The Beauty of the End Read Online Free PDF Page A

really means is no bullshitting—just tell the shrink what she wants to hear. Cool. Not like we’re wasting anyone’s time.
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    â€œHi. It’s Ella, isn’t it? Come and take a seat.”
    Therapists use a socially acceptable code. Out of a million ways to start a conversation, like let’s cut to the chase because we both know there’s something we need to talk about, they all use exactly the same words.
    â€œNice to meet you.” I hold out my hand, firstly, because of my upbringing and, secondly, because there’s no reason not to be polite. Anyway, apart from the fact that she studied psychobabble at university, it’s hardly her fault she has to talk to me.
    She gestures toward a set of chairs arranged around a coffee table, which I kind of smile at, only in an ironic way, because it’s the modern-day version of the shrink’s couch. Her arm is really tanned—hasn’t anyone told her about skin cancer?
    She sits opposite me. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice she’s younger than they usually are, the edge of her left ear punched with sparkly studs.
    â€œSo.” She picks up her notebook. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself.”
    I shrug. “I’m fifteen. I live with both parents. Big house with land. In Ditchling. I go to school at the Lester Academy.”
    I say “both parents” on purpose so she doesn’t have to ask. I don’t tell her it’s a stupidly big house, because she doesn’t need to know. I just watch the large silver ring on her right hand catch the light as she writes.
    â€œYou’re into drama?”
    Everyone’s heard of the Lester Academy, known forraising future megastars of the stage and screen—and uber-wealthy parents.
    I shake my head. “Music, mostly.”
    She looks interested. “Which instrument do you play?”
    â€œGuitar,” I tell her. “Electric and acoustic. I did keyboard for a bit. I dropped the saxophone last year.”
    Figuratively, you understand. I dropped the keyboard, too, which pissed my mother off, because she has her own vision of how my dazzling future’s supposed to blow practically the entire world away. I watch her pen hesitate, then write my words down, and I wait for the old joke about how I’m a regular one-girl band, but it doesn’t come.
    â€œWow. I’d love to be able to play just one of those,” she says, looking wistful.
    I sit back and fold my arms when she says that, warding her off, because icebreaking I’m used to. The dancing politely round each other, like we’re on a first date. The walking on eggshells when it comes to the trickier stuff. Issues, you’d probably call them. But wistful makes her sound like a normal person.
    â€œDo your parents enjoy music?” she adds.
    I’m not sure how to answer that one. Actually enjoy? I don’t really know.
    I shrug. “I guess. My mother plays classical all the time. I don’t really know about my father.”
    She moves on. “So, tell me what else you like to do—when you’re not at school.”
    Okay. Only some of them ask this one, mostly because it’s not on the checklist they tick off, before totting up my final score and telling me there’s nothing wrong with me. Which I already know.
    â€œSwim.” I shrug again. “We have a pool. And I read.”
    Most of the books in the house are mine. My parents don’t read, except for Sunday papers or interior design brochures. “And I write.”
    That fell out without my meaning it to, because what happens then is people ask what I write.
    â€œWhat do you write?” she asks, right on cue.
    I look at my shoes. “Just stuff.”
    I could lie and tell her I write bleak, dark love songs, such as therapists’ dreams are made of, just to wind her up, but instead find myself gazing across her office at the large, abstract canvas