Free Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl

chewing slowly to make it last. And a third. “For a little girl, you do put it away,” said the counterman admiringly.
    There was a bakery next door, and I went in and bought two dozen French pastries to tide me over the weekend. I spent all of Sunday in bed, reading Gone With the Wind , eating pastries and feeling sorry for myself. Gorged on sugar and fat and the joy of English, I slowly came back to earth. Then my roommates returned, and life on Mars started all over again.
    “I realize,” I wrote in my diary, “that I am like the Puerto Ricans who come into our classes in New York. Except we are not nearly as nice. These kids are really sweet, they all help me in my work and don’t mind when I goof up on my French, which is almost always.Françoise, who sits in the desk next to mine, is trying to help me with spelling. But I don’t think I’ll ever get it.”
    Madame Cartet certainly didn’t think I would get it. She acted as if I were a slow and wayward stranger who had been foisted upon her, and when she announced exam scores she always seemed disgusted. “Zéro, une fois de plus pour Mademoiselle Reichl,” she would say pityingly, as if any person of normal intelligence would have learned to speak French, much less spell it, by now.
    A few of the girls took their cues from her. The worst was the banker’s daughter, Béatrice, the richest girl in school. Her father was said to be very close to General de Gaulle. She had never actually spoken to me, but she had discovered my secret cache of candy, cake, and novels and tortured me by moving it. I knew she was the culprit because she brazenly ate an éclair in my presence, daring me to do something. I shrugged. I suspected that she stole my mail too, but I felt helpless. The odd thing is that if she hadn’t been so mean to me I would have admired her. She was constantly collecting “mauvaises notes” for whispering in class, for not being prepared, once for daring to talk back when Madame Cartet spoke of Australian savages.
    “They are not savages!” said Béatrice. “I’ve been there.” A thrill ran through the class. French girls never offered their own opinions, they simply parroted those of their teachers. And certainly no French girl ever contradicted an adult, which must have been why Madame Cartet seemed more puzzled than angry.
    “The Aboriginals are not Christian,” she said firmly, “we will not discuss this any further. Zero for conduct, and this will cost you a Saturday in school.”
    My heart sank; I had come to like my lonely pastrami weekends and I did not want Béatrice skulking about. But she seemed unconcerned; she tossed her frizzy blonde mane and said darkly, “Nous verrons!” Béatrice ALWAYS went home on weekends.
    By Friday I had forgotten Madame Cartet’s threat and after the school emptied out I was startled to hear someone crying downstairs. I followed the sound and found Béatrice facedown on her bed. “ Va t’en! ” she said fiercely. I turned and raced back to the third floor.
    I slammed the door behind me, took The World of Suzie Wong out of the laundry bag in which I had hidden it, and unearthed some cream puffs from beneath the bed. They were a week old, but I didn’t mind. I was groping for the last one when Béatrice came in.
    “Give me that!” she said grabbing the pastry. Her frizzy blonde hair was wild, her eyes red, her pleated blue uniform crumpled. She stuffed the cream puff into her mouth and ate it in a gulp.
    “Did your mother send you these?”
    I shook my head.
    “Where are they from?” she insisted.
    “A pastry shop down the road,” I said.
    “Take me,” she commanded.
    “Now?” I asked. “It’s almost dark. They’ll be furious if we leave at night.”
    Béatrice shrugged. “What are they doing to do about it?” she asked. “Call our parents? The Petit will be too scared to let them know she’s lost us. She’ll just wring her hands and look pitiful. Let’s go!”
    It was the