Frost

by Marianna Baer

  “You’re such a good brother,” I said, melting a little at how vulnerable he sounded. “She’s lucky.”

  He gave a brief laugh. “Don’t think she’d agree.”

  “She would.”

  “You know …” He shifted forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, and turned his face toward me. “I’ve been feeling kind of bad about something.”

  “What?”

  “The other week, I didn’t mean to say your parents aren’t good parents, or anything like that. I think I was, well, being kind of protective of you.”

  “Oh,” I said, remembering that he had sounded judgmental about them. “That’s okay.”

  “No it’s not. I’m not your brother.”

  “I wish you were,” I said.

  “You do?” He didn’t attempt to hide the surprise in his voice.

  “Growing up I was always happy it was just me and my parents,” I explained. “But maybe the divorce wouldn’t have felt so much like a total … destruction of the family if I had siblings.”

  “Oh,” he said and, then after a pause, added, “but you don’t really want me as a brother, right? Because, no offense, I don’t really want you as a sister.”

  His words sent a rush of warmth through my veins. I stared down at my feet and smiled. “No, I guess not.”

  “You guess not?” He nudged me.

  “Well, it’d be kind of like having a bodyguard,” I said. “Someone to save me from men in whale pants.”

  “Oh, God,” David said in an amused voice. “If it makes you feel any better, she’s just as harsh about my choices.”

  I reached down and scratched one of my calves, and made myself ask the question I wasn’t sure I wanted answered. “Did you, um, did you have a girlfriend at Pembroke? The one you got busted with?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “I never had a girlfriend so much as, well … friends who were girls.” He gave an exaggerated cough.

  “Oh. Why? Were you making self-destructive decisions?” I said, ignoring the queasy sensation in my stomach. Of course a guy as good-looking as him was a player.

  David laughed. “Maybe. I didn’t give it too much thought at the time. Just did what I wanted to do.”

  I could imagine Jake or Theo saying the same thing about how they’d treated me, and was considering asking David whether the girls had appreciated his selfishness when he said, “I wouldn’t be that way now, though,” in a new, more serious tone of voice.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Definitely not.” He sounded so sure.

  “That’s … that’s cool.”

  “What about you?” he said.

  “What about me?”

  “Where do you stand with the whole boyfriend thing?” Was I imagining it, or had he somehow found a way to press even closer to me? Having a conversation when I was near enough to share his breath was kind of difficult. The distraction of the pulsing and fluttering in my body …

  I adjusted my glasses, swallowed. “I went out with a couple different guys, freshman and sophomore year. Now, this semester at least, I kind of don’t want to deal. I have so much else to think about. I know that sounds lame, but …”

  “So, that’s it? You’re just … not interested?”

  Wait, did he mean in general, or in him?

  “I …” Breathe normally. Speak normally. “This fall, I’ve put a moratorium on dating. I’m so stressed-out about colleges, and keeping my grades up, and everything. I’m going to reassess after break.”

  “A moratorium?” he said.

  “Yeah.” I nodded, feeling like an idiot.

  “That’s too bad,” he said. Or, at least, that’s what I thought he said, but my blood was rushing so loudly in my ears I wasn’t quite sure. If it is what he said, why was it too bad? Because of him? Because it meant we couldn’t be together?

  “So do you really think Celeste and I should go to New York with you guys?” he said, interrupting my spontaneous combustion. “What if she and Abby end up killing each other?”

  Given my own fear about the dynamics on the trip, I was surprised by my immediate response. “You should definitely come,” I said. “You can ride down with me. It’d be much more comfortable for Celeste than the bus.”

  “I’ve seen your car,” he said. “Can it make it to New York?”

  “Didn’t you hear Viv?” I said. “I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue and fix my car.”

  “Simultaneously?” he asked.

  I laughed, then checked the time on my phone and immediately jumped to my feet. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I have to go.”

  After stopping back by his room to pick up Celeste’s laundry, David walked me downstairs to the front entrance of the dorm. A group of senior guys were playing Nerf basketball in the common room.

  “Hey, Leena,” Matt Halpern said. “Pretty late for parietals, isn’t it?”

  “She came earlier, dude, so now she’s going,” one of the other guys said. They snorted and jostled one another. I couldn’t look at David’s face.

  “Thanks again for the cake,” he said as he opened the door. He was positioned so I had to pass just inches from him to get out. I didn’t want to go outside, but those stupid guys could see us standing there.

  “Leena?” he said.

  The planes of his face were sharp and strong in the harsh fluorescent light, but his voice was soft. “Yeah?”

  “I understand it’s an awkward situation, but if you can think of anything to say to Celeste, about that guy, I’d really appreciate it. Only if you feel comfortable.”

  Gazing at me with those eyes, he could have asked me to do just about anything and I would have agreed.

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  “And … the moratorium. It’s only one semester, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “One semester.”

  Suddenly, that sounded very, very long.

  Chapter 15

  I MADE IT BACK TO FROST HOUSE with forty seconds to spare before sign-in, sweaty and breathing hard after running the whole way from Prescott carrying the bag of laundry. As I scribbled my name on the sheet, I noticed that Whip had signed out only fifteen minutes ago. Not a development I’d be reporting back to David.

  I wasn’t quite ready to be inside, and definitely didn’t feel like dealing with Celeste, so I dropped her laundry bag in the common room and sat out on the porch in one of the Adirondack chairs. I stared up at the sky over the trees and tried to bring myself back to the roof. I didn’t want to worry, right now, about anything that had been said. I just wanted to remember the feeling of my side pressed against his. The warmth and solidity of his arm, his torso, his thigh … The unmistakable reaction inside me and on my skin. How could something so passive—just sitting there next to another body—feel so good in so many different ways? A sense of complete safety combined with that giddy flitter-flutter that thrummed all the way to my toe tips.

  “Someone there?” Ms. Martin called from her front doorway.

  “It’s me, Leena,” I called back. “Sorry. I’m here on the porch.”

  She padded around the corner, wrapped in a bathrobe. “I wanted to make sure it was one of you girls.”

  “Just me,” I said, standing. “But I’m going in now.”

  I went inside, and when I tried to open the bedroom door was surprised to find it was still locked. I got out my key and slid it in the lock, pushed the door—

  “Leena?” Celeste’s voice called out from somewhere. Not the bedroom.

  “Yeah?” I said, turning around.

  “Can you … can you come in here?” She was in the bathroom. Probably taking one of her frequent nighttime baths.

  Figuring she had forgotten something—she had a hard time getting out of the tub, and was always needing me to bring her a razor or towel or something else—I tossed her laundry bag in our room and went in. She was sitting in the bath, a thin layer of bubbles covering the su
rface of the water. Her cast was propped up on her special bath stool, in its plastic bag. Her other leg was bent, her arms wrapped around it. There was something not quite right about her face. Her jaw muscles were tense, her skin paler than usual. She looked like she might be trembling.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  She shifted positions slightly to show me: a bright red mark seared the back of her left upper arm. I knelt quickly by the tub. It was a burn. The size of a baby’s fist. Not blistered, but still obviously painful.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I … I was sitting here while the water was running,” she said. “And I guess … I guess I bumped against the faucet. I don’t remember. It happened so quickly, and then it hurt so much.”

  “That’s from the faucet?” I said. “The water must have been so hot.”

  She shook her head. “I was trying to cool the bath down. Only the cold water was turned on.”

  “You must have turned the wrong handle.”

  “I didn’t.” Then she said it again, louder. “I didn’t. I know which handle I turned. This wasn’t my fault.”

  The faucet couldn’t have burned her if it was running cold water, obviously, but there was no point in me fighting with her. What mattered was her burn.

  “Let’s drain the bath,” I said. “And then you need to hold your arm under a stream of cool water. I’ll cover the faucet with a facecloth.” As I did, I found that the metal wasn’t hot at all. The bathwater wasn’t especially hot either. How long had she been sitting here? I didn’t ask, just handed her towels to wrap over her legs and her shoulders, so she’d warm up. Her whole body was shaking. “You should take Tylenol for the pain,” I said. For once, she didn’t say no to my suggestion of medication. I left her for a moment and went back into the bedroom.

  After getting a couple of pills from my stash, I happened to notice that Celeste’s beetle photo wasn’t hanging in its usual spot. This wasn’t so strange; for some reason, ever since that first day, the frame had been prone to falling off the nail. But this time, I didn’t see it on the bed where it usually landed either.

  I wasn’t sure why this made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, but it did.

  “Leena?” Celeste called.

  “One second,” I called back. “Just finding the Tylenol.”

  I quickly scanned the room and spotted the photo lying awkwardly on the floor across from Celeste’s bed. With growing apprehension, I walked over and picked it up. The photo itself was fine. But one corner of the black frame had chipped badly, revealing the lighter wood underneath the paint. Following an instinct, I checked the wall. About two feet up from where the photo had been lying, there was a black mark on the white surface, where the corner must have hit.

  The frame hadn’t been placed on the floor.

  It had been thrown.

  My body stiffened. What had gone on here while I was with David?

  “Leena?” Celeste called again.

  I set the frame on her bed, then returned to the bathroom and handed Celeste the Tylenol and a glass of water from the sink, an anxious thumping in my chest. “What happened to your photo?” I asked carefully.

  “Huh?” She took the pills and handed me back the glass.

  “The beetle photo.”

  “Did it fall again?” she said. “Can you grab my robe?”

  “You weren’t in there when it … fell?” I said, letting her use my arm for stability as she climbed out of the tub.

  “No.” She slipped her right arm into her silk robe and held the fabric closed in front, then twisted to look at her burn. “Do I need to bandage this or something?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  I got supplies from my first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet, my thoughts spinning. If Celeste really didn’t know what I was talking about, did that mean someone had snuck in our bedroom and thrown her photo while she was in the bath, or with Whip, and she just hadn’t found it yet?

  After applying antibiotic ointment to her burn, I tore off a piece of tape and affixed gauze across it. She’d seemed so vulnerable: sitting in the tub, all skinny and trembling. How would she react if she knew that while she’d been in there, someone had done that to her artwork? Would she accuse Abby because of the way they’d been sniping at dinner? I bit my cheeks and wondered if maybe … maybe it would be better if I didn’t tell her at all. At least, not now, while she was already shaky.

  “There,” I said, smoothing down the final piece of tape. “It’s not actually that bad, I don’t think. Just hurts.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  I was on my way out when she added, “Leena? Don’t tell David about this.”

  For a minute I thought she meant about the photo. But, no. Her burn. “Okay,” I said, not seeing any reason he needed to know.

  I shut the bedroom door behind me and sat on the bed with the photo in my hands, studying the damage. Then—pulse racing, knowing Celeste was right across the hall—I rummaged through my bag for a black Sharpie and began coloring in the chipped area on the frame. At first, the color was too brownish, but after a few layers it built up to black. If I looked closely, I could tell there was a variation in the surface; once it was hanging I thought it would be okay, especially if she didn’t know to be looking for it.

  After I was finished, I couldn’t even entertain the idea of doing the homework I had left from the weekend. I went straight to bed. As I lay there in the dark, all I could think about was who would have done that to Celeste. The door had been locked; they would have had to climb through a window to get in. They would have had to break in to our bedroom— my bedroom. Picturing it, I couldn’t ignore the anger beginning to burn at the center of my chest.

  This wasn’t how Frost House was supposed to be. None of it—the tension at the dinner, worrying about what was happening here in the room. It was supposed to be a sanctuary.

  I brought Cubby onto my chest, wishing again, like I had with the vase, that she could tell me what she’d seen. If I didn’t know what had happened, how could I know what to do to make it safe again? I concentrated very hard on her eyes, trying to see the answer.

  It will never be safe while she’s here. Cubby’s voice was inside my head, quiet.

  “It’s not her fault,” I told myself.

  Everything is her fault. She has to go.

  I looked through the dark at Celeste’s side of the room: her hat collection, her flamboyant wardrobe, the beetle photo … and I wondered. One thing I knew was that she needed to be the center of attention. Was it possible that she was doing this all herself, so she would be the center of attention in the dorm? Was that what I was trying to tell myself, by saying it was all her fault? Maybe she’d ripped her own skirt, broken the vase, thrown her own photograph. And just pretended to be the scared victim.

  Well, if she had, then hanging the photo back up and ignoring it was the best thing I could have done.

  Chapter 16

  THE NEXT MORNING, I pretended to be asleep when Viv came to get me for breakfast. I absolutely shouldn’t have missed bio—especially not an unexcused absence—but the only, only place I wanted to be was in my room. It was going to be one of those shockingly bright fall days, and the early sun shone in through the trees, filling the whole space with warmth. I liked knowing that if I was here, the room was safe. No one could come in except those rays of sunlight.

  I lay curled up on my side with my comforter piled on top of me and tried to think about yesterday’s events without getting worked up. I needed to talk to someone about what was going on. But who? Not David, or Abby, or Dean Shepherd. Viv was a possibility, but she hated keeping secrets, and I’d have to ask her not to tell anyone. I was even considering my mother, when I had another idea. Trying not to get my hopes up, I looked at the clock and calculated…. Yes, it should be the perfect time. Without another thought, I opened my laptop and checked to see if she was online, then called.

  I almost cried when Kate appeared on m
y screen, all the way from Moscow, wearing her favorite Violent Femmes T-shirt and playing with her ever-present wire mandala. Viv and Abby and I had talked to her occasionally as a group, but it was hard because of the time difference, and because she wasn’t online often.

  “Leena Thomas,” she said with a smile. “You look like hell.”

  The minute I started talking, it all rushed out in a waterfall of words, everything that had happened with Celeste and Abby and David from the beginning of the semester, so many things—I realized now—that I’d been keeping to myself.

  Kate listened and nodded and kept up a steady rhythm with her hands, flipping the three-dimensional wire form into different geometric shapes. I could tell she was thinking hard because of how quickly her hands moved.

  “It seems to me,” she said, “from thousands of miles away, that you’re tangling a lot of things all together. I don’t actually think there’s anything you need to be worrying about.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “The one thing you need to make a decision about is whether to tell anyone about the photograph, right?”

  The weight of all the worries I had made it seem much more complicated than that, but I supposed that was the only actual decision to be made. “Right,” I said.

  “Okay, I’m trusting that you can really tell it hit the wall hard enough to have been thrown. So, in that case, either … one.” She stopped playing with the mandala and held up a finger. “Someone snuck in the room and threw it to be mean to Celeste. Or two—” Another finger. “Celeste threw it herself, for God knows what reason. Right?”

  “I guess.”

  “You don’t sound sure,” she said. “Those are the only options I see. Unless you think a ghost did it or something.” She smiled.

  “Don’t go all Viv on me,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Okay,” Kate said. “So let’s say we know it’s option one. Someone was mean to Celeste. The question is, should you tell her? How would she react if you did?”