Frost - Marianna Baer

any of your business, but nothing much happened.”

“Of course it’s my business. He’s my brother.”

“Exactly,” I snapped. “He’s your brother , not your boyfriend

or husband. You get pissed when he asks about your romantic

life.”

She didn’t respond, just resumed scratching. How could she

be so cavalier about this?

“Look,” I said, trying to retain some sort of composure. I

couldn’t stand any more fighting. “David and I are going to be

hanging out, like you’ve wanted all semester. So I need to know

why you’re so upset. I mean, you out-and-out told me you

wanted us to get together. Is it . . .” I didn’t quite know how to ask

if she was jealous without implying she was in love with her own

brother. “Are you concerned he won’t have as much time for

you?”

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Scratch, scratch, scratch. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Of

course not. I already told you I wanted David to have a girlfriend

so he’d get off my back.”

“Okay, well . . .” I couldn’t force her to admit to it. And what

good would it do, anyway? At this point, I wasn’t going to break

up with David to make her feel better. “Dean Shepherd is really

worried about you. She wants to know what’s going on. Why you

came back early and everything. And why you moved out of the

big room.”

That got Celeste’s attention. “I told her why,” she said.

“Because you don’t like all the windows? She didn’t buy it.

Well, she didn’t buy that you’d have come back early from New

York to do it.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Just that maybe you’d been uncomfortable that David and I

were together.”

Celeste’s mouth dropped open. “What, like I wanted him for

myself?”

“No! Not like that,” I said. “It was the only reason I could

think of.”

“You didn’t tell her about . . . you know, the stuff I told you

before, did you?”

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“No.” I hugged the folded towel closer to my body. “But

Celeste, if that’s why you switched rooms, if you’re really still

having those strange thoughts—that someone’s . . . watching you,

or trying to mess with you—maybe we should tell someone.”

She shook her head. “You promised you wouldn’t. You can’t .

I told you how bad it would be for me. And I told you I felt better

the next day. That was just a bad night, before I realized the cat

had done it. I blew it all out of proportion. You promised, Leena.”

“I know. But things change.”

“You know what’s changed?” she said. “I slept last night.

Comfortably. I told you I didn’t like those windows the very first

day. And then with all the other weird stuff that happened . . .

Can’t you see why I freaked out in there? Now I don’t have to

worry.”

Her exhausted appearance didn’t match this version of

events. “Are you sure?” I said. “Why is your comforter in the

trash?”

A flicker of something—fear? panic?—passed across her

face. “David didn’t take it yet?” she said. “It got wet and mildewy

while we were gone. Rain through the windows. He has to wash

it.”

“The windows were shut,” I said. I’d locked them all before

we left.

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“They leaked,” she said. “A welcome-back present from the

house.”

Enough to get her bed that wet? “Was someone in our room

while we were gone?” I asked.

“No,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “No one. Look, I switched

rooms to give you some privacy and because I can’t sleep over

there. What’s the big deal? You don’t mind, do you? Why would

you mind? It’s better for both of us.”

“I guess,” I said. And, truthfully, having my own room was

the one good thing that had come from this mess. “But the way

you did it . . .”

“I shouldn’t have come back early,” she said. “I’m impulsive.

You know that. And, okay, maybe I wasn’t expecting things with

you and David to move that fast. I thought you— Whatever. It’s

not important. I shouldn’t have left. And I’m sorry. But I’m fine.

This new room arrangement is going to fix everything.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

I shut myself in the bathroom and stood under the shower

and made a decision. Celeste had been very clear, again—if

something was wrong, she didn’t want me interfering. She

wanted her own room, her separate life. And that’s what I’d

wanted right from the beginning, wasn’t it? The less I knew, the

less I had to keep from David. She hadn’t shown any concern for

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the rest of us when she’d come back from New York like that, no

matter what her reason. So, fine. Our own rooms. Our own lives.

I spent most of the day with David, a large part of it lying on

his bed as he tried to distract me from worrying about Abby and

Viv and the disciplinary committee. We listened to almost

everything on his iPod—from James Brown to Eminem; he

described in detail the gourmet meal he wanted to cook for me

one day soon; he tried to explain the math he was doing (all I

really understood was that it was called topology and had

something to do with a donut and a coffee cup being the same

thing); he told me stories about better times with their father. All

of this interspersed with sweetly intense bouts of kissing. He was

obviously trying to distract himself, too, from worrying about

Celeste, because by midafternoon he’d asked me “how I’d

thought she seemed” one too many times.

I propped myself up on my elbow. “New rule,” I said.

“Rule?” David said. “Are your rules as strict as your

moratorium was?”

I punched his shoulder. “Listen. Seriously. Now that you and I

are, you know, together , I really think it’s best if you . . . if we

don’t talk about your sister as much. I don’t want to always feel

like I’m your source of information. Okay? I want to keep things a

little more separate.” For an instant, I had the horrible thought

that maybe the only reason he even wanted to be close to me

was to find out stuff about his sister, but then he said, “Yeah,

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you’re probably right.” He ran a hand through my loose hair,

fingers getting caught in a tangle. “Could get messy.”

“So, good rule?” I said, relieved.

“Good rule.”

The six of us met with the disciplinary committee on

Tuesday. Later that night, in some sort of masochistic haze, I

decided to listen to Viv and Cam’s show on WBAR, but there was

a guest host. I supposed they wanted to spend their last night

together alone.

Cam had to leave school on Wednesday.

The rest of us, as promised, had gotten probation.

Walking across campus Wednesday afternoon, I saw

Cameron’s car—filled with belongings—in the parking area next

to his dorm. He and Viv stood outside of it. Even from the other

side of the Great Lawn, I could tell by the stoop of her shoulders

and Cameron’s hand stroking her back that Viv was crying.

I dropped my gaze to the ground and hurried along, the path

becoming a muddy, gray blur.

Once I got home I headed straight for the closet. I wanted to

know that it would be okay, that I’d be okay, even without Viv,

like I’d told myself in here the other night. I stroked Cubby’s

feathers. I just needed to know that I could get past how much it