Frost - Marianna Baer

though.”

“Maybe.” I was kind of annoyed at what he was implying

about my parents. “But it all worked out for the best.”

We walked up the steps and into Grove Hall, to the same

sprawling room where registration had taken place. There was a

setup of baked goods, coffee, and tea here for seniors three

mornings a week. I waited for an opening in the crowd around the

food table—the way we all ate so much, it was as if we hadn’t

eaten breakfast a couple of hours ago and weren’t going to lunch

soon—got a pumpkin muffin and a coffee, and met David on a

small couch in a corner of the room. He moved his bag off the

spot he’d saved for me.

I sat down, shrugged off my jacket, and checked to make

sure no one nearby was listening to our conversation. “So, you

know about the vase,” I said.

“Yup. Am I still a suspect?”

“Don’t be silly.” I wished Celeste hadn’t told him that part of

it. “I think it just blew over. Our room has such strong cross

breezes, and it was pretty blustery.”

“What about Abby?” he asked.

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“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But that’s why I wanted to

talk to you. I’m worried that— Well, wait. Did Celeste mention

the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

Lowering my voice a notch further, I told him about the

knocking noise she’d heard. As I did, the expression on David’s

face grew more and more concerned.

“Why didn’t she tell me this?” he said, pulling his phone out

of his bag. At first, I thought he was calling her, but then I realized

he was online, searching for something, following links. “You

know that guy she was with over the summer?” he said, still

typing.

It took me a second to remember. “The guy in the band?”

“Yeah. I’m just . . . Oh. Here. Hold on.” He didn’t say anything

for a moment, then, “Okay. Good.” He turned his phone off and

tossed it in his bag. “There’s video from a show last night in

Amsterdam. He’s there.”

So David had thought the guy might have followed Celeste

here? “Could you really have imagined him doing those things?” I

asked, trying to picture a typical rocker guy hiding in Celeste’s

closet and knocking on the wall.

“It would’ve been weird,” David conceded. “But he was

weird. Maybe not technically a stalker, but close.”

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I took a sip of coffee. “I guess dealing with him over the

summer explains why she’d be paranoid now.” It made me feel a

bit better to know that there was something behind her

irrationality. “Because I’m sure it was just a noise that the house

made, not a person.”

“Yeah,” David said. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Anyway,” I said. “I’m worried that from now on, if anything

slightly out of the ordinary happens, she’s going to blow it out of

proportion. Look for someone to blame. Probably Abby. Do you

have any suggestions for what I should do to . . . I don’t know,

make her feel more comfortable in the dorm? And to help

convince her that these things really were just random?”

“I can talk to her,” he said. “But I bet you don’t have to

worry. Something else will distract her. Another ill-fated love

affair, probably.” He smiled a little ruefully.

“And you believe me that Abby didn’t break it, right?” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “If you say so. I don’t even know her.”

“You’ll get to know her better at the dorm dinner.”

“The what?”

It turned out that Celeste hadn’t invited him. I’d assumed she

had, when she referred to her guest as a “he” a couple days ago.

“You should definitely come,” I said, trying to cover my surprise

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and to smooth over the awkwardness. “I’m sorry we didn’t invite

you sooner.”

“That’s cool.” He was looking at me strangely. “You know,”

he said, “as long as we’re getting stuff out in the open, there’s

something I need to talk to you about, too.”

“There is?” I felt a little surge of nerves at his serious tone of

voice.

“Uh-huh. You seem to have a problem, and I’m not sure you

realize.” He reached forward and softly brushed the side of my

head, then grinned as muffin crumbs sprinkled my chest. “Every

time you eat, you get food in your hair.”

I quickly wiped the crumbs off. “Yeah. That’s been pointed

out to me before.” Shit. My nervous system had had a mini-

conniption, wondering what he was going to say and then feeling

his hand touching my head and—

“Hey, Leena, David.” Simone Dzama, a doe-eyed,

environmentally friendly hippie chick, stood by the couch. It was

only after she squatted next to David and began talking excitedly

about a trip to a green rally in Boston that I realized she was

whom he had been meeting. I picked at my muffin as they talked,

trying not to listen to them making plans. I studied the shifting sky

out the plate-glass windows, then read and responded to a

couple of messages that had arrived while I was in class.

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Simone finally stood. Before walking away she said, “We

should find a time for that other thing, too, David. This weekend

or something.”

My pulse sped up again, and I knew it wasn’t from caffeine.

“Hey.” David nudged me.

“I didn’t know you were into that stuff,” I said. “I mean,

enough to go to a rally.” I didn’t know you were hanging out with

Simone.

He shrugged. “I’ll go if I don’t have too much work. Simone’s

nice. We have English together.”

I nodded and took another sip of my now tepid coffee.

Obviously, it wasn’t just Celeste’s involvement that made this

friendship with David complicated. I might not want him, but I

didn’t want anyone else to have him either.

With everything that was on my mind, I forgot to call Dean

Shepherd until I was on my way to lunch. When I did, Marcia said

that the dean wanted to talk to me in person and asked if I could

come in at four this afternoon. I told her it wasn’t great—I had

field hockey at three and wouldn’t be done. She said the dean

would wait. I briefly wondered why we couldn’t just talk on the

phone, and why she was wil ing to stay in the office late for me,

but didn’t think much of it. I was always happy to see Dean

Shepherd.

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Some days, I barely got any exercise during field hockey,

since I was assistant coaching JVII instead of playing. I wasn’t

good enough for varsity, and coaching younger kids sounded

more fun than a noncompetitive “sport” like “Freedom

Movement” or “Boot Camp.” Today, though, the team had

needed extra players for a scrimmage, and I didn’t have time to

go home and change before my meeting. I arrived at Irving Hall a

mess, in cleats and sweatpants and sweatshirt, bringing along my

field hockey stick and the smell of grass, mud, and sweat.

“Sorry I’m so gross,” I told Dean Shepherd as I sat across

from her. “And you look so nice. I love your blouse.”

She glanced down distractedly. “Thanks. Michael gave it to

me.”

“We’re having a dorm dinner soon and if you and Mich—”

“Leena,” she interrupted, “I have to pick up Anya in a little

bit and didn’t call you in here to socialize.”

“Oh. Okay, sorry,” I said, a bit taken aback.

“A couple of days ago, did you tell Nicole Kellogg that . . .”