Marianna Baer - Frost

And something else, new and confusing: if Celeste was a physical danger to herself, was she a danger to me? When she found out what I’d done, would she … hurt me?

At 5:15 a.m. I gave up and turned on the lights. I slipped into sweats and sneakers, before realizing that I didn’t know what time it was actually legal to leave your dorm. We had to sign in by ten, and you couldn’t leave in the middle of the night. But when was it officially “morning”? The last thing I needed was to be kicked out of school because of an early morning walk.

Instead of risking the world’s stupidest expulsion, I booted up my laptop and did research, any topic that related to anything Celeste had said. I searched for a site on hauntings that struck me as authoritative and scientific. But all they did was confirm my opinion. Photos of fuzzy shadows on staircases, presented as proof. Please! I also googled the town of Barcroft and hauntings, to see if there were any accounts of the story Celeste had mentioned. None, of course.

And students had been living in Frost House for generations. Wouldn’t there be more stories going around about it, other than those old, tepid ones of Whip’s?

If there was an infinitesimal part of my brain that wanted an explanation for all those things that Celeste mentioned—the vase, the burn, the nests—before closing the door on what I knew wasn’t true, I got it, moments before I was about to put my computer to sleep. I stumbled on one last site, after searching a new combination of terms. Finally, a rational site, that offered legitimate explanations for what lay behind some “hauntings.” What I read on it made me feel both a rush of relief and a slow creep of horror. Because it all fit together. And I was more sure than ever about what I had to tell David.

By seven a.m., I sat waiting for him on the steps of his dorm. I tore up dried leaves into little pieces and considered my approach, as if there was a good way to tell him his sister might be heading down the same path as his sick father. I’d also decided I needed to come clean about everything, just to be safe. So Celeste couldn’t manipulate the situation. I was trying not to be too nervous, but I still had the jitters. There was no telling how he would react.

Guys straggled out of the dorm, in pairs and alone, fuzzy, not-quite-awake expressions on their faces. I sat off to the side, inconspicuous. David glided right by me with his hands in his pockets, a brown-striped scarf around his neck and his black wool hat on his head. I waited, appreciating this moment in which he looked like a typical prep-school student, headed off for a normal day of classes and sports and friends on one of the most beautiful campuses during New England fall.

“Hey,” I called. “David.”

The bench on the steps of the chapel was bathed in the slanted rays of morning sunshine. We held steaming cups of Commons coffee in our hands. I’d delayed as long as I could. My pulse felt too quick and erratic, despite having taken a small dose of something to calm me. I remembered how angry he’d been when he’d found out about my Columbia interview. How was he going to react now?

“There are a couple of things—hard things—I need to tell you,” I said.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

A V of geese flapped and honked overhead in the pale blue sky.

“First,” I said, “is about me.”

I kept my eyes on the birds as they receded into the distance.

“Ever since my parents split up, I’ve been on meds. You know, psychotropic.”

I paused, took a sip of coffee. The steam fogged up my glasses.

“It started as a regular prescription thing. But then my doctor said it was time for me to stop. So, I got in the habit of finding other ways to get pills. From my parents, other people. I don’t use them every day. Just when I’m stressed, or anxious. I know it’s not ideal, but I’m really careful. And … I know it’s wrong, how I get them. I do feel bad about that.”

I rolled the warmth of my cup between my hands.

“I didn’t want you to find out,” I continued, “because I know you don’t like meds, and I thought you might think it’s a problem for me. But it’s really not. I’m not addicted or anything. Not at all. They just, they just make things easier. Like, emotional aspirin.” I bit the inside of my lip. “I know you might not think of me this way, but I can be really … unproductively emotional. Like, when my parents split. And other times … It scares me.”

Silence. Heart hammering, I forced myself to meet his eyes but couldn’t read their expression.

“Is this what that chart you made is about?” he said.

“You saw it?” I said, surprised.

“I found it on the floor of your room, when you were sick. With so much else going on, I haven’t asked you about it.”

David had the paper this whole time? I couldn’t believe it. “I know you probably think it’s really irresponsible,” I said. “But I always do research. About dosages, drug interactions. That’s what the chart is for.”

His gaze moved to his coffee cup. “The thing that makes me sad,” he said, “is that you feel you need to do it.” He paused. “And, I guess, it makes me wonder if I know the real Leena.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “I only take really low doses. Just to even out. It’s not like I walk around in a haze. And I only use them when I need to, like I said.” My chest was beginning to hurt. “You do know me, David. You do.”

Sun brought out the reddish strands in his dark hair. He was quiet. I hated that I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“Are you mad?” I finally said.

“Mad? Of course not. I think you should stop. I think maybe you have some stuff you need to work out. But I’m not mad.” He reached over and stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. Then he smiled. “Let me be your antidepressant, baby. How’s that for a song lyric?”

“Incredibly cheesy.” I leaned forward to kiss him on his cheek, overwhelmed by how well he’d taken it. I’d underestimated him.

“Was there something else?” he said. “’Cause we’ve got class in about ten minutes.”

Something else. Right. I took a sip of coffee as a momentary delay. Then began.

“This is the much, much more serious thing,” I said. “It’s Celeste. She wasn’t upset about your father yesterday.”

“Did she give you a hard time about being there?” he said. “I thought she was being more mature about—”

“No. David, I …” It was difficult to talk past the brick in my throat. “I’m really worried about her. More than just worried.”

“Worried?”

“You know how she’s always acted weird about the dorm? And how she switched rooms. And now she won’t use the bathtub either.”

“I know,” he said. “She told me that tub is dangerous, with her cast.”

“That’s what she told me, too, at first. But that’s not it.” I reached over and took one of his bare hands between my mittened ones. “Okay. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it. She thinks … she thinks the dorm is haunted.”

David’s mouth curled into a questioning smile. “What?”

“She thinks it’s haunted, and that there’s some sort of evil spirit trying to hurt—trying to kill her.”

“Wait.” David pulled back his hand into his lap, tilted his chin down, and looked up at me, eyebrows raised. “What? ”

I went on and told David the whole story—everything she blamed on the ghost, from the ripped skirt to the bruises.

“I did a little research, and it’s possible most of the things were caused by her,” I said. “I mean, not on purpose. Subconsciously. These poltergeist-type things tend to happen in houses with intense girls living there. So she really doesn’t realize that it’s in her head, because it’s actually happening. But it’s being caused by her in some way. I don’t know how this all would tie into delusions and hallucinations. I actually don’t think she has hallucinations, unless the feeling that she’s being physically hurt or whatever, unless that’s some sort of physical hallucination. But the bruises could definitely be self-inflicted. There’s a correlation between … between mental illness and self-harm.”