Philomel looked alarmed.

"I miss my mother," I squeaked out.

When he nodded, I remembered. Oh that's right, he misses his mother too. He's an orphan after all. It made me feel worse not better.

Tears ran down my face and my nose ran. I set the bird down and said, "I'll come back later. I do want to buy them."

Philomel grabbed my wrist as I stood. He pressed the bird into my palm. "Take this, Hah-nah. Keep it to remember your mother."

I shook my head, wishing desperately for a Kleenex. "No, I will pay you."

"This is my gift," he said.

"No, you made this. You worked hard on it."

"Please receive my gift."

I paused.

"You may give me a gift another time," he suggested.

I nodded, wiping my nose on my arm. "I will! I will!"

I already knew what it would be. I had a feeling Philomel would appreciate my cities.

The bird burned in my palm all the way back to my room. Thank G.o.d the house was empty, with everyone still at the party. I sat on the floor, leaned against my bed, and wept.

You'd feel so much better.

"Shut up!" I said.

I dug into my duffel bag for my purple notebook. In the back of it, I'd tucked a picture of my mother.

I looked at her sweet, open face. She crouched in our backyard, coffee cup in hand, looking at one of my cities. I'd called her name and she'd laughed to see the camera.

She wore the pink cashmere cardigan.

I pulled the cardigan out of my duffel and breathed in. Hints of lemon still clung to it. I rubbed its downy fuzz on my cheek.

50. Cashmere against your skin Dr. Giulia Florio had asked me to write down "things that give you pleasure, you know, memories of simple, tactile sensations that soothe you" and had encouraged me to turn to those things when a binge was coming on.

Who are you kidding? Touching cashmere isn't going to make you feel as good as a binge!

I pushed my sweat-slick arms into the sweater sleeves.

What else, what else?

63. Blowing soap bubbles 64. Blowing bubblegum bubbles 65. Those great vivid first seconds of a brand new piece of bubblegum I tore through my duffel. No bubblegum, but there were packs of Chiclets, the third-world gum it seemed, just as Fanta seemed to be the third-world soda. I popped one of the flat white tabs into my mouth and relished the first crunch into its hard sh.e.l.l.

No good. Within seconds I'd sucked it flavorless. I went through a whole box, crunching, sucking the sweetness from the tab, spitting it out, trying another.

Nothing is going to make you feel better. You know it's true.

I skimmed through the list.

26. The way your skin smells when you've been in the sun I pushed back the cashmere and pressed my nose to my forearm, but only smelled the smoky goat stew and my own sweat.

71. Sand under your bare feet No good. No sand here. Landlocked in Tafi Atome.

98. Catching a snowflake on your tongue 99. Laughing so hard you cry 100. Lambs These are worthless! Just give in. Just do it.

No, no, no.

I jumped from page to page.

27. Pirates 33. Tandem bikes 57. Icing sugar cookies 77. Root beer floats 82. Popping bubble wrap Bubble wrap! I had bubble wrap! The woodcarver had given me bubble wrap to wrap some of my beads. I popped each little sac until the plastic sheet was flat and flimsy in my hands.

Then I gave up.

I opened a bottle of water, chugged it empty, then followed the jungle path to the outhouse. I couldn't vomit here. It wouldn't drain. I listened to flies buzz in the troughs a moment, then went behind the stone building. I bent over and tapped the back of my throat.

I gagged but didn't vomit, which surprised me.

I leaned over again. The tap made me heave, but nothing came up from my stomach. I coughed and sputtered, then gasped to catch my breath.

"Hah-nah?"

Modesta's voice made me jerk. I hadn't heard her footsteps on the path.

"Oh, Hah-nah." Her voice shamed me with its kindness. She put a hand on my back. "Did the meat make you sick?"

"No! No. That's not it." I leaned against the outhouse wall. Monkeys chattered overhead.

I looked at Modesta's short, burgundy hair-the color, Izzy had told me, was from malnutrition. Dimple's words came back to me. If vegetarianism was harsh and indulgent here, what words could describe what I'd been about to do?

"I will make you a tea to settle your stomach," Modesta said.

I shook my head. "I was just...I was upset. I was missing my mother."

Stern stoic Modesta hugged me. The love delivered from her bony arms made me miserable. We stood there in the forest, insects and monkeys chirring all around us, outside a toilet, and held each other.

"Oh," Modesta said, something like surprise and delight combined in her voice. She pulled back a bit. "Oh," she said again. She ran her hands down my arms, rubbing the pink cardigan.

"Isn't that a wonderful feeling?" I asked, looking at her dark hands on the pale pink. "It's called cashmere."

"Cashmere," she whispered. From the look in her eyes, you'd think she was having a religious experience.

The sticky heat itched at me. "Would you like to wear it? It feels really good to have it on your skin."

She nodded and let me drape her in it. My mother had been a pet.i.te woman, but the cardigan hung on Modesta in folds, making her look like Dopey, the dwarf from Snow White, especially when she pulled up the hood and pressed the cashmere to both cheeks.

I laughed. "You just wear that for a while," I said.

We walked back to the house, monkeys tumbling across the path ahead of us. "I will make you tea," she said again.

"No, no," I said. "No, thank you. I don't think-I don't think that will make me feel better."

She stopped, the hood of the cardigan a little pointed peak on top of her head. "What will?"

I thought about that. I felt better already. Better because I felt the breeze on my skin again. Better because I'd beaten her, Bulimia. For once. This time. I hadn't purged and no longer wanted to.

Before I could answer, she grinned. "You wish to email the boy worth liking? The one who is beautiful inside?"

I couldn't help but laugh. But I shook my head.

There was one person I wanted to talk to more than Jasper at the moment. One person who I truly knew would understand this small victory better than any other person besides Aunt Izzy.

I went to the empty schoolhouse, sat in the rickety little chair, and typed in my dad's email address.

It felt so good to tell my dad about my battle won. For the first time, I felt like we might be on the verge of understanding each other. I told him about the lost-wax bird, of missing Mom, of all the things I'd done to try to divert...and of the giving in.

As I typed, it struck me that I hadn't really conquered Bulimia myself; I'd been interrupted by Modesta...but I knew if I'd still really wanted to purge, I would have. Modesta gave me the perfect excuse: that the meat had upset my stomach. Poor fragile little American pansy? Who wouldn't have bought that story? I didn't know if Dad would get it, but I knew that, by the point Modesta left me, I hadn't needed to purge. That's what made it a real victory.

When an email arrived from Jasper, my heart fluttered just looking at his name. Why hadn't I recognized my attraction to Jasper immediately?

I thought about Jasper, picturing him at the piano at school. School. Oh, that was why: Because I didn't recognize myself at school. Because I'd let my true self get hijacked.

School. I looked around the little schoolroom, at the open-air windows, the rudimentary chairs and desks. I pictured the B-Squad here. That was funny...except I would hate to subject the good people of Tafi Atome to those girls. Brooke here? No mirrors, no flush toilets, heck, no toilet paper (unless you'd brought your own, as we had). Goats under your bed. No screens. Monkeys who stole things from you. (The day before, I'd had to scramble to take an unopened tampon back from a monkey who'd spied it in my bag. Tampons were treasure here! I'd wrestle a monkey to keep it if I had to.) My period was back, for the first time in over a year.

What if a monkey stole Brooke's tampon? How long before she was reduced to tears?

I never had been. Wow. I thought back-all the craziness, that scary first night, the goat. I'd never cried. The only thing that had reduced me to tears was the memory of my mother.

I'd told Jasper everything about Tafi Atome and the wonderful people who lived here. I'd sent him pictures of everything too-my room, my aunt, "my" goat, the water pump, the school. I took pictures inside the school, showing him the computer I used, and the plastic Tupperware box that went over it when it was not in use.

He commented on that photo. What's on the shelves behind the computer? It looks almost empty, but what are those books?

I hadn't even paid attention. Three books stood on the shelf: a battered hardback of Little Women, a paperback of Tom Sawyer-the pages soft as flannel-and Runaway Bunny.

Modesta told me, "That is our library. Every person in Tafi Atome has read these books."

I'd brought some books with me to read on the plane. I'd already finished two. I gave them to her, saying she could read them first, but then I'd love for them to go to the library. She acted as if I'd given her a million-dollar grant.

I told Aunt Izzy and the crew, and they all dug through their own luggage to produce seven books, a National Geographic, and three Newsweeks. We'd brought the library from three t.i.tles to thirteen books and three periodicals.

It's a good thing I took a photo of the "complete collection" when I did, since the library shelves were scooped bare at the first whisper of the new books.

I relayed all this to Jasper in my next email, thanking him for being so observant because his one question had made a huge difference in this little village.

He emailed back: Wow. I can't imagine a life without books. Trying to feels like having an arm amputated. You know what? I haven't been able to figure out my Make a Difference Project. I think this decides it. I'm going to do a book drive for your village library. Could you send an address?

Wow. What a good idea.

Imagining a life without books feels like having an arm amputated.

I thought of my own ignorant wish to be disfigured.

Englebert said Modesta was like the mother rabbit in Runaway Bunny.

Modesta smiled and said she wanted to write a book like Jo in Little Women about her adventures as a doctor. That book had made her want to do something with her life to be proud of.

What did I want?

I'd wasted too many years of my life wanting to be skinny.

Dad's next email was great. "Congratulations, Hannah, on a successful battle with your demon. I'm so proud of you."

Chills shimmied down my back, even though I sat in the oven of a room, no breeze to speak of. When had my dad last said that to me? I'd felt like all I'd done was disappoint and embarra.s.s him with my ugliness, my weight, my stealing, my inability to get myself together.

I'm so proud of you.

That was weight loss; reading those words, I felt one hundred pounds lighter. Like I might float away.

He wrote more: I've won some battles too. Some just barely. Remember: you don't have to do it on your own. You can ask for help. That's not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength.

Turns out Dad was still in the vampire movie! I won't always get second chances like this, he wrote, so I can't blow it. Because of his court orders, there were lots of stipulations and limitations, but the producers had agreed to all of them-Dad could only film in L.A., he had to be available for random sobriety tests, and he had to be free when I got off school. The court didn't demand that one. I did. Not that you need babysitting, but I want to be there for you. I'm sorry for not getting it right, for not understanding your bulimia. I knew you were in trouble and I didn't know how to help you. It was easier to just numb myself out, to feel nothing rather than to feel that pain of failing you. There's nowhere more important for me to be than with you.

We'd be back together in the same house, but without Mom. That would be hard.

Back together, though, and able to tell the truth to each other. That would be new. My bulimia would be out there, not a secret stinking away under the rug. Now that the truth was out, I had nothing to hide behind. I'd have to be pretty d.a.m.n brave.

Jasper emailed to tell me how things were going with his Make a Difference Project: All I had to do was send some emails and make one announcement at school. I already have more books than I know what to do with! The real issue is going to be shipping them. I had no idea how expensive it would be to ship books (which are heavy...duh) to Africa. I had a day of thinking I couldn't do it. I told DeTello I'd made a mistake, but she gave me a ton of ideas for help. Do you think that woman has ever given up on anything?

I thought about that. Nope. Nope, I couldn't picture her ever saying, "I can't do this."

She was the sort who "jumped in with both feet," as Aunt Izzy said.

Hey, wait a minute...Izzy and my mom used to say that of me!

What do you think you're going to do? Jasper asked me. People's ideas say a lot about them, I think. Kelly's raising money for something called Project HOPE. They provide school tuition, uniforms, and books to kids from Sierra Leone who are now orphaned. Did you know $100 will pay tuition and expenses for one kid there for a whole year? Don't you wish our tuition was that cheap?