Frost - Marianna Baer

group of senior guys were playing Nerf basketball in the common

room.

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“Hey, Leena,” Matt Halpern said. “Pretty late for parietals,

isn’t it?”

“She came earlier, dude, so now she’s going,” one of the

other guys said. They snorted and jostled one another. I couldn’t

look at David’s face.

“Thanks again for the cake,” he said as he opened the door.

He was positioned so I had to pass just inches from him to get

out. I didn’t want to go outside, but those stupid guys could see

us standing there.

“Leena?” he said.

The planes of his face were sharp and strong in the harsh

fluorescent light, but his voice was soft. “Yeah?”

“I understand it’s an awkward situation, but if you can think

of anything to say to Celeste, about that guy, I’d really appreciate

it. Only if you feel comfortable.”

Gazing at me with those eyes, he could have asked me to do

just about anything and I would have agreed.

“I’ll try,” I said.

“And . . . the moratorium. It’s only one semester, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “One semester.”

Suddenly, that sounded very, very long.

159

Chapter 15

I MADE IT BACK TO FROST HOUSE with forty seconds to

spare before sign-in, sweaty and breathing hard after running the

whole way from Prescott carrying the bag of laundry. As I

scribbled my name on the sheet, I noticed that Whip had signed

out only fifteen minutes ago. Not a development I’d be reporting

back to David.

I wasn’t quite ready to be inside, and definitely didn’t feel

like dealing with Celeste, so I dropped her laundry bag in the

common room and sat out on the porch in one of the Adirondack

chairs. I stared up at the sky over the trees and tried to bring

myself back to the roof. I didn’t want to worry, right now, about

anything that had been said. I just wanted to remember the

feeling of my side pressed against his. The warmth and solidity of

his arm, his torso, his thigh . . . The unmistakable reaction inside

me and on my skin. How could something so passive—just sitting

there next to another body—feel so good in so many different

ways? A sense of complete safety combined with that giddy

flitter-flutter that thrummed all the way to my toe tips.

“Someone there?” Ms. Martin called from her front

doorway.

“It’s me, Leena,” I called back. “Sorry. I’m here on the porch.”

She padded around the corner, wrapped in a bathrobe. “I

wanted to make sure it was one of you girls.”

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“Just me,” I said, standing. “But I’m going in now.”

I went inside, and when I tried to open the bedroom door

was surprised to find it was still locked. I got out my key and slid it

in the lock, pushed the door—

“Leena?” Celeste’s voice called out from somewhere. Not

the bedroom.

“Yeah?” I said, turning around.

“Can you . . . can you come in here?” She was in the

bathroom. Probably taking one of her frequent nighttime baths.

Figuring she had forgotten something—she had a hard time

getting out of the tub, and was always needing me to bring her a

razor or towel or something else—I tossed her laundry bag in our

room and went in. She was sitting in the bath, a thin layer of

bubbles covering the surface of the water. Her cast was propped

up on her special bath stool, in its plastic bag. Her other leg was

bent, her arms wrapped around it. There was something not quite

right about her face. Her jaw muscles were tense, her skin paler

than usual. She looked like she might be trembling.

“Are you okay?” I said.

She shifted positions slightly to show me: a bright red mark

seared the back of her left upper arm. I knelt quickly by the tub. It

was a burn. The size of a baby’s fist. Not blistered, but still

obviously painful.

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“What happened?” I asked.

“I . . . I was sitting here while the water was running,” she

said. “And I guess . . . I guess I bumped against the faucet. I don’t

remember. It happened so quickly, and then it hurt so much.”

“That’s from the faucet?” I said. “The water must have been

so hot.”

She shook her head. “I was trying to cool the bath down.

Only the cold water was turned on.”

“You must have turned the wrong handle.”

“I didn’t.” Then she said it again, louder. “I didn’t. I know

which handle I turned. This wasn’t my fault.”

The faucet couldn’t have burned her if it was running cold

water, obviously, but there was no point in me fighting with her.

What mattered was her burn.

“Let’s drain the bath,” I said. “And then you need to hold

your arm under a stream of cool water. I’ll cover the faucet with a

facecloth.” As I did, I found that the metal wasn’t hot at all. The

bathwater wasn’t especially hot either. How long had she been

sitting here? I didn’t ask, just handed her towels to wrap over her

legs and her shoulders, so she’d warm up. Her whole body was

shaking. “You should take Tylenol for the pain,” I said. For once,

she didn’t say no to my suggestion of medication. I left her for a

moment and went back into the bedroom.

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After getting a couple of pills from my stash, I happened to

notice that Celeste’s beetle photo wasn’t hanging in its usual

spot. This wasn’t so strange; for some reason, ever since that first

day, the frame had been prone to falling off the nail. But this

time, I didn’t see it on the bed where it usually landed either.

I wasn’t sure why this made the hairs on the back of my neck

prickle, but it did.

“Leena?” Celeste called.

“One second,” I called back. “Just finding the Tylenol.”

I quickly scanned the room and spotted the photo lying

awkwardly on the floor across from Celeste’s bed. With growing

apprehension, I walked over and picked it up. The photo itself was

fine. But one corner of the black frame had chipped badly,

revealing the lighter wood underneath the paint. Following an

instinct, I checked the wall. About two feet up from where the

photo had been lying, there was a black mark on the white

surface, where the corner must have hit.

The frame hadn’t been placed on the floor.

It had been thrown.

My body stiffened. What had gone on here while I was with

David?

“Leena?” Celeste called again.

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I set the frame on her bed, then returned to the bathroom

and handed Celeste the Tylenol and a glass of water from the

sink, an anxious thumping in my chest. “What happened to your

photo?” I asked carefully.

“Huh?” She took the pills and handed me back the glass.

“The beetle photo.”

“Did it fall again?” she said. “Can you grab my robe?”

“You weren’t in there when it . . . fell?” I said, letting her use

my arm for stability as she climbed out of the tub.

“No.” She slipped her right arm into her silk robe and held

the fabric closed in front, then twisted to look at her burn. “Do I

need to bandage this or something?”

“I’ll do it.”

I got supplies from my first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet,

my thoughts spinning. If Celeste really didn’t know what I was

talking about, did that mean someone had snuck in our bedroom

and thrown her photo while she was in the bath, or with Whip,

and she just hadn’t found it yet?