Spying on Miss Muller by Eve Bunting Page B

mummy and I, to the festival. Ayah would come too, and she’d carry me.”
    Lizard’s eyes were half closed as if she were dreaming. “Diwali... the festival of lights. Everything’s so beautiful. The candles flickering in the dark and the smell of incense. Sometimes my daddy and mummy would dance together, and sometimes he’d dance with me. And he was so tall and so handsome. He’d call me his little princess because that’s my name, you see....” She paused.
    â€œOf course. Elizabeth Margaret,” I said, and touched her hand, which was covered with sugar. And I thought how strange it was, all of us pretending about our fathers, me, Lizard, Miss Müller. All of us except Greta, and her father was dead. You probably don’t have to pretend anymore when your father’s dead. I shivered.
    â€œCould I have one more lick of Marmite?” Maureen asked, unaware as usual of the vibrations around her. Ada said unless Maureen was hit over the head with a cricket bat, she didn’t know what was happening.
    Maureen was sitting with her finger ready to dip when someone knocked on my door.
    â€œWho is it?” I asked as we fumbled to hide the tuck box. We were supposed to eat treats in Long Parlor, not in our rooms where crumbs could bring mice—and did.
    â€œIt’s Greta,” the voice said.
    Maureen raised her eyebrows.
    â€œCome in,” I called.
    Never before had Greta Ludowski been in my room. Never before had she been in our dorm.
    Lizzie Mag moved closer to the cubie wall. “You can sit by me.”
    Ada hadn’t finished wrapping the cake. “Want a piece?” she asked.
    â€œYes, please,” Greta said.
    We watched her eat, none of us saying a word till she finished.
    She wiped her fingers on the face flannel that I offered her, still damp from this morning. “Thank you.” She looked at us, one by one. “So?” she asked. “Tonight we go?”
    â€œThat’s not the plan,” I told her. “Tonight, first, I’m going to listen. If Miss Müller comes out of her room, I’ll get the others and we’ll follow her.”
    â€œAnd me?”
    â€œI will come for you,” Lizard said. “I’m awfully sorry—we’re all awfully sorry—about your daddy.”
    Greta’s face seemed to crumple. She bent her head, then lifted it. When she spoke it was in her normal voice. “What if she doesn’t spy walk tonight?”
    â€œWe’re not sure,” I said. “It may take a while before she goes up to the roof again, so we’ll take turns staying awake and listening.”
    Maureen sighed. “I know it’s for a good cause, but have you any idea what staying awake does to your looks? We’ll have bags under our eyes, big ugly black ones. Ian won’t like you anymore, Jessie. You’ll look like an old crone. He won’t want to kiss you, even if there’s another air raid, even if it
is
in the dark.”
    â€œShut up, Mo,” Ada told her.
    Maureen gazed into the distance. “I know. Phyllis Hollister has this special stuff. It’s
for
bags. She sent away for the formula and made it herself in chemistry. You smooth it on like this.” Maureen’s sugary finger drew a white smudge under each eye. “Phyllis says it’s sulfur and molasses and Egyptian oils.”
    â€œWhere did she get those?” Ada asked, interested for the first time.
    â€œOh, she substituted cod liver oil. She stole it from the dispensary. Phyllis says cod liver oil is probably even better than Egyptian oils. She says that if it’s so good for our insides, think what it’ll do for our outsides.”
    Lizzie Mag shuddered. The smell of cod liver oil was awful.
    â€œYou’ll stink us all out, Maureen,” I said.
    â€œIf Miss Müller does go tonight,” Greta said, as if she hadn’t heard anything else, “and if we follow her