Frost - Marianna Baer

and Viv not to say anything about the roaches, and as far as I

knew, they hadn’t.

When I’d returned to the dorm this afternoon, the bugs were

nowhere to be seen. In their place on my bed lay a vintage

sleeveless top, light pink with tiny black beads in a fireworks

pattern.

“I don’t know why I bought it,” Celeste had said. “It’s too big

for me. I know you’re not into clothes, but I think it would look

hot on you. Keep it, if you want.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s really pretty.” I’d never have chosen it

for myself, but I’d have liked it on someone else. Maybe it would

look good. I handed Celeste my own peace offering—a bouquet

of dried Chinese lantern flowers I’d bought for her in town.

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“Dead already. Good thinking,” she joked as she reached for

her vase. “Look, David told me it was a total bitch move to put

those roaches on your bed. I suck at this roommate thing. I want

to try to be better, though. You have to tell me when I’m screwing

up.” After arranging the flowers, she set the vase back on her

dresser. “Perfect. This was my granny’s. She had a superstition

about never letting it sit empty.”

I’d felt better about the vibe between us after that, but the

thing that still nagged at me—even now, as I waited for the dorm

meeting to start—was the rip in her skirt. Like I’d said to Abby, I

just didn’t see how I could have missed it. Not to mention that I’d

definitely hung the skirt back up. I was sure of it. So if it wasn’t

me . . . ? Had someone else been in our room, when neither of us

was there?

I was trying to stop worrying when Ms. Martin arrived.

Traditionally, at the first dorm meeting of the year, the

faculty house counselor lies about how thrilled she is to be living

with a bunch of teenagers.

Nothing happened the way I expected that semester.

“I’m on deadline to finish a book,” Ms. Martin said after

briefly introducing herself. “So if the sign on my apartment door is

turned to ‘privacy please,’ which it will be often, only knock for

emergencies. You’re all seniors; I’m assuming you’re responsible

enough not to need much supervision.”

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Her most attractive quality seemed to be her cat, a big-

bellied, saucer-eyed Russian Blue named Leo. When he trotted

by, I scooped him up onto my lap and ran my hand through his

thick, soft coat. He turned in a circle as if he was going to settle

down, but when his face brushed against my T-shirt, he let out a

sharp yowl, leapt off, and darted out of the room, hackles raised,

tail puffed up like a billy club.

“Sorry,” I said to Ms. Martin. “Most cats really like me.”

“He’s not usually going to be allowed out of my apartment,”

she said. “So you won’t have to worry about him.”

One of his claws had left a tiny pull in the fabric of my shorts.

“Was he out earlier today?” I asked. “In our room, maybe?”

“Definitely not,” Ms. Martin said. “He was at my ex-

husband’s. We share custody.”

They shared custody of their cat ? Viv and Abby nudged me

simultaneously; Celeste made a noise that began as a snort but

turned into a cough. I bit down on my lips to keep from laughing.

Oblivious, Ms. Martin began going over all of the dorm rules:

sign-in at ten during the week; eleven thirty, face-to-face sign-in

on Friday and Saturday; no drinking, smoking, drugs; parietals—

permission to have a guy in your room—granted any time before

sign-in, as long as Ms. Martin was home to give approval; same

for permission to go outside the town of Barcroft, except for

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overnight, which required a chaperone letter. Then she asked if

anyone had an issue to discuss.

“Last year,” I said, “I organized a dorm dinner one Sunday of

every month. We switched off cooking. It was really fun. I’d like to

do it again this year, if you don’t mind loaning us your kitchen. It’ll

be easier with so few people. We could even invite guests from

outside the dorm.”

“Sounds fine,” Ms. Martin said. “Just give me the dates well

in advance. Anything else?” She checked her watch.

Celeste spoke up. “A couple things. First, I don’t know if they

didn’t clean in here, or what, but my closet smells like something

died in it. Also, we need new shades for the windows back there.

Most are broken, and I swear to God, it felt like someone was

looking in at me when I changed today.”

“Are we talking about stuff that needs to be fixed?” Abby

chimed in. “Because there are a ton of things maintenance could

do upstairs.”

“It’s as if they haven’t touched this place in a million years,”

Celeste said.

“Totally,” Abby agreed.

“That’s not true,” I said. “They painted.”

“You all know that I have nothing to do with this,” Ms.

Martin said. “Put in work orders with maintenance. And, Celeste,

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the house was fully cleaned. I assume the smell is just from years

of being a boys’ dorm.” She stood up and gave us a tight smile,

said, “My research calls, girls,” and left the room.

As soon as her apartment door shut, we all burst out

laughing.

“She’s a charmer,” Abby said.

“What the hell did she mean, it smells because boys lived

here?” Celeste said. “They rubbed their jocks on the walls?”

“Ew,” Abby said. “And that poor cat!”

After we laughed a little longer, Viv asked if we wanted to go

upstairs. “We still have brownies that Abby’s mom made,” she

said to Celeste. “Not to mention popcorn, pretzels, candy . . .”

“Thanks, but I’ve got stuff to do,” Celeste said. She began

maneuvering herself out of the chair.

“You sure?” I said. “The brownies are amazing.”

“AP portfolio class tomorrow. Have to figure out what I’m

showing Ms. Spatz. I have a million things to choose from.”

“Okay,” I said, happy that we’d made the offer, and,

truthfully, relieved that Celeste had refused.

Every year, there was one room in the dorm that became our

default hangout; this year it seemed like it was going to be Viv’s.

When we got upstairs, Abby went to get polish to paint our nails,

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and Viv resumed working on a giant wall calendar to help her

keep track of where she was supposed to be and what

assignments were due when. I hooked up my iPod to her dock

and chose a playlist, an upbeat one Abby and I listened to on road

trips. I was feeling giddy with beginning-of-semester excitement

again. I’d survived my presentation, the dorm meeting had gone

fine, and classes started tomorrow. I loved seeing who else was in

them, meeting new teachers, inaugurating fresh, unblemished

notebooks. . . . Dorky, I know.

Abby returned with three different polish colors and

gestured that she’d do my nails first. I picked a dark metallic blue

called “Nuit de la Coeur,” remembering for a moment how

whenever my dad took me to the hardware store, I used to pore

over the colors and names on the paint chips. He and my mom

had let me choose the paint for our front door when I was seven

or so, and I’d picked “Razzlematazzle,” mostly for the name. Years

later, I’d still said it under my breath when I opened the door.

Abby shook the bottle and started on my right hand. For a

few minutes, we listened to music and concentrated on our