Frost - Marianna Baer

over to give me a hug. “Long drive, huh?”

207

“Sorry,” David said. “My fault. I suggested an alternate route

that turned out to suck.”

That wasn’t really why we were late, of course—it had been

my fault for oversleeping. He was taking the bullet for me,

probably because it had been so obvious in the car that I was

worried they were going to be mad. I had a sudden urge to hug

him. As if sensing this, he placed a hand on the small of my back.

“I wish you guys hadn’t waited for us,” I said.

“Viv’s idea,” Abby said, not looking away from the TV, even

though a commercial was on.

Celeste appeared in the doorway. David took his hand off me

to move a bag that was in her way.

“I hope you guys are hungry,” Viv said. “We stocked up at

the farmers’ market this morning. I got those dilly beans you love,

Leen, and good bread and cheese. A ton of stuff.”

“Actually,” I said, feeling a spike of guilt, “we kind of ate in

the car.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. I could hear her disappointment. “Well,

it’s a gorgeous day. What does everyone want to do? Abby, Cam,

turn off the TV, losers.”

It turned out that none of us had really thought about what

we wanted to do in New York, except Abby, and everything she

208

suggested involved tons of walking. I kept having to point out that

Celeste was on crutches.

“Okay,” she finally said to me, “how about we sit on our

asses and do nothing? Does that work for you?”

“No, I—”

“How about we split up?” David said. “You guys go do what

you want. Celeste and I will be more mellow.”

People exchanged looks. “Sounds good,” Abby said.

So now I had to pick whether to spend the day with David or

with my friends? This wasn’t part of the plan.

“You’re coming with us, Leena, right?” Abby said.

“Umm . . . I . . .”

Viv cut in. “Wait a minute. I’ve got an idea.”

Viv conferred with Miss Sweden for a minute, then the two

of them wrangled some sort of metal contraption out of the hall

closet. It turned out to be a collapsible wheelchair that belonged

to Viv’s grandfather.

Celeste stared at it. “You want me to ride around in that? In

Manhattan?”

“It might be kind of annoying,” Abby said. “The sidewalks are

so crowded.”

“Try it,” Viv said.

209

Celeste sat down and wheeled herself slowly forward. “It’s

hard to maneuver.”

“We’ll push you,” I said. “We’ll take turns.”

“Promise you won’t push me down any stairs?” she said.

“Promise,” I said.

“At least not on purpose,” Abby added. Then she looked

around at all of our horrified expressions. “Just kidding! Jeez.”

Who knew a wheelchair in New York could be so much fun?

We didn’t only take turns pushing, we took turns riding.

Much to their mothers’ annoyance, we used small children and

strollers in the Central Park Zoo as a moving-obstacle course. We

had time trials down the park’s corridor of massive elm trees.

At one point, David pushed Abby in a tight little circle until

she was laughing and screaming and begging him to stop. When

he did stop, she caught her breath and gathered her hair back in

its clip. Our eyes met and she smiled. The first real smile I’d

gotten from her in a long time.

Even Celeste seemed like she was relaxed and having fun. A

whole group of Japanese tourists must have mistaken her for a

movie star because they asked if they could have their picture

taken with her. Of course, she obliged, taking off her coat so her

fabulous outfit would be visible.

210

We ended up at a matchbox-size Indian restaurant in the

East Village for dinner. The ceiling and walls were decorated with

so many flickering, multicolored Christmas lights it was like being

inside a kaleidoscope. Along with the frenetic Bollywood music,

the table full of curries, and everyone talking, it was sensory

overload of the best kind. At the end of the meal when the bill

came, David took out a credit card and handed it to the waiter.

“How much do we owe you?” Viv called over the blaring

strains of the sitar.

“I’m taking care of it,” he said.

“What?” I said. “No way. That bill must be huge.”

“Yeah, man,” Cameron said. “I wouldn’t feel right.”

“Look,” David said. “It’s not a big deal—this place isn’t

expensive. Just saying thanks for the weekend.”

When the waiter brought the receipt back for David to sign, I

said, “Are you sure? Let me give you some cash, at least.”

“Leena,” he said quietly, folding up the yellow copy and

placing it in his wallet. “I’m trying to impress you here. You’re not

making it very easy.”

“Oh.” I stared down at the tablecloth, a stupid grin on my

face.

The temperature outside had dropped. None of us were

dressed for it, and I shivered in my thin coat as we stood on the

211

sidewalk, debating what next. Without a word, David draped his

hoodie over my shoulders. I moved closer so I was leaning slightly

against him, and rested like that until a minivan cab big enough

for all of us came down the street, and we decided to head back

to Viv’s house for the time being. During the ride, Celeste

suggested we go to a bar in a remote, waterfront neighborhood in

Brooklyn that she’d been to over the summer with Band Boy. She

promised they wouldn’t card us, and if they did, I was the only

one without a fake ID.

“Will there be guys?” Abby asked. “Cute guys?”

“Actually,” Celeste said, “there’s a sign on the door that says

Ugly Guys Only. Is that a problem?”

“At least Cameron and David will be able to come in,” Viv

said.

Everyone laughed. I settled back against the comfy seat and

closed my eyes. We’d made it through the day and no one was

fighting.

David was sitting next to me. I felt his hand, warm on my

knee. He squeezed it and I squeezed his hand and I thought,

Maybe we should just die right now, in a car accident. Because it

didn’t get better than this.

212

Chapter 21

DESPITE CELESTE’S ASSURANCE we wouldn’t be carded, I

wasn’t taking any chances. Back at the Parker-Whites’, I put on

my nicest jeans and a black turtleneck sweater that made me look

older and more sophisticated, and pulled my hair into a twist at

the nape of my neck.

“You look like a librarian,” Celeste said from the bed she’d

claimed.

We were sharing a room here, too, with twin beds, framed

photos of Japanese temples on the walls, and a massive golden

Buddha statue watching from the corner.

Insisting I could do better, she had me try on one of the

many dresses she’d brought—a red-and-black-pattern vintage

Diane von Furstenburg. The silk stretched over me, cool and

slinky, and seemed to fit. Then I looked in the mirror.

“No way,” I said immediately, taken aback by how exposed I

felt. This sort of dress—tight, low-cut, curve-enhancing—was

obviously designed for someone with a different sort of build. Or,

rather, a different sort of personality. And definitely someone

with different footwear, I thought, looking across the room at my

selection: scuffy, brown, lace-up boots or Chucks.

213

A knock came at the door. Celeste said, “Come in,” at the