Elena Vanishing by Elena Dunkle

going down, but we can’t stop yet. I’m beginning to hate being in a rental car with Mom. We’ve been crammed into the same room now for weeks. There’s nowhere to go to get away from her.
    Your parents made you sick
, says the voice in my head, and I flash to the memory of me crying and begging not to go back to school.
You think she loves you? What loving mother ships her youngest child off to boarding school?
    I push away the thought and flip open my journal again. It’s traveled the whole way with me, but I’ve hardly written a thing. Just one line about Drew Center:
    The whole ward here has more locks than a federal prison.
    What else is there to say?
    I want to write something cheerful and touristy about the Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum. When I get home, I’ll paste my ticket to the page, and maybe a photograph or two. Mom and me posing in front of the world’s largest tire. Dad sitting in the big chair.
    But right now, I find myself reading a page from last November. A page I wrote about Ramona, my roommate in boarding school.
    Girl, if you were standing in front of me and were hearing this, I would say: You were always the one to do the crazy stuff first. Let’s do this, let’s do that.
    Come on, Lani, don’t be so boring. And now, looking at everything, see how we both turned out?
    You, overeating–me, not eating.
    You, too quick to love–me, too scared to love.
    You, blaming others too much–me, blaming myself too much.
    You, not caring about school–me, overcaring about it.
    You, moving on.
    Me, staying behind.
    And I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
    Got to go exercise away this God-awful me.
    Maybe I’ll forget the God-awful you.
    Miss you, Mona.
    I’ll love you forever.
    The tears on my cheeks surprise me. I close the journal and think about Ramona. What’s she doing now? Has her life turned out any better than mine?
    Mom starts up again. She just won’t let it go. “Every meal, you struggle,” she says. “You can’t finish anything.”
    â€œWe’re eating fast food,” I say. “It’s awful.”
    Saturated fat
, says the voice in my head.
Food additives. Dyes. Flavor enhancers. You ate chicken nuggets this morning, forty-eight calories per nugget. That’s not going to get you ready for school.
    â€œWe eat anywhere you want to eat,” Mom says. “We eat anything you say you’ll eat.”
    Chicken nuggets
, continues the voice in my head.
Three grams of fat apiece! You can see the fat ooze out of them. It’s disgusting!
    â€œI don’t think you can deal with this problem by yourself,” Mom says. “I think they’re right. You do need help.”
    She thinks you’re a failure
, says the voice in my head.
Your own mother looks at you and sees a failure. This summer has made you lose your edge. You don’t look like a girl with a great future anymore.
    â€œI can’t believe you think I’m a failure!” I say. “I make top grades, but you think I’m losing my edge. You criticize me all the time!”
    â€œI don’t mean you’re a failure,” Mom says. “You do a great job in school. But you pick at your food. This is too hard for you to handle.”
    She shipped you off and made you sick
, says the voice in my head.
She kicked you out of the house. You do everything right and one little thing wrong, and the one thing wrong is all she sees.
    â€œDad! Mom thinks I can’t do anything right. She thinks I’m screwing everything up. You believe in me, don’t you, Dad?”
    â€œOf course I believe in you, honey.”
    â€œThat’s NOT what I’m saying!” shouts Mom. Which means, of course, that she’s lost the argument.
    But the fight gets worse from there. Pretty soon all three of us are shouting. Finally, Dad zooms down an exit lane, turns into an empty