I knew exactly how much time I had to allot, how long it would take to park, and which elevator was the slowest.
    Sara Elder worked on the seventh floor of a bland office building in Westwood, and her waiting room was devastatingly boring. It resembled a cramped and entirely beige living room. Over the course of six years, her taste in magazines hadn’t changed or developed, and she never threw a single issue away. Copies of Better Homes & Gardens and Good Housekeeping from 2003 were stacked in piles on the coffee table. For a psychiatrist who specialized in children, she seemed to have very little knowledge about what kids my age might want to read while they waited.
    I flicked the switch that would announce my arrival and sat down on the couch, fuming and ready to confront my MIA psychiatrist. A few minutes later, she opened the heavy oak door that led to her office, and I felt the anger rise within me.
    â€œHello,” she said, welcoming me as if nothing were wrong, as if she hadn’t completely ignored my emergency call. Despite the heat outside, she was wearing a brightred sweater set. “How are you?” she asked once we were both sitting down.
    I didn’t answer. What kind of