Frost

by Marianna Baer

  “Uh-huh,” I said, heading down the hall to my room. “Sounds great.”

  As I set my bag on the floor in the bedroom, I registered something strange on my bed. My mother’s voice chirped on as I moved closer. Sheets of newspaper covered with rows of small, dark … what? I moved closer. Bugs?

  “Sorry, have to go,” I said. I hung up without waiting for her response and stared.

  Cockroaches. Dead. At least a hundred. Shiny brown with spindly legs. On my bed.

  A roar filled my ears.

  “Celeste!”

  There were dead cockroaches.

  On my bed.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the carcasses. Some as big as two inches long. Legs and antennae and slippery-looking abdomens. A battlefield. I shivered violently, as if all those tiny legs were crawling on my skin, scrabbling up my arms and my spine and my neck.

  This was not interesting. It was repulsive.

  “Celeste!” I yelled again.

  I heard the flush of the toilet. Celeste came thumping in.

  “I know, I know. Sorry,” she said in a blasé voice. “I needed to see if they all arrived okay.”

  “Take them off,” I said. The angry roar in my ears was so loud I was sure she could hear it, too. “Take them off my bed. Now!”

  “Okay. Let me just get their box.” She hopped over and grabbed a shoe box off her dresser.

  “Why do you even … why do you even have them? This is so disgusting.”

  “For a photo project. It’s taken me a really long time to get enough of them. You can’t just buy them anywhere.”

  “Really, really disgusting,” I said. “And why didn’t you put them on your bed?”

  She gave me a look as if I were the crazy person. “No room.”

  I glanced over. Celeste’s bed was covered with ten or so small birds’ nests and what appeared to be an assortment of little bones. God, I wished Dean Shepherd were here to see this—what she was asking of me. David, too, for that matter.

  “I’m going to go out for a little while,” I said, not knowing where I’d go, just knowing that I couldn’t be here with her. “When I get back, there will be no dead things in the bedroom. I don’t care what you do with them. I just don’t want them in my bedroom.”

  “Fine. Sorry, I didn’t know you had a phobia.”

  “It’s not a phobia!” I said. “It’s perfectly normal! This is not the sort of stuff that should be in my bedroom! Especially not on my bed!”

  Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “Okay,” she said. “I get the point. But it’s not like you haven’t touched my stuff, too.”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “Unless David tried on my skirt,” she said.

  Her skirt? My heart started thumping. How could she … ?

  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” She put the shoe box down again and hopped over to the closet. She tugged at the doorknob, jiggled it, pulled. “This stupid door won’t let me in. It keeps sticking.”

  “The wood’s probably swollen.” I went over and turned the knob. The door opened easily.

  As Celeste reached inside, I had the irrational hope that she was going to bring out a skirt I’d never seen before, a skirt I hadn’t touched. But her hand emerged with the pink, bustled one. She held it out so I could see that down one side, on the seam, was a long rip—three or so inches.

  I stared at it, momentarily speechless. That rip had not been there after I tried it on. I was sure. And it didn’t even look like it could have happened accidentally. Still, a guilty feeling wrapped around me, as tight as the skirt had been.

  “Celeste,” I finally said, “I didn’t rip your skirt. I mean, I did try it on for a minute, but—”

  “You could have at least hung it back up.”

  “Hung it … ? I did hang it up.”

  “Funny. I found it on the floor.”

  “But I did hang it up. I promise.” I had hung it up well, hadn’t I? And I’d checked the fabric so thoroughly.

  “I can fix the rip,” she said, putting the skirt back in the closet. “That’s not a big deal. But is this how it’s going to be? You punishing me for living here? Because if it is, we should forget about it right now. I can tell the dean this isn’t going to work, that I need a room somewhere else.”

  I imagined the scene. “No,” I said. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. Why don’t we … start fresh?”

  “Like, forget this stuff happened?” She gestured at the skirt and the bed.

  I nodded.

  Celeste seemed to consider this for a moment. She hopped over, delicately picked up one of the roaches, and held it up to her face. “What do you think, little guy?” she said. “Forgive and forget?”

  She turned the roach so his head faced me, turned him back, and wiggled him so he appeared to be nodding at her.

  “Okay,” she said. Then she smiled. “Leena! I’m so happy to be living with you.”

  When I reached the end of the driveway—still not knowing where I was headed, or what exactly had happened back there, only knowing that there was a great big lump of unpleasantness in my throat—I ran into Abby and Viv, carrying grocery bags.

  “Thomas!” Abby called as she bounded up to me. “Check it out!”

  Her bags were filled with microwave popcorn, ice cream, pretzels, Diet Coke, protein bars, trail mix….

  “Wow,” I said. “That should keep us going.”

  “What’s wrong, Leen?” Viv said, clearly picking up on my lack of enthusiasm. “Was your presentation okay?”

  “Fine,” I said. “It’s just …” And then, even though I knew I shouldn’t give Abby ammunition against Celeste, I couldn’t help telling them what had happened.

  Abby’s mouth dropped open as I spoke. “That’s the foulest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said. “I can’t believe she’d do that to you.”

  “She must have been clueless that you’d mind,” Viv said.

  “But, also, isn’t it so strange about the skirt?” I turned to Abby. “You were there when I tried it on. Wouldn’t we have been able to tell, if it ripped that bad?”

  Abby shrugged.

  “You didn’t go back and try it on, did you?” I asked.

  “And left it on the floor, ripped?” she said in a tone of disbelief. “Are you serious?”

  I immediately realized how offensive the question had been. “Of course you didn’t,” I backtracked. “Forget I said it. It must have been me.”

  Chapter 8

  THAT NIGHT AFTER SIGN-IN, we all gathered in the common room for a beginning-of-school dorm meeting. Ms. Martin, our house counselor, was late. Abby, Viv, and I sat on the couch, which I’d spruced up with one of my tapestries. The cushions were so old and squishy that the three of us had sunk together in the middle, like we were in a hammock. Celeste sat in the armchair, her cast propped up on the coffee table. She wore a black silk camisole, green satin pajama pants, and an orange turban-type hat with a rhinestone pin on the side. Hopefully, Abby wouldn’t make a comment about the outfit. I’d asked her and Viv not to say anything about the roaches, and as far as I knew, they hadn’t.

  When I’d returned to the dorm this afternoon, the bugs were nowhere to be seen. In their place on my bed lay a vintage sleeveless top, light pink with tiny black beads in a fireworks pattern.

  “I don’t know why I bought it,” Celeste had said. “It’s too big for me. I know you’re not into clothes, but I think it would look hot on you. Keep it, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s really pretty.” I’d never have chosen it for myself, but I’d have liked it on someone else. Maybe it would look good. I handed Celeste my own peace offering—a bouquet of dried Chinese lantern flowers I’d bought for her in town.

  “Dead already. Good thinking,” she joked as she reached for her vase. “Look, David told me it was a total bitch move to put those roaches on your bed. I suck at this roommate
thing. I want to try to be better, though. You have to tell me when I’m screwing up.” After arranging the flowers, she set the vase back on her dresser. “Perfect. This was my granny’s. She had a superstition about never letting it sit empty.”

  I’d felt better about the vibe between us after that, but the thing that still nagged at me—even now, as I waited for the dorm meeting to start—was the rip in her skirt. Like I’d said to Abby, I just didn’t see how I could have missed it. Not to mention that I’d definitely hung the skirt back up. I was sure of it. So if it wasn’t me … ? Had someone else been in our room, when neither of us was there?

  I was trying to stop worrying when Ms. Martin arrived.

  Traditionally, at the first dorm meeting of the year, the faculty house counselor lies about how thrilled she is to be living with a bunch of teenagers.

  Nothing happened the way I expected that semester.

  “I’m on deadline to finish a book,” Ms. Martin said after briefly introducing herself. “So if the sign on my apartment door is turned to ‘privacy please,’ which it will be often, only knock for emergencies. You’re all seniors; I’m assuming you’re responsible enough not to need much supervision.”

  Her most attractive quality seemed to be her cat, a big-bellied, saucer-eyed Russian Blue named Leo. When he trotted by, I scooped him up onto my lap and ran my hand through his thick, soft coat. He turned in a circle as if he was going to settle down, but when his face brushed against my T-shirt, he let out a sharp yowl, leapt off, and darted out of the room, hackles raised, tail puffed up like a billy club.

  “Sorry,” I said to Ms. Martin. “Most cats really like me.”

  “He’s not usually going to be allowed out of my apartment,” she said. “So you won’t have to worry about him.”

  One of his claws had left a tiny pull in the fabric of my shorts. “Was he out earlier today?” I asked. “In our room, maybe?”

  “Definitely not,” Ms. Martin said. “He was at my ex-husband’s. We share custody.”

  They shared custody of their cat? Viv and Abby nudged me simultaneously; Celeste made a noise that began as a snort but turned into a cough. I bit down on my lips to keep from laughing.

  Oblivious, Ms. Martin began going over all of the dorm rules: sign-in at ten during the week; eleven thirty, face-to-face sign-in on Friday and Saturday; no drinking, smoking, drugs; parietals— permission to have a guy in your room—granted any time before sign-in, as long as Ms. Martin was home to give approval; same for permission to go outside the town of Barcroft, except for overnight, which required a chaperone letter. Then she asked if anyone had an issue to discuss.

  “Last year,” I said, “I organized a dorm dinner one Sunday of every month. We switched off cooking. It was really fun. I’d like to do it again this year, if you don’t mind loaning us your kitchen. It’ll be easier with so few people. We could even invite guests from outside the dorm.”

  “Sounds fine,” Ms. Martin said. “Just give me the dates well in advance. Anything else?” She checked her watch.

  Celeste spoke up. “A couple things. First, I don’t know if they didn’t clean in here, or what, but my closet smells like something died in it. Also, we need new shades for the windows back there. Most are broken, and I swear to God, it felt like someone was looking in at me when I changed today.”

  “Are we talking about stuff that needs to be fixed?” Abby chimed in. “Because there are a ton of things maintenance could do upstairs.”

  “It’s as if they haven’t touched this place in a million years,” Celeste said.

  “Totally,” Abby agreed.

  “That’s not true,” I said. “They painted.”

  “You all know that I have nothing to do with this,” Ms. Martin said. “Put in work orders with maintenance. And, Celeste, the house was fully cleaned. I assume the smell is just from years of being a boys’ dorm.” She stood up and gave us a tight smile, said, “My research calls, girls,” and left the room.

  As soon as her apartment door shut, we all burst out laughing.

  “She’s a charmer,” Abby said.

  “What the hell did she mean, it smells because boys lived here?” Celeste said. “They rubbed their jocks on the walls?”

  “Ew,” Abby said. “And that poor cat!”

  After we laughed a little longer, Viv asked if we wanted to go upstairs. “We still have brownies that Abby’s mom made,” she said to Celeste. “Not to mention popcorn, pretzels, candy …”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got stuff to do,” Celeste said. She began maneuvering herself out of the chair.

  “You sure?” I said. “The brownies are amazing.”

  “AP portfolio class tomorrow. Have to figure out what I’m showing Ms. Spatz. I have a million things to choose from.”

  “Okay,” I said, happy that we’d made the offer, and, truthfully, relieved that Celeste had refused.

  Every year, there was one room in the dorm that became our default hangout; this year it seemed like it was going to be Viv’s. When we got upstairs, Abby went to get polish to paint our nails and Viv resumed working on a giant wall calendar to help her keep track of where she was supposed to be and what assignments were due when. I hooked up my iPod to her dock and chose a playlist, an upbeat one Abby and I listened to on road trips. I was feeling giddy with beginning-of-semester excitement again. I’d survived my presentation, the dorm meeting had gone fine, and classes started tomorrow. I loved seeing who else was in them, meeting new teachers, inaugurating fresh, unblemished notebooks…. Dorky, I know.

  Abby returned with three different polish colors and gestured that she’d do my nails first. I picked a dark metallic blue called “Nuit de la Coeur,” remembering for a moment how whenever my dad took me to the hardware store, I used to pore over the colors and names on the paint chips. He and my mom had let me choose the paint for our front door when I was seven or so, and I’d picked “Razzlematazzle,” mostly for the name. Years later, I’d still said it under my breath when I opened the door.

  Abby shook the bottle and started on my right hand. For a few minutes, we listened to music and concentrated on our separate thoughts. Eventually, Viv looked over from where she was drawing a half circle on September 9. Probably noting the stage of the moon. “So,” she said, “Cam gave me some good news. It turns out Jake and Eliza broke up.”

  I flinched, causing Abby to get polish on my skin. “Why is that good news?”

  “You guys left stuff in limbo,” Viv said. “Maybe you can see where it goes again.”

  Was she kidding? “It wasn’t left in limbo. He ditched me for Eliza.”

  “Not because he didn’t like you,” Viv said. “He didn’t know how into him you were.”

  “The hooking up didn’t clue him in?” I snapped, more harshly than I meant.

  Viv began fiddling with one of her dangly earrings. “Sorry,” she said. “I thought … I don’t know. I guess I got excited because he’s friends with Cam and it would be so perfect. I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”

  I bit my cheeks and stared down at the rhythmic movement of the brush. “It’s not just about Jake,” I said. “I’ve told you, the last thing I need this semester is a relationship drama. I don’t want to have anything to do with anyone until after my applications are in and I’ve kept my grades up. Do you know how crazy my schedule is?”

  “You always make some excuse, Leen,” Viv said gently.

  “Yeah,” Abby said. “Last year you found the stupidest reasons not to get together with anyone.”

  “I didn’t like anyone last year,” I said. “Spare me the lecture, okay?”

  “Fine,” Abby sighed, and then went on to talk about Ponytail Guy, her new crush.

  It annoyed me when she and Viv made it seem like my reluctance to get involved was a problem. They were the ones who’d had to scrape me off the floor at the end of sophomore year, after Jake McCormick, and freshman year, after Theo Fletcher.

  With both Jake and Theo, I’d assumed
that hooking up meant something more was happening between us—maybe not the first time we got together, but after that, definitely. I got all stupid excited: going totally out of my way to run into them at Commons or between classes, doodling our entwined initials, and writing the boy’s name in fancy letters on the side of my class notes. But both times, the old saying about the danger of assumptions had proved true. Jake moved on to Eliza without even thinking he needed to tell me, and Theo moved on to the rest of the freshman class.

  Looking back on it now, I knew that I’d been partly to blame. I hadn’t said what I wanted, or asked what they wanted, just skipped along in my own little bubble of deluded happiness. But I still felt the burn of humiliation when I remembered how easily and thoroughly I’d been devastated back then. I wished I were the type of person who could casually hook up. I wasn’t, though, no matter how much I loved kissing and fooling around. (At least what I’d tried—free rein for my hands; boys’ hands just up top.) And this semester, with my tough classes and college applications, I couldn’t afford any emotional turmoil. Friendship, flirting—that was fine. It’s not like I wanted to live in a convent. But that was as far as I’d go. I had the rest of my life for kissing.

  Abby finished my nails and moved onto Viv’s, and as the night went on, the pauses between our comments got longer and my eyelids grew heavier. I kept thinking about my bed and how well I’d slept last night. Eventual y, I struggled to my feet. I had to face Molecular Biology at eight a.m. That was what I needed to concentrate on this semester—my classes.

  I kept my steps on the stairs and down the hall careful and quiet, assuming Celeste was long asleep. I found her in bed with the covers pulled all the way over her face. It was a warm, late summer night. Was she one of those really skinny people who are always cold? I hoped I wasn’t going to discover she had an eating disorder. One of the things that had stressed me out about the bigger dorms was sharing the bathroom with bulimics. Because of the peer-counseling thing, I usually got roped into confronting them. There’s an unspoken agreement at Barcroft: whenever possible, don’t involve faculty.