Frost - Marianna Baer

110

I took off my glasses and rubbed the bridge of my nose.

“How about this. I’ll hang the key on a nail, and then if David’s

ever locked out, he can know it’s here. That’s probably why he

gave you a copy, right?”

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll see who’s the first one to use it.”

I couldn’t get out of there soon enough. Back in the

bedroom, I lay down and tried to breathe away the tightness in

my chest and the ache that was beginning to pulse at my temples.

All of these stories she was constructing in her head! It was

just like when we were lab partners—the constant dramas—

except now I was one of the people involved. She couldn’t just be

sad that her vase had broken; she had to make it into a whole

mystery with herself as a victim. David and I couldn’t just be

friends; it had to be a clandestine relationship—orchestrated by

her! She thought everyone lived life as out of control as she did,

acting on every little emotion. Was she going to do this all

semester? Turn everything into more than it was?

Still, as I was having these thoughts, something tickled at the

edge of my brain. The knocking on the wall—that was nothing, I

was sure. But did I really think a breeze could have blown over a

ceramic vase?

I rolled onto my side, facing the window. Cubby stared at me

with her big glass eyes. I reached for her, brought her onto the

bed.

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When I was little, I knew owls were supposed to be wise, so I

made up this schoolmarmish voice for Cubby and would ask her

questions like she was a wooden oracle.

I think I convinced myself that when I spoke in Cubby’s voice,

my answers were wiser than they’d otherwise have been.

“Did you see how the vase broke?” I asked her now. “It blew

over, right?”

No answer.

“You must have seen it. Was someone in here?”

I looked deep into Cubby’s shiny black pupils.

No one , I made her say in her uptight, vaguely English accent.

The room was empty.

“Thank you,” I said, resting her back on the sill.

The room had been empty. Of course it had been. To believe

anything else was to be sucked into Celeste’s melodrama, and I

wasn’t going to let that happen.

112

Chapter 11

TWO DAYS LATER, sitting in my Gender Relations in

America seminar, the closer we got to the bell the more

distracted I felt.

“So,” Ms. Boutillier was saying from the other side of the

round table where the seven of us sat, “do you think the author

was ahead of his time? Or was he making a remark that was

designed to stir controversy and prove that women didn’t, in fact,

deserve the vote? Did you question his motives when reading?”

I kept my eyes on my text, as if giving her questions deep

thought. Really, I was thinking about David.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’d gotten in the habit of

leaving by the building’s side exit after my seminar. Usually, David

would be coming out of his history class at that same spot. We’d

walk over to the mailroom together, check our boxes, stop by

senior tea . . . I looked forward to it.

Today, I wondered if I should go out the main exit of Holmes

Hall instead. I hadn’t run into David anywhere yesterday—the day

after the vase incident—and I’d been thinking maybe it would be

better if I stopped going out of my way to see him. Just stay away

from the freaky Lazar vortex; remove myself from Celeste’s rich,

imaginative life.

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“Leena?” Ms. Boutillier said. “Did you hear those page

numbers for tonight?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Can you repeat them?” She did, with

obvious annoyance, and then the bell finally rang.

I slipped into my canvas army jacket, hoisted my bag over my

shoulder, and followed the herd, taking a left toward the main

entrance where I’d usually take a right. Then I stopped. David and

I weren’t doing anything wrong. We weren’t doing anything,

period. Why play into Celeste’s bizarre little game? Also, I wanted

to talk to him about what was going on in the dorm. I turned

around and headed to where I knew he would be lingering,

putting books into his bag.

We swung into step next to each other—my small, blue

Chucks next to his bigger, black ones on the shiny checker-board

floor. I imagined Celeste making some comment about the cute

couple-ness of it, felt her eyes on us even though she didn’t have

class in this building.

“How were the genders relating today?” he said.

“You know,” I said. “Hostile.”

He held the heavy wood door open for me and for a bunch of

other people. I passed by him out onto the steps.

“So, I hear there was trouble on the home front,” he said,

catching up.

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“Yeah.” I shivered—the sky was gray, the air was damp and

cold and bit at my cheeks. “I actually wanted to talk to you about

it.”

“Senior tea?” he suggested.

“Maybe somewhere more private?”

We were already heading toward the path to the mailroom. I

was thinking about a small lounge nearby that was usually empty.

I didn’t want anyone to overhear me as I talked to him about

Celeste.

“Actually,” he said, “I have to meet someone later at senior

tea. So . . .”

“Oh. Okay.” I didn’t know why, but this surprised me. Maybe

because I hadn’t noticed him making any particular friends since

he’d been here.

We entered the lower level of the student center and went

into the mailroom—a total scene, as it usually was between

classes. My box held a coupon packet from local businesses, a

flyer for Buried Child —the play Abby was in, an Urban Outfitters

catalogue, a glossy brochure from my mother’s office, and a note

to call Dean Shepherd’s office. Probably about babysitting.

David came up behind me as I was sorting through things to

keep and recycle. He rested a hand on my shoulder.

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“Need a condo in LA?” I asked, waving the real-estate

brochure, conscious of the warmth that spread through my body

from where he touched me in a way I wouldn’t have been if

Celeste hadn’t made an issue out of it.

“Why are you on a real-estate mailing list?” he asked.

“It’s my mother,” I said. I glanced at the brochure again.

She’d drawn a speech bubble coming out of one of the windows:

Can’t wait until you’re here!

I held it out to him and pointed at the building. “That’s

where she lives.”

“Really?” he said. “Wow. Pretty slick.”

“Pretty awful,” I said, throwing it in the recycling bin.

He gave me a funny look. Sort of . . . pitying.

“That wasn’t a statement or anything,” I said as we made our

way back outside. Ever since I told him about the divorce mess, I’d

gotten the impression he thought my relationship with my

parents was totally dysfunctional.

“Didn’t say it was.”

“I know.” I fastened a higher button on my jacket to keep the

wind out. “I just feel like you might think we’re not close

anymore. I mean, we’re not close the way we used to be, but it’s

better. I was way too attached to my parents before. The

separation had to happen sooner or later.”

116

“I guess,” he said, kicking at a couple of acorns on the path.

“Seems like they didn’t have to make it so traumatic for you,