Free Elena by Thomas H. Cook Page A

rubbed her palms together. “Disturbs me,” she repeated emphatically. “The violence, I mean, the underlying violence.”
    My mother nodded, but it was clear that she had not the slightest idea what the woman was talking about.
    Mrs. Nichols edged forward in her chair. “The poem is, well, it’s so full of violent things, dreadful things. And Elena is of such a tender age, as you know.”
    My mother blinked hard. “You think Elena feels bad, is that it?”
    â€œYes, that’s it,” Mrs. Nichols said, relieved.
    â€œShe’s sick?” my mother asked.
    Mrs. Nichols glanced at me helplessly, then looked at my mother. “Not exactly sick. It’s not like a stomachache. It’s something deep inside Elena, something that is disturbing her.” She tapped her fore head with her index finger. “Something in her mind.”
    â€œMrs. Nichols means that Elena might be upset about something,” I explained.
    â€œUpset?” my mother asked. “What about?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Mrs. Nichols said, “but I have to tell you that Elena acts oddly sometimes. She daydreams quite a bit. She often stares out the window during class. She looks sullen. I’ve tried to break through to her, but I’ve not had much success.”
    I had often noticed Elena staring out the window, too, but her expression had never struck me as sullen. If anything, she looked thoughtful, contemplative.
    â€œAre you saying that Elena’s not normal, someway?” my mother asked.
    â€œI don’t know, Mrs. Franklin,” Mrs. Nichols said, growing more exasperated. “But that’s part of the problem, you see. Elena is very hard to know.” She shifted in her seat, and then went on. “I do think — I don’t want you to take this the wrong way; but I do think that Elizabeth Brennan is not the best influence on Elena right now.”
    â€œWhy not?” I asked.
    Mrs. Nichols shot me a withering look. “I’m speaking to your mother, William.”
    I drew back in my chair.
    Mrs. Nichols turned back to my mother. “All the other children write about pleasant things,” she went on. “They write about swimming or ice-skating. Pleasant things. Do you see the difference between that and what Elena writes about?”
    My mother tilted her head to the left and said nothing.
    Mrs. Nichols looked at her sternly, unable to keep the severity from her face.
    â€œI don’t want to pry into your personal affairs, Mrs. Franklin,” she said, “but as a teacher, I thought it my duty to discuss these matters with you.”
    â€œIs Elena misbehaving someway?” my mother asked.
    Mrs. Nichols sighed. “No, Mrs. Franklin,” she said, “not in any particular way.” She stood up. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
    My mother got to her feet and smiled brightly. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “And if Elena starts misbehaving, you let me know.”
    â€œOf course,” Mrs. Nichols said dully. She looked at me. “Will you see me to the door, William?”
    I stood up and followed Mrs. Nichols out onto the porch. My mother was still standing in the living room looking puzzled when I closed the front door.
    Mrs. Nichols turned to me. A small breeze lifted the collar of her dress and she patted it down firmly.
    â€œI’m worried about your sister, William,” she said, “and I don’t think I made that clear to your mother. The nature of the problem, I mean.”
    â€œMy mother has a hard time understanding things,” I told her.
    â€œAnd your father?”
    â€œHe’s away a lot.”
    â€œI see,” Mrs. Nichols said dolefully. “I suppose it’s up to you, then.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTo speak with Elena,” Mrs. Nichols explained. She handed me the poem. “Read this, William, and talk to her.”
    I glanced down