Hope and Other Luxuries by Clare B. Dunkle Page B

her door was open,” Elena said. “So Mona and I sneaked into her room and read her diary.”
    I frowned. “What did you do a thing like that for?”
    Elena shrugged. “Why not?” she countered. “She shouldn’t have left it where we could find it if she didn’t want it to get read. Anyway, turns out, she has this huge crush on this guy in the choir, and all the way through the diary, she calls him her
bunny
. Can you believe it?” She laughed. “‘My
bunny
!’”
    As laughs went, it wasn’t very nice.
    â€œThe French call each other little cabbages,” I pointed out.
    â€œThat’s stupid, too,” Elena said. “So, Mona and I followed her around, and we kept talking about bunnies. ‘Am I your
bunny
? Can I be your
bunny
?’” Elena giggled again. “And finally, this stupid woman figured out what we were talking about. She busted out crying, and she ran out of the room! Can you believe it? Bawling like a baby!”
    I turned around and stared at Elena. She had many faults, I knew that perfectly well, but cruelty had never been one of them. Weaker characters had always flourished around Elena: she sheltered the loners, and she tutored the slow ones.
    And now, here she sat, this warmhearted, idealistic girl, telling me about a heartless prank.
    â€œElena!” I said. “How
could
you?” And I really meant it. How was this even possible?
    Elena’s mouth set in a hard line.
    â€œShe’s a housemother. She deserved it!”
    I saw the look in my daughter’s eyes, and God help me, I understood. I had seen that look a thousand times in my own mirror. The jaded, bitter look of the changeling child stared at me out of my daughter’s face.
    Elena’s world had blown apart.
    â€œElena! What’s wrong?” I said. “There’s something wrong! You can tell me.”
    â€œYou mean,
besides
the fact that the school is hiring
behindert
housemothers to look after us?”
    And Elena walked away.
    Several weeks later, I got a phone call from the boarding school, but when I answered, I didn’t recognize the voice. A very polite-sounding young German woman was on the line, speaking in English.
    â€œMy name is Anna Anton,” she told me. “I am in the twelfth class at your daughters’ school.”
    â€œHello, Anna. I think I remember you. Didn’t I get to meet you last year?”
    â€œYes,” she said, sounding a little pleased and relieved, but still very serious. “My call is because . . . I am the
Tischmutter
at Elena’s table.”
    Tischmutter
. That meant
table-mother
, the student who was in charge of making sure the younger girls ate a good meal.
    â€œI am worried about Elena,” Anna went on. “She doesn’t want to eat. She is sick all the time.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “I’ve been worried, too.” And that question dug into me again:
What
was wrong?
    â€œI am afraid,” Anna said, “that Elena doesn’t want to live.”
    WHAT??
    I was out of the house ten minutes later. I drove all afternoon to get to the school. I met with the housemothers. I met with Sister. And then we all met with Elena.
    â€œHi, Mom!” she said as soon as she saw me. “What are you doing here?”
    In light of this scary phone call, I tried to see my daughter with new eyes. Yes, Elena was thin. But then again, she’d always run a little thin. She hadn’t grown a single centimeter all year. But she looked more relaxedthan she had the last time I’d seen her, and when she heard why I’d come to the school, she laughed.
    â€œWhat are you
talking
about?” she said with an amazed smile. “That’s ridiculous. I’m fine!”
    And when she left the room, I could see her friends surrounding her in the hallway: “Leni, what was it about? Are you in trouble? Can I help? Do you want some of