Marianna Baer - Frost

“There’s no reason you should have to handle it on your own,” I said.

“If I needed to talk about something, I would. Okay?” Her program had turned into an origami crane. She balanced it on the back of the pew in front of us. It trembled from the vibrations coming up from the floor.

“It’s weird, Celeste. Being covered in bruises. I don’t want to lie to David if he asks how you’re doing.”

“Don’t tell him anything,” she said. “I mean it.” Her sharp jaw clamped together and appeared even more angular than usual.

The thumping was now thunderous, hundreds of students slamming their feet down in unison. The energy made my face hot. I had to raise my voice.

“I only would because we worry about you. If you’re being hurt in some way …”

“Shh! I’m not.” Her eyes bored into mine. “If I tell you, will you shut up about it already? You’re as bad as my smothering brother.”

“Okay,” I said.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Celeste stared up at the organ pipes behind the dais. “I’m getting my blood tested to make sure there’s nothing wrong, like some sort of condition that’s making me bruise easily.”

“What do we eat? What do we eat?” The cry came from a group of senior football players at the back of the chapel.

“Condition? Like what?” I said.

“Red meat! Red meat!” the rest of the student body answered, shouting.

She shrugged.

Bruises. Blood test. “Like … like leukemia?” I said. My stomach rolled.

“What do we eat? What do we eat?” Louder this time.

“That’s just the worst possibility,” Celeste said. “It’s probably not that.”

“Red meat!! Red meat!!”

Probably? “Celeste, aren’t you worried? Don’t you want to tell David? I’m sure he’d go with you to the doctor.”

“No!” she snapped. “Don’t tell David anything.”

“What do we eat? What do we eat?” Full-throated hollers now.

“But—”

“Don’t tell David anything,” Celeste said, “and I won’t have to tell him about your little pill problem.”

The rows of heads filling the pews swam in and out of focus. A wave of nausea passed through me.

“Red meat!!! Red meat!!!” everyone screamed.

“My pill problem?” Toby’s laughter behind me reminded me he was there. Could he have heard any of this over the commotion in the chapel? I lowered my voice again. “You must be kidding. I don’t have a problem.”

“How do we like it?” the seniors bellowed.

“I could convince David you do,” Celeste said. “You know he’d believe me. I’ve seen what’s in your owl, Leena.”

“RAW!!!!!!”

DESPITE THE COLD PANIC in my chest and the flashes of heat on my skin, somehow I made it through the assembly. The walk home blurred by as I stared at my feet and told myself that everything was under control, that Celeste wouldn’t tell David. I wasn’t doing anything wrong by having medications, of course, but I didn’t trust that he’d understand my explanation—especially not if he asked where I got them all from.

Back at the dorm, I snagged Cubby off the windowsill and a plastic bag out of the trash can—appropriately one from Barcroft Drugs. I opened Cubby and let the small baggies of pills tumble into the bigger bag, tied the handles in a knot with shaking hands, then stashed it in the closet, snug between the foam mattress and the wall. If Celeste did tell, I could at least make sure she didn’t have any evidence. Sweat trickled down my spine; chills ran through me. A sharp pain stabbed at my temples and sent my brain spinning.

I shut the closet door and locked it from the inside, curled up in the corner, and wrapped my arms around myself, not sure if I was trembling from nerves or from cold. Should I take a pill? I wondered. No. This wasn’t that big a deal. Everything was fine. Being inside here, quiet and safe, was enough. My headache and chills didn’t lessen, but, slowly, I did feel calmer. As if warm milk had been infused into my veins.

If I could stay in here all the time, I wouldn’t need any pills.

Being out of panic mode, though, didn’t mean my worry was erased. Certainly not about Celeste’s bruises. I found it hard to believe that she wouldn’t tell David if she thought she had a blood disorder. As much as she fought against it, I still knew she loved to have as much of his attention as possible. Why wouldn’t she want him to know she might be sick?

And even if she did have some condition that made her bruise easily, would the bruises be so prominent that they freaked out Nicole? Was any of this related to Celeste’s broken leg? Or her burn? Maybe she was hurting herself on purpose, like she used to cut, and that’s why she didn’t want David to know. I felt around the mattress until I found Cubby, then held her in both hands and wished for her wisdom. If Celeste was hurting herself, I’d have to do something.

Or is someone else doing it to her?

A possibility, of course. One almost more disturbing than the alternatives. But Whip wasn’t there when she broke her leg, and who else—

Don’t you know?

An idea was scrabbling to get in my brain. I didn’t want it.

Someone who needs her to feel vulnerable. So he can take care of her.

Nausea gripped my body. I threw Cubby away from me and pressed into the corner, away from my thoughts and her voice. How could I have even let myself think that? Where had that come from? Still, as I pressed back and tried to shut out more words, they came again.

You won’t let yourself think it; it feels too true.

My gut surged upward. I was actually going to be sick. One hand covered my mouth, the other fumbled for the slide lock.

I made it to the toilet just in time. The tile floor pressed rocklike and cold under my knees. A convulsive wave ripped through me. I grasped at the edges of the seat and heaved. Acid burned a path through my throat. This happened over and over, until the chilly floor held my empty, outer shell as I shook and cried.

I ALTERNATED BETWEEN HUNCHING over the toilet, sleeping on the inhospitable but convenient tiles, and curling up in the closet, shivering, sweating, drifting off into half sleeps, feeling so weak I couldn’t even reach up to lock the door. My limbs were glued to the ground until a subtle movement in my gut gave me the adrenaline to somehow make it to the bathroom for the next round. My head pounded and I imagined a construction worker slamming his hammer into it, over and over.

I think David cal ed. I think I told him not to come by. Celeste offered to help when she heard me puking, but I told her to leave me alone. What could they have done, anyway?

After a spell in the bathroom sometime on Saturday, I dragged myself on hands and sore knees into the hall and back into my room. I couldn’t even walk.

“Leen? Are you okay?”

My neck ached as I moved my heavy head to look at the shadowy figure sitting on my bed. Viv.

“Mm.” A bleat was all I could manage. My throat screamed. My mouth was dry as salt. Even my lips hurt.

She materialized next to me, kneeling, touching my hair. “I heard you when I was coming in. How long have you been sick?”

“Mm.”

The cool, soft skin of the back of her hand rested on my forehead.

“You’re burning. We’ve got to go to the infirmary. Can you make it?”

“Mm.”

“Can you stand up?”

An arm wrapped around me. I pressed into the floor.

Light slipped away.

In the dark, my mother came. Ice slid down my neck. I shivered. “Here,” my mother said. The blanket was too heavy, too hot. Where was Cubby? A rumble beneath me jostled my bones. Like driving on a cobblestone street. White light split open my head. My mother stood in the beam, holding Cubby.