Marianna Baer - Frost

“Really? Why not?” He turned to Celeste. “It’s yours, right? You should give it to Leena for good. To wear on a daily basis.” I blushed as he grinned at me.

“It was Mom’s,” Celeste said. “I’m not giving it to anyone. What did you want, anyway?”

David’s smile faded. “I actually need to talk to you.”

“I have to use the bathroom,” I said, picking up on his serious tone of voice. “You guys can talk in here.”

I decided to wear my hair down, and just a little mascara and lip gloss, so I didn’t actually have that much to do in the bathroom to waste time. I ended up posing in front of the mirror, trying to appreciate David’s opinion of my new look. I liked that he’d been so enthusiastic, but wearing something so sexy and sophisticated still felt strange: as much of a lie as my friends’ fake IDs. Not to mention, it seemed more than a little weird to be trying to look good for a guy in his mother’s dress.

Before going back to the bedroom, I glanced in the medicine cabinet to see if anything had been abandoned there. While my doctor prescribed me antianxiety pills for emergencies, I occasionally snagged a few other types from my and my friends’ parents—only when it was obvious they weren’t actively taking it. Nothing here, though.

Eventually, I figured I’d given Celeste and David long enough. Celeste stood in her black lace underwear, surveying the remaining clothes in the closet.

“What do you think?” She held up a fifties aqua-blue diner waitress dress and a black top that looked like it was made of ribbons.

I pointed to the aqua blue.

“Eh. I think the black,” she said.

Celeste rehung the blue dress and hopped toward the bed. Her eyes were bloodshot.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

She sat down and began wriggling the top over her head. I noticed that there were a couple of bruises on her torso, too. Like the ones on her thighs. Were they really from Whip? I’d thought she was just saying that to annoy David, but maybe they were. I couldn’t imagine how else they might have happened. What did people do to each other in bed that would make bruises? Did it feel good at the time?

“Celeste, you okay?” I said again.

She pulled the top down. “Yup,” she said. “That David. He always likes to make sure I’m in a cheery mood when we’re going out.” She shook out her hair. “You know, you don’t have to wear that just because he said you should. I can tell you’re uncomfortable in it.”

“I think I will,” I said, running a hand over the smooth fabric. “It’s fun to wear something different for a change.”

“Hmm.” She stood up to admire herself in the mirror and I realized that the black ribbon top was actually a dress. Sort of. It barely reached below her underwear. “You might be right, you know,” she said.

“About?”

“David. Your hesitation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I guess if you guys wanted to be together it would have happened by now. Right?” She turned so she could see herself in side view. “Maybe I tried too hard to push you together, for selfish reasons. Maybe you’re not his type. I made it all up in the beginning, saying that he liked you. He’s that way with anyone who has boobs.”

“Oh. Maybe,” I said, just to end the conversation.

This new attitude of hers was completely bizarre. And the only possibility for what caused it, that I could see, was that she was jealous. She was used to being the center of David’s universe. As much as she said she didn’t want so much attention from him, maybe now that David was acting blatantly interested in me she was having second thoughts.

“Do you think my bruises are too obvious in this dress?” she asked.

“It’s a bit short,” I said. “You could wear leggings under it. Although, not over your cast, I guess.”

“Too short? You mean, too sexy?” she said. “I’m just following your lead.”

She was jealous. For a minute I considered not wearing the wrap dress, so I wouldn’t be the target of these digs all night. Then I remembered the expression on David’s face. Forget it. Let her deal. I sat on my bed, shoved my foot in my boot, and pulled at the laces.

When I finished tying up both boots, Celeste was still looking at herself in the mirror, holding the dress up a little bit so her thighs were bare. After a second she let it drop, then turned to face me. I was dreading her next comment about David, but instead she said, in a strange, tight voice, “What do you think’s happening in Frost House right now?”

After the six of us convened downstairs all dressed and ready, we called a car service—the Brooklyn version of a cab—to take us to the bar. We split into two groups; I went with the Lazars. Somewhere during the ride, I wondered if Celeste and David were members of a Mafia family and their little private talk had actually been about setting me up for a hit. Because after driving through a couple of normal neighborhoods, our car crossed under an expressway, into an area with warehouses and dilapidated liquor stores. Eventually, we turned onto a cobblestone street.

“I didn’t know cobblestone streets still existed,” I said as the car jostled forward. “This area’s pretty desolate, huh?”

A pair of skinny dogs trotted alongside us for a minute before sliding through a gap in a barbed-wire fence into an abandoned lot.

“I bet I could find some great stuff for projects here,” Celeste said. I prayed she wasn’t going to tell the driver to stop so she could pick up a desiccated rat carcass or something.

Earlier, when she’d asked me what I thought was happening in Frost House, I’d been spooked by her tone. And by the question.

“Nothing,” I’d said. “Seeing as it’s empty. Right?”

She’d seemed surprised I’d even answered, like she hadn’t meant to ask it at all. “Of course,” she’d said. “I was kidding.”

The driver took a left on a street that was lined with parked cars. On one side was the water. On the other side was a small, dark storefront with a neon sign of a dolphin curved around an anchor. Above it was a sign that said BAR. We tumbled out of the car and walked up to the door. As David held it open, warm light spilled out along with the sounds of low voices and live music. Bodies filled the long, narrow space; a band was squeezed in the middle of the crowd. We worked our way inside and found Abby, Viv, and Cameron just taking off their coats.

David and Viv said they’d get our drinks. The rest of us pushed through the room, past where the four-man band was playing Johnny Cash–type music. No one seemed to give us a second look, but we were definitely the youngest people there. We ended up in a back room that was a little less crowded and noisy. A group was just leaving a round, red leather booth, so as soon as they got up we claimed it. The space and everything in it seemed to have been here for a hundred years—walls and shelves were filled with artifacts: from delicate models of old clipper ships, to figurines of the Marx Brothers, to real shark jaws. I loved that everything about it felt genuine. Not at all what I expected from a bar in New York.

David and Viv appeared minutes later with an assortment of beers. I waited until Celeste and Abby had picked, knowing they’d be the two to make a fuss if they didn’t get what they wanted.

“So, is everything okay?” I asked David quietly, during the first lull in our group conversation. He was sitting on my left, solid against me. “Whatever you needed to talk to Celeste about?” I glanced over; she was talking to Viv. “She seemed upset earlier.”

“Sort of okay,” he said, tugging on the corner of his beer label. “I got a call from our mother. Our father’s not doing too well.”