Frost

by Marianna Baer

  “Maybe by accident,” I said. “The box tipped when you were getting something? But didn’t spill until—”

  “By accident?” She looked at me. “How can you say that? Don’t you see?”

  “What?”

  She pointed at the floor. “Can’t you see what it says?”

  I surveyed the scraggly mess. Then it came together, into two big letters.

  GO.

  Chapter 18

  A SHUDDER BEGAN AT MY NECK and spread throughout my limbs. I shook my head a little, forced myself to see it as just a jumble, a jumble that somewhat resembled the letters. It was a random mess. It had to be.

  “That’s not on purpose,” I said. “You’re seeing what you want to see.”

  “What I want to see?” Celeste said in a tone of disbelief.

  “Well, what you’re scared to see. Why would someone do that?” I asked. “Who would want you to go?”

  She stared at the floor. “I don’t know.”

  “Like finding shapes in clouds,” I said. “You can see what you look for.” I squatted down and began filling my cupped palm with thin twigs and bits of twine. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll be careful.”

  “What does it matter now?” Celeste’s voice was tight. “Do you know how long this all took me?”

  “Collecting the nests?”

  She nodded. Her chin trembled. “And then I wove other materials into them. It’s a whole project.”

  I picked up a narrow purple ribbon, a length of unspooled cassette tape …

  “Who would do this?” she said.

  “The door was locked.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Leena. I know what I saw.”

  I swallowed. “David and I are the only other people who have keys.”

  “It wasn’t David.”

  “I know. I didn’t mean that. I meant that I think there’s another explanation.” I sat back on my heels. “Maybe the house has mice or rats. In the closet.” I didn’t know why I was even saying this. Mice or rats hadn’t thrown the photo the other day. Should I have told her about that? Should I tell her about it now? It would upset her even more, but maybe she needed to know.

  Celeste collapsed on her bed and held her head in her hands, then began rocking back and forth.

  I looked down again, picked up a fragile clump of materials that had stayed together and set it aside. “Some of this might be salvageable,” I said hopefully.

  The squeaking of bedsprings stopped, and Celeste let out a cry. “I can’t take this anymore! I can’t! What do you think I should do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hate it here!” She flung her arms out. “I hate this room. I have to talk to Dean Shepherd, tell her I need to move.”

  Defensiveness flared inside me. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the room,” I said. “If someone is doing this to you, they’d do it wherever you lived.”

  She was quiet. I knew I’d sounded mean. “Another dorm wouldn’t have all these windows,” she said.

  “What does that have to do with it?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  “These things that are happening have nothing to do with the room,” I said again. “If you really think this is someone, then the best thing to do is ignore it. Don’t give them the satisfaction of caring. Right?”

  She wiped her cheek and leaned forward to pick up a clump of nest. “How can I not care? I worked so hard on this, Leena. This is me. Why would someone punish me like this? It doesn’t even matter if the mess said some stupid thing or not. They ruined my work.”

  She was crying for real. I stood up from the floor, sat next to her, and put an arm around her shoulders. “Hey,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  “I can trust you, right?” she asked, her voice shaky and thin. “You’d tell me if you knew who was doing this, right? I just, I’m so sick of it. And I’m … scared. You know. It’s all so mean. Like someone really hates me. More than Ann—Abby, I think.”

  It’s all so mean. “We’re just talking about the vase and this, right?” I said.

  “That rip in the skirt, too,” she said. “You said you didn’t do it.” She looked out the window. “I can feel them watching, you know? Waiting till we’re gone so they can do this stuff. David and you are the only people I trust. And I can’t even tell David how upset I am, because he’ll worry.”

  “You still feel like someone’s watching you?” I said, a heavy dread descending on me.

  “Sometimes,” Celeste continued as if she hadn’t even heard me, “when I open the closet …” She motioned toward it with her head and spoke quietly. “Sometimes I feel like whoever it is is in there. I have to look through all the clothes, you know, to make sure no one is hiding. But it’s like I feel them.”

  My stomach constricted. I had sat in the closet a couple more times recently, just for a little while when I needed to clear my head. And although I’d never done it while she was in the room, it was as if she’d sensed I’d been in there.

  “Celeste,” I said, “you realize that you sound a little … irrational? No one’s watching you.”

  “So, what?” she said. “You think I’m … what, imagining it? Don’t tell me I’m making it up. This stuff is real, this stuff that’s happened to me.”

  “Honestly?” I said. “I think that you had a hard summer, dealing with your boyfriend. And a hard year, with your dad. I think that some weird, bad stuff has happened to you in this room. And it’s freaked you out.”

  Celeste’s eyes rolled up and she stared at the ceiling, as if trying not to cry again.

  “Maybe you should talk to someone,” I said.

  “A therapist? They’d just stick me on some medication. Don’t … don’t tell anyone I have these feelings, okay? Not the dorm, or David. Okay? Please. It’s really important.”

  She gripped one of my hands in both of hers. They felt cold, bony.

  “I just think it would be good if you talked to someone,” I said.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “With a father like mine, people—everyone—they’re just waiting for me to crack up. And I can’t do anything without everyone thinking I tried to kill myself or whatever. And I’ve done stupid stuff in the past, and now it’s like, if they … you know … I don’t get the benefit of the doubt. Please, Leena. Please. It’s not like I’m making up these feelings from nowhere. This stuff happened.”

  I remembered the horrible feeling after I’d tried to hurt myself in eighth grade, when my parents would stare at me with these expressions like they were worried I was going to crack into a thousand pieces at any moment.

  “Please, Leena,” she said. “I’m not crazy. I’m not.” Her voice was stronger. “Promise you won’t tell.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I promise. But you have to promise to let me know if it doesn’t get better. Okay?”

  We agreed.

  Later, as I was about to turn off my bedside lamp, Celeste came into the room wearing the Moroccan caftan she slept in. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed while I was still awake. As if reading my mind, she said, “Maybe I’ll be able to sleep. Now that the heat is on.” I didn’t point out that she hadn’t been able to sleep when the weather was warm either.

  She lingered at her mirror, smoothing cream on her face, brushing her hair. Finally, she turned off her light and headed toward her bed. On the way, she paused in front of the slightly open closet door. After a second, she kept walking. She sat down on the comforter, laid her crutches on the floor, glanced at the closet again, stood up, closed the door.

  This didn’t bode well.

  “Do you want something mild to help? Just tonight?” I said.

  “No, thanks.”

  When the lights had been off for a minute, she said, “You … you know I was speaking … metaphorically, before. Right, Leena? I don’t really think someone’s in the closet. I was just trying to describe what it’s like, to feel like someone wants to hurt
you. You know that, right? I don’t really think someone’s in here or whatever.”

  I hesitated. “Sure,” I said. “I know what you meant.”

  Sleep came easily for me, as it always did in that room, even though I was picturing those scattered nests, telling myself they’d been in a random pattern. It was deep, as well, so I had no idea how long Celeste had been shouting when I woke up.

  “Get off! Get off of me!”

  Without my glasses and in the darkish room, I panicked— someone was on Celeste’s bed! “Hey,” I cried. “Stop!” But as I leapt up and hurried across the floor, I realized it was her arms thrashing underneath the covers, not another body. I turned on the light.

  “Celeste.” I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Wake up.”

  She sat straight up. “I’m awake,” she said. Her face shone white and glistened with sweat.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You were having a nightmare.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” she said. “I wasn’t. Someone was here.” She turned her head back and forth, searching. “I was awake.”

  “You’re okay, Celeste.” I sat down and moved my hand to her back. “No one was here except me. It was a bad dream.”

  She shook her head. Her pupils were huge, swallowing up her irises. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t. Someone was here. Someone’s always here.”

  “Shh,” I said. “No one was here. It’s okay. You’re just upset, from before.”

  “Before?”

  “The conversation we had, earlier.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, my hand absorbing the tremors from her body.

  “Are you okay to go back to sleep?” I finally said. “I swear, no one was in here except me.”

  She gathered her quilt around her shoulders. “Can you hand me my crutches?” she said.

  I did. She stood up and made her way out of the room. With her stooped posture, the blanket around her shoulders, and the sunken, haunted look in her face … well, I wondered if, when I’d promised not to tell anyone about her fears, I’d made a promise I shouldn’t keep.

  The next day, I couldn’t get that image of her out of my mind. As my teachers talked on, I kept hearing her voice—so much fear in it. I didn’t know what to do. Before last night, I’d settled into thinking that Celeste was doing the things herself because I couldn’t imagine who else would have. But yesterday her surprise—her horror—had seemed so genuine. Nothing made sense.

  The first time I saw her was in the afternoon. She was sitting on the main quad underneath the statue of Samuel Barcroft, listening to music and writing or drawing in her sketchpad. Part of me wanted to head in the opposite direction, pretend I didn’t see her. But I had to deal with this sometime.

  I walked up and waited for her to take out her earbuds.

  “So,” I said, sitting next to her on the base of the statue. The granite pressed cold and hard underneath me. “How do you feel?”

  She shrugged. Rhinestone-studded sunglasses hid her eyes. “Okay,” she said. “Sorry for all the commotion last night. God, David couldn’t believe it when I told him the cat did that to my nests.”

  Wait, what? “The cat?” I said.

  “Oh, right. I didn’t tell you yet.” Her voice was breezy and crisp as the autumn air, as if this was all perfectly normal. “I realized this morning it must have been Leo. I’m sure he smelled the materials and jumped up there. Batted them around the room.”

  “But … he doesn’t ever leave Ms. Martin’s apartment, does he?” I said, totally confused. “And the bedroom door is always locked.”

  “He must get out sometimes,” she said. “I think I’ve seen him. And the door’s open when we’re in the bathroom, or the common room.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Okay. So, you don’t think it said—”

  “Leena.” She moved the sunglasses onto the top of her head and stared at me, her eyes slightly bloodshot and somehow bluer than ever. “It was the cat.”

  In that moment as we sat there looking at each other, I knew she was asking me not to fight her on this. To agree to say it was the cat. I didn’t know, though, whether she had done it herself, and this was her way of saying that she’d screwed up and let’s just move on. Or whether she really did want to believe what she was telling me. Either way, I knew she was saying that she didn’t want me to worry about her.

  Looking back, maybe I should have fought her on it. But I know why I didn’t: She was giving me exactly what I wanted. I wanted to put all of the anxiety behind us. To know that there was nothing wrong with Celeste except her usual melodramatic tendencies. To know that I didn’t have to worry about what was going to happen the next time I opened the door to our room. I wanted it to be a sanctuary again.

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “The cat.”

  Chapter 19

  A WEEKEND AWAY FROM FROST HOUSE would be good. For all of us. Right?

  At least, that’s what I told myself as I packed and unpacked every item of clothing I owned, trying to figure out what would be appropriate for New York, and as I tried not to admit that what I really meant by appropriate was something that would appeal to David, and as I struggled not to keep dwelling on all of the fights that might or might not happen and all of the possible ways this could turn into an enormous disaster, and as I debated whether I should fill the gas tank tonight so we wouldn’t have to waste time in the morning, and as I remembered Abby’s reaction when I told her and Viv I couldn’t come early….

  We’d been at Lorenzo’s Pizza, just the three of us.

  “It’s David, isn’t it?” Abby’d said. “You’re trying to hook up with him.”

  “I just don’t feel like it’s fair to strand them without a ride,” I said, avoiding her question. “It would be an incredible hassle for Celeste to take the bus with her leg.”

  “Have you always been such a Goody Two-shoes?” Abby tossed down her pizza slice. “Fine. Do whatever you want. Drive down on Saturday. Maybe we’ll run into you somewhere in the city.”

  She stood up, pushed her way out of the booth, and stomped to the restroom.

  I bit my bottom lip. “I’m not trying to piss her off,” I said to Viv. “Can you help her chill out about this?”

  “I don’t know,” Viv said. “She’s pretty jealous.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Of Celeste. You know, because it seems like you’ve sort of chosen her over us.”

  I rested my head in my hands. “God save me. I have enough to worry about without this.” I looked up at Viv’s reassuringly placid eyes. “I’m not choosing Celeste. It’s not a contest.”

  “I know,” Viv had said. “I’m just explaining where she’s coming from.”

  Aargh! I zipped my duffel shut—whatever was in there would have to do. I locked the bedroom door and went into the closet with Cubby, then took a small oval pill to calm my out-of-control nerves.

  I held Cubby up. “Sorry,” I whispered. “You’re not coming with me. You have to guard the fort.”

  You shouldn’t go either. It’s dangerous. I didn’t speak out loud for Cubby’s voice now. Just imagined her in my head. Sometimes surprising myself with what I made her say.

  Like just then. Of course I was going to New York, but Cubby’s words gave me a brief fantasy—spending the weekend here, in Frost House, alone. I hated to admit it, but if I’d had a choice, that’s what I would have picked. There were so many ways in which the trip might go wrong. Although … I was excited about spending the time with David. Scared, yes, but excited, too.

  “Should I just forget about my moratorium?” I said. It had been feeling stupider and stupider lately.

  He doesn’t care about you.

  “That’s not true,” I said.

  It is true. He’s just like the others.

  “No, he’s not.” He wasn’t, was he? He was all those things that made him a good brother—loyal, protective, honest. And much older than Jake and Theo when I’d hooked up with them. He was almost nineteen.
<
br />   He’ll hurt you.

  At these words, the excited tingling in my limbs turned to a cold numbness. Coziness became claustrophobia. Why was I telling myself this? It’s not what I expected. Not what I wanted.

  He’ll hurt you, Leena.

  I pushed aside Celeste’s clothes and stumbled back into the room, slamming the closet door shut behind me, my chest wound tight. I sat down on the bed, pushed Cubby to the end of the windowsill. I put my hands next to me on the mattress and tried to steady myself. Reality crashed into my head. What had I been doing? Sitting in a closet, talking to a piece of wood?

  I took slow, steady breaths. Okay, nothing was wrong here. It was just a way I was accessing my subconscious. Something about the way the closet’s smell reminded me of my fort in Cambridge. Something about how comfortable I was in there was bringing out the way I really felt about stuff. That wasn’t so strange, was it? I’d felt a connection to that little space from the first day of school. Obviously, it was tapping into my brain in a way a neurologist could probably explain.

  Deep down, I was scared. Scared of being hurt by David. This shouldn’t have surprised me. I’d been telling myself for so long to stay away from boys. But life was about overcoming fears, wasn’t it?

  I went to bed early and expected my nerves to wake me up before my alarm. Instead, I hit SNOOZE. Repeatedly. When I came to a fuzzy consciousness, there was a hand on my shoulder, nudging me.

  “Mmmph.” I turned my head into the pillow. “Neurons not firing.”

  “C’mon, Leena. It’s late.” It was David’s voice. “Where’s Celeste?”

  I remembered—New York. I sat up, wiped drool off my mouth. “What time is it?”

  “Seven thirty. You were supposed to pick me up half an hour ago. Where’s Celeste?”

  “Seven thirty? Shoot. I don’t know. Across the hall?”

  David walked into the hallway. I grabbed some clothes and hurried to the bathroom. I couldn’t believe I’d overslept, today of all days. I’d promised Viv and Abby that we’d get an early start so they wouldn’t be stuck at the house all day, waiting for us. I’d have to call and tell them we’d be late. I took a quick shower, threw on jeans and a hoodie, cursing myself the whole time. When I went back in the bedroom, Celeste was piling clothes on her bed. I watched her with my arms crossed. Couldn’t she have done this yesterday?