Frost - Marianna Baer

He didn’t sound quite sure about it, though, and I wondered if

there was more to the story. Knowing Celeste, there probably

was.

A muffled ringtone came from over by the door. “Speak of

the devil,” he said. “She can always tell when I’m talking about

her.” He pulled a cell out of a backpack and disappeared into the

hallway. “Hey. Everything okay?” was the only thing I heard

before his footsteps receded into the common room.

I stared out a window. Branches drooped and swayed under

the heavy rain.

Celeste Lazar. Living here.

A vise squeezed my chest. The same feeling I’d gotten before

every chem lab last year, only tighter.

We’d been partners. The mood of the period depended

entirely on what was going on in Celeste’s life that week—always

a new, convoluted drama: a fight, a hookup, trouble with a

teacher. . . . I’d spend the seventy-five minutes listening to her

stories while trying to keep her distraction from causing some

sort of fiery accident with the Bunsen burner and chemicals. To

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make it worse, I was never sure what Celeste actually thought of

me. One day, she brought me a gift to thank me for advice I’d

given her: a chocolate-chili cupcake from the best bakery

downtown. As we walked out of class, me happily holding the box

with my exotic treat inside, I asked about her plans for the

weekend. “None of your damn business,” she’d snapped. Just like

that, I’d become some random, nosy stranger.

And now we were roommates? I’d chosen Frost House to

escape any drama.

Leaves swam together in my watery vision, melding into a

solid plane.

A crash shook the silence.

I turned. The print David had leaned next to the closet had

tipped over. I moved from the bed and picked it up. It was framed

with Plexiglas, so hadn’t broken. I studied the image for the first

time: a close-up of Celeste’s face—a self-portrait, I assumed. She

was lying in dirt, eyes glassy, lips slightly parted, hair fanned out.

A beetle—a big beetle—wrapped in and trailing a thin white satin

ribbon walked across her forehead. The ribbon wound its way

down and into Celeste’s mouth.

Ugh. I rested the frame back on the floor, leaning it so the

image faced the wall.

Before I could move away, though, a chill reached out from

the mostly empty walk-in closet. It felt good on my hot cheeks.

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Not harsh and spiky, like air-conditioning, but soft, as if the door

led to a deep, cool basement. I took a step inside the shadowy

space, lifted my hair and let the chill skim the back of my neck,

closed my eyes and breathed in. A fragrant scent—woody, musky,

fermented—filled my lungs. In a strange way, the scent appealed

to me, warmed me inside as the cool air stroked my skin. I

imagined stepping further into the darkness and closing the door,

leaving behind this unexpected new reality.

“Did something break?” David said.

I let my hair fal . “No.” I faced him and placed a hand on the

closet’s doorframe. “This is mine.”

“What?”

“This closet. It’s mine. Not your sister’s.” The words shot out,

sharp and unplanned.

David frowned slightly. “The other closet’s across the hall.

With Celeste’s leg, I figured she should have this one.”

I scanned the room, even though I knew he was right. “Oh.

Sorry,” I said, taking my hand off. “I forgot this was the only one

in here.”

What had possessed me to be so rude? “Of course she

should have it,” I added.

As I said it, though, a word echoed in my head. Mine.

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Chapter 2

I HURRIED TO THE CAR and slid into the driver’s seat,

rainwater beading around me on the crackled pleather

upholstery. Abby had turned the rearview mirror to face her. She

stared up at it and flicked a mascara brush across her lashes. Her

warped copy of the play Buried Child lay spread-eagled on the

dash.

“What took you so long?” she asked, glancing over at me. “I

ran through all of my lines while you were in there.”

“Can you grab an ibuprofen from the glove compartment?” I

massaged the bridge of my nose.

“What? More shabby than chic?”

“No.” I waited until she handed me the orange tablet,

washed it down with a swig of flat soda followed by a cherry Life

Saver, and told her about the addition to our Frost House family.

“Hold on,” she said. “Celeste is Green Beret Girl, right?”

I nodded.

“Isn’t she completely nuts? She’s the one who burned all

José’s clothes last year!”

“Not all his clothes,” I said, remembering the story that had

been the talk of campus for a few days. “Just his boxers.”

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“Whatever.” Abby waved her hand dismissively. “And, you

know, it doesn’t even matter if she’s crazy. They can’t just give

you a random roommate senior year. It’s not right.”

I turned on the engine. As the windshield wipers brought

Frost House back into focus, an elongated shape moved past a

downstairs window. David, I assumed. I rubbed the almost

invisible mark on my palm. He probably thought I was a selfish

jerk after that closet incident. But I couldn’t help having been

unnerved by his news. The administration shouldn’t just go

around changing rooming assignments.

Like Abby said, it wasn’t right.

Before backing into the road, I readjusted the rearview

mirror. I met my own gaze, and my eyes stared back with a

controlled confidence the rest of my body didn’t feel.

“I’ll talk to Dean Shepherd,” I said. Then, in a stronger voice,

“I’m sure she’ll understand.”

The registration room in Grove Hall swarmed with people. I

hugged, kissed, and how-was-your-summered my way to the R–Z

line at the check-in table. “Our last first-day-of-Barcroft ever,”

Whip Windham said as we waited for our information packets,

echoing the predictable, clichéd thought I’d been having ever

since I woke up that morning.

“I know,” I said. “I’m trying not to be maudlin. We still have a

whole year.”

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“Dude.” Whip raised one eyebrow—his signature look. “I

meant it as a good thing. A friggin’ awesome thing.”

Oh. Of course.

Sometimes I forgot that most people were actually anxious

to graduate. I understood the feeling in general, but didn’t quite

get their “good riddance” fervor. While there were things about

Barcroft I was sure none of us would miss—curfew, off-campus

restrictions, tofu schnitzel at the dining hall—most of us would go

to college, so it’s not like we’d be free of classes or teachers or

Sisyphean mountains of homework.

Maybe, I thought as I stared at the sunburned back of Whip’s

neck, maybe the difference between me and him was how

ingrained I felt here. My parents had just gotten a divorce when I

arrived in ninth grade. And although they liked to say it was

amicable—neither of them had cheated and they’d used a

mediator instead of lawyers—it had hit our lives like a wrecking

ball. I’d had to build a new life; Barcroft was the foundation. Of

course I was worried about leaving.

“Leena Thomas,” I said when I reached the guy handing out

manila envelopes. I took mine and slid out the multicolored

sheets of paper. My housing assignment form had a note in

familiar, flowing handwriting: Hello, L! Please call or stop by and