Frost - Marianna Baer

on the podium in front of me. Finally, the end was in sight.

“So, to sum up,” I said, looking out at the rows of faces, “the

peer-counseling program is all about students supporting one

another. We know how hard it is to make the transition, to deal

with the pressures of school. Don’t feel bad asking for help. And, I

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promise, we have an amazing group of students working with us.

You’d be lucky to talk to any of them.

“Are there any questions before my cohead, Toby, tells you

about the training program?”

I hoped my speech hadn’t been too boring. Despite taking

the pill, I’d felt too nervous to make eye contact while speaking,

so I hadn’t noticed how many of the new students had been

surreptitiously (or unsurreptitiously) texting or playing video

games.

“Yes?” I said to a small girl in the front.

“Uh, so . . . I . . .” Her voice was shaky. “No, never mind.

Forget it.”

“Sure?” I said. “There are no dumb questions.”

She nodded, and I made a mental note to ask her privately,

after the meeting. Maybe it was something she didn’t want to say

in front of a room of strangers.

“Anyone else?”

I searched the audience for hands. Then I saw David. He sat

in the last row, out of place in the room of mostly freshmen. Our

eyes met. Fuck-buddy . The word flashed like a neon sign over his

head.

“Okay, so . . .” I ruffled through my speech notes and willed

my blush to go away. “I guess that’s it then. Here’s Toby.”

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I shielded my face from the strong sun as I stood talking to

Dean Shepherd on the path leading from the auditorium to the

main quad, keenly aware of the fact that David hadn’t passed by

us yet.

“You haven’t mentioned your college visits,” Dean Shepherd

said. “How did they go?”

“Okay,” I said. “I don’t have a first choice, yet. Maybe

Wesleyan, or Columbia. But they’re both super long shots.”

Whenever I talked about colleges, the air I was breathing felt a

little thinner. It seemed impossible that I’d choose the right place,

even more impossible that the right place would choose me. And

most of the money in my college fund had been spent on

Barcroft.

“It’s worth a try,” the dean said. “Michael used to teach at

Wesleyan. You’ll have to come to dinner soon and meet him.”

“You’re still seeing him?” I said. “That’s great.”

At the edge of my vision, I sensed people approaching. I

snuck a look—it was David and some girl—then kept my eyes on

the dean as she told me about her boyfriend.

“Hi, David,” she said when he reached us, alone. “Settling in

okay?”

I made my mind a blank slate, ignored that neon sign over his

head. Or at least I tried.

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“Pretty much, thanks,” he said, then turned to me. “Actually,

I just wondered if you were going back to the dorm now?”

I moistened my lips. “After lunch, I am.” Was he looking at

me with more than friendly interest? It was hard to tell; his eyes

had such a natural intensity. In the end, probably better if he

wasn’t. I might not be strong enough to resist.

“Could you give this to my sister?” he said. “I’d bring it

myself, but I have another orientation thing and I know I’ll just

end up forgetting.” He handed me a small white envelope, then

added, “Assuming you haven’t kicked her out already, that is.”

An image of her holding the dead tulips flashed in my mind.

“Not yet,” I joked back. Folding the envelope into my bag, I could

tell it contained a key.

“David,” the dean said. “I spoke to Harry Weintraub and he’s

ready to meet with you whenever. You have his number and

email?”

“I do,” David said. “Thanks.”

“Seems like a nice young man,” Dean Shepherd said as he

walked away.

I watched his retreating figure—the broad shoulders, the

defined calf muscles—and noticed he had a bounce in his walk,

not the usual too-cool saunter of a good-looking guy. “Nice young

man. Is that a euphemism for hot as hell?” I asked the dean.

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She laughed.

“And what was that about Dr. Weintraub?” I said. He was a

teacher and well-known mathematician. I’d wanted him for

Calculus, but he was taking a couple of years off. “Isn’t he still on

leave?”

“Official y, yes. But he agreed to work with David on an

independent study.”

So math was David’s thing? He must have been pretty

brilliant for Dr. Weintraub to make a special point of working with

him. I wondered what spoons had to do with it. . . .

“David told me,” I said. “You know, about their father.”

The dean nodded. “It wasn’t my place. But I’m glad he did.

And Celeste arrived this morning?”

“Yup.”

“How was that?” she asked, putting an arm around my

shoulders.

“Well,” I said, “it’s going to be an interesting semester.”

“You know what Edith Wharton said?” the dean replied. “She

said, ‘I don’t know if I should care for a man who made life easy; I

should want someone who made life interesting.’ Maybe the

same applies for roommates.”

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I supposed that was the best way to look at it. If I anticipated

an interesting—if odd—semester with Celeste, someone so

different from me and my friends, and saw it as a chance to get to

know her better, then I wouldn’t be disappointed. Still, I held on

to the hope that didn’t necessarily mean it wouldn’t also be easy.

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Chapter 7

MY MOTHER CALLED WHEN I WAS on my way back to

Frost House after lunch. I wasn’t in the mood for a long

conversation, but picked up anyway because I knew she’d keep

calling until she reached me. I hadn’t talked to her since arriving

at school, had only sent her and my father brief messages saying

I’d gotten here safely. My father had written back: “Remember to

get car inspected. Visit soon. Dad.” My mother was higher

maintenance.

I walked down Highland Street, giving her a brief summary of

the weekend.

“What kind of interesting?” she said when I used the word to

describe Celeste again. “Medieval castle? Skyscraper?”

Matching up people with architecture: our family version of

“If you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be?”

The perfect answer came as I turned into the Frost House

driveway.

“Casa Batlló,” I said. Casa Batlló—an outrageous apartment

building in Barcelona with colorful, mosaic walls that seem to

ripple, balconies that look like enormous skulls, a ceiling that

swirls like a whirlpool. Disconcerting, but beautiful.

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“You were scared to death of Casa Batlló,” my mother said.

“Do you need me to call that Dean of Students woman, honey? I

don’t want you living with some girl you’re scared—”

“Mom,” I interrupted. “I was only six when we went to

Barcelona.” Gravel pressed into the thin soles of my sandals.

“Everything is fine here. I have to go, okay?” It bothered me when

she tried to get involved in things about my life she didn’t

understand, things I could take care of myself.

If she wanted to be a part of it all, she shouldn’t have moved

across the country.

Ignoring my comment about needing to go, she began to tell

me about an article on a new kind of yoga that she was going to