Hancock Park by Isabel Kaplan

I’d stopped listening or I’d blocked the memory of it out of my mind, because I can’t remember what had happened next.
    Maybe I had seen it coming. Maybe I just didn’t want to admit that it was true. Thinking back on that dinner, I found myself growing angry with my dad—the way he had acted really wasn’t fair to my mom.
    â€œI rented that apartment I was telling you about,” Mom said when it was clear I wasn’t going to break my silence. “We’re going to move next week, sweetie. Your father and I have decided that you and Jack will split your time between us, half and half. No lawyers or anything, so that’s good, right? One week with him, and one with me. That seems fair, right?”
    I looked away. She wasn’t really asking my opinion, after all.
    â€œSweetheart, please. I could use some help here.” When I still didn’t respond, she put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it away. “This whole situation is pretty tough on me, you know?”
    â€œTough on you? What about me, Mom? What about me ?”
    She didn’t say anything. I knew that she was right—ofcourse she was right, her life was about to change, too—but that didn’t matter to me right then. That wasn’t my problem; it was hers. “Not only are my parents getting divorced, but I found out through a slip-of-the-tongue by my psycho grandmother. And I’m almost out of tranquilizers, and Sara Elder hasn’t answered any of my calls, and my best friend just moved away!”
    Mom looked hurt, but her eyes softened. “I’ll call Sara Elder in the morning,” she said. “And I can’t even express how sorry I am about Grandma. As for Amanda, I’m sure she’ll be back in no time. You’ve met her parents—you think they’ll survive one New York winter?” I knew she was trying to make a joke, but nothing seemed funny in that moment. “Besides, look on the bright side: Now you’ll have a chance to make new friends. Plus, you have Joey.”
    It was true; I did have Joey. But unless I put him in a skirt and gave him a wig, he was no help when it came to the problem of who I was going to sit with at lunch.
    â€œI’m so sorry, sweetheart, but can you understand a little bit where I’m coming from with this?”
    I shook my head no, not knowing exactly what she meant.
    â€œIt’s not like I just woke up one day and thought it would be a good idea to get a divorce. This has been building for a while. And moving out—well, it’s a good way for me to get a fresh start. I can’t stay here. This is your father’s house.”
    It was weird to hear her say that. I’d always thought of this as our house. Not his or hers.
    â€œIt’s hard, being here,” she went on, “you know, when your dad is never home. And even when he is here…well, he’s not really here.” And then she started talking about the lump she’d found in her breast a few years ago, which seemed like a non sequitur to me.
    My stomach aching, I turned away once again and found myself stuck facing a large mirror that was mounted on the wall next to one of my bookcases. Staring, I tried to focus on the reflection of the girl looking back at me: bright blonde hair and flat brown eyes, the residue of eyeliner from several days ago creating shadows beneath them. Was this really me? Behind me was the reflection of my mom, still in work clothes, her head resting on one of her fists, eyes glassy. I had her eyes and her nose. And when we smiled, people said that I had her smile. But neither of us was smiling now. I remembered how I had always wanted to be just like her, back when I was little and she was perfect.
    â€œYou stayed at Amanda’s that day, so you wouldn’t remember. But your dad didn’t even offer to come to the hospital with me. I took a taxi,” Mom said, pulling at the fraying edges