Don't Make Me Smile by Barbara Park

of days. What did your parents do?”
    â€œThey did exactly what your father did today,” he said. “They took me to a child psychologist. In fact, they took me to a bunch of psychologists. But it didn’t do any good. I was a very stubborn kid. I would talk to the psychologists as friendly as could be. Then I’d go home and not say another word.”
    This was unbelievable. “So let me get this straight,” I said. “You didn’t say one single word to your parents at all? Nothing? Never?”
    Dr. Girard shook his head. “Nope. I mean once in a while, when they asked me a question, I would shake my head yes or no, but that’s about it. I never opened my mouth. Not even at Christmas.”
    â€œSo you didn’t ask for any presents?” I asked. This guy was
amazing.
    â€œNot one,” he said. “And believe me, that turned out to be a very big mistake.”
    â€œWhy? What happened?” I asked.
    â€œWell, that Christmas I really wanted abasketball hoop and a stereo,” he said, “but since I wasn’t speaking, no one knew it. I thought about writing a Christmas list on a piece of paper, but I decided that would be almost like talking, so I didn’t do it.
    â€œAnyway,” he continued, “when I got up on Christmas morning, all I found under the tree was a game of Life, a ton of school clothes, and some handmade mittens.”
    I started to laugh.
    â€œWait. That’s not the worst part,” said Dr. Girard. “My mother put
fruit
in my stocking. Two oranges and an apple. She knew I’d hate that. I’m sure that’s why she did it.”
    I laughed even louder.
    â€œTake it from me, Charlie,” he said. “If you ever decide to stop talking to your parents for any length of time, wait until after the holidays.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said. “I could never last as long as you did. I always think of too many mean things that I want to say to them.”
    Dr. Girard nodded. “Well, sometimes, that’s okay,” he said. “Sometimes it’s better to say what’s on your mind—even if it’s mean—than to keep everything inside.”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve said plenty of mean things to them already, but it doesn’t seem to be helping me that much. I still feel just as rotten as I did when they first told me. Maybe even rottener.”
    The doctor thought a minute. “Tell me something, Charlie. When did you first find out about the divorce?” he asked.
    â€œLast Sunday night,” I said.
    Dr. Girard looked surprised. “Last Sunday night? But that was only a week ago.”
    â€œYes, I know,” I said. “It’s been a whole week, and I feel just as bad now as I did then.”
    He leaned forward. “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said. “A week is no time at all, Charlie. If you’re thinking that you should feel better in only a week, you’re in for a very unpleasant surprise. It takes time to get over something as big as this. Lots of time.”
    â€œI understand that, Dr. Girard,” I said. “But every day I seem to feel even sadder than the day before. I think I’m getting worse instead of better.”
    He shook his head. “Let me try to explain something to you,” he said. “What if last Sunday night, instead of finding out about thedivorce, you’d had an accident. Let’s say that you fell off your bike and you broke your arm. Okay?”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œWell, if last Sunday night you fell off your bike and broke your arm, would you expect it to be healed by today?”
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œNo, of course you wouldn’t,” he said. “Because you know that broken bones take lots of time to heal. But what a lot of people don’t know is that there is another part of us that can