Frost - Marianna Baer

you to begin with.” The microwave beeped. I stirred the spinach

into a ricotta-and-egg mixture.

Abby’s chopping had slowed to one chop per second. It

occurred to me that I had a perfect change of subject. “You

know,” I said. “She invited Whip to this dinner.”

Abby looked over at me. “Whip? Are you kidding?”

I grinned and shook my head. “Nope. I just found out.”

“Celeste invited Whip. Why? What possible reason?”

Whip Windham—Spaulding Whipple Windham IV—is an old-

school preppie of the madras shorts and bluchers, white-blond

hair and thin lips, destined to be a (Republican) member of

Congress, variety.

“They’re doing some project together,” I explained.

“Wow.” Abby smiled, bucked up by this amusing piece of

news, as I knew she would be. “That’s quite a couple. Green Beret

and Whippersnapper. Whichever teacher paired them up is my

new hero. I’d love to be a fly on the wall while they’re working

together.”

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I laughed. “Whip’s probably scared to death.”

“I assumed she invited David for dinner,” Abby said. “Viv told

me he’s coming.”

I stirred more vigorously.

“Leen? I thought we were all only supposed to invite one

person?”

“I invited David,” I said.

“What? Celeste made you?”

“No. I wanted to.” I poured olive oil into a pan on the stove.

“He’s a really good guy, Abby. You should see how much he

worries about his sister. He’s not all obsessed with himself, like

the other guys here are.”

“Yeah,” she said, “instead of being obsessed with himself

he’s obsessed with her. He’s in here all the time, carrying her

books, her laundry. God knows what else. I don’t think it’s nor—”

“Abby,” I said. “He’s my friend. Okay?”

“Oh my God,” she said, putting down her knife. “You like

him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do. As a friend.”

“You want to have his crazy babies!”

“Jesus.” I turned from the snapping and cracking pan of hot

oil to face her. “You sound just like Celeste.”

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Abby stared at me, obviously taken aback. “Thanks a lot.”

“I mean . . . the way you’re blowing this up just to make it

into a big drama. We’re friends, okay? Sure I have a crush on him,

but we’re just friends. And if you gave him a chance, you’d like

him, too. It doesn’t mean anything bad that he’s Celeste’s

brother.”

“Okay,” she said, picking up the knife again. “Whatever you

say.”

Whip brought out a silver, monogrammed flask from the

inside pocket of his navy blazer.

“My contribution to the evening, ladies.” He poured a shot

into the can of Coke I’d just given him and offered me the flask.

I sniffed it.

“Grey Goose,” he said. “I have a second one. Plenty for all.”

Ms. Martin was out until eight at the earliest—that’s when

we had to be finished in her kitchen—so I added a splash of the

vodka to my own can of soda and passed the flask to Cameron.

Abby’s “date,” the guy who was playing Tilden in the play, had

canceled; it was the four of us Frost Housers, plus David, Whip,

and Cam.

Since we didn’t have a proper dining table, the seven of us

were seated around the coffee table in the common room.

Celeste wore a slinky silver evening dress and a thin black shawl

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over her shoulders. With Whip’s blazer and khaki pants with

embroidered whales, they made quite a pair sitting together on

the couch.

I went into the kitchen and started bringing out the plates of

food I’d prepared. As I brought out the last two, Whip was saying,

“I can’t believe they made this place a girls’ dorm. I was supposed

to live here. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father

all did. It’s a frigging Spaulding Whipple Windham tradition.”

“It’s been around that long?” Viv asked.

“My great-grandfather lived here the first year it was a

dorm.”

“What was it before that?” I said, settling cross-legged on the

floor next to David.

Whip took a bite of lasagna, chewed, wiped his mouth, and

then said, “A family’s house—nothing to do with Barcroft. My

grandfather says during his time, all the guys made a big joke of

living here because there’d been some hysterical chick—I mean,

woman—living in it years before. Like the chick in the attic in

Wuthering Heights .”

“ Jane Eyre ,” I said. “You know, Whip, it’s not really referred

to as hysteria anymore.”

“What is it now? PMS?”

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“Yeah. Right,” I said. My eyes met David’s. He gave his a

slight roll, then reached over and picked something out of my

hair.

Food, already? “Lasagna?” I whispered, appalled.

David grinned. “Kidding.”

“He told me this story,” Whip went on as I made a face at

David, “about how everyone was scared of Frost House because

of the rumors about the girl. So they pretended it was haunted or

some shit and got all these kids to come over.” He took a swig of

his drink.

“And?” Celeste said after a minute.

“And what?” Whip said.

“What happened?” Celeste asked.

“What do you mean?” Whip said. “That’s what happened.

They scared people and got busted for making some freshman

piss his pants.”

“Sounds like a good time,” David said. “Can you pass the

salad, Vivian?”

“Yeah,” Whip said, apparently not noticing David’s sarcasm.

“Anyway, it sucks they made it a girls’ dorm this year.”

“Everyone always thinks Victorian houses are haunted,” I

said, finishing chewing a bite. “When I was little, my friends were

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scared to spend the night because we lived in an old Queen Anne

and they thought it was creepy. It was so stupid.”

“Maybe that was just an excuse,” Abby said, “because they

didn’t want to spend the night with you.”

“Very funny.” I rolled a bread ball and shot it at her. We were

pretty much back to normal after our spat in the kitchen, but I

could tell that she was still mad I’d compared her to Celeste.

“What dorm are you in, Whip?” Viv asked.

“He’s in Franklin,” Celeste said. “It’s a nice room. All new

furniture. Really swank. I think the mattress is new, too. Good and

bouncy. Not like the terrible ones we have here.”

Whoa. I glanced at David. He was frozen, his fork halfway

between his plate and mouth.

“So, what type of ‘project’ are you guys doing?” Abby asked

Celeste and Whip in a suggestive tone.

“It’s for rel-phil,” Celeste said. “We’re each other’s gods.”

“You’re what?” Abby said.

“We each have to dress the other one as our idea of a god.

Then take a photograph, write a paper about physical

representations of gods, blah, blah. Whip’s going to be naked.”

Whip’s eyebrows shot up. “Come again?”

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“My god does not wear clothes.” Celeste reached over and

tugged the lapel of his blazer. “Especially not whale pants.”

I was thoroughly amused by their interaction; but the look of

horror on David’s face told me he wasn’t.

Whip wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve got

nothing to be ashamed of. But there’s no way I’m letting photos

get out that might ruin my political career.”

“Are you serious?” Celeste said. “That would be your