Frost - Marianna Baer

be your roommate in Frost House next semester. No matter what

happens with Celeste.”

I looked down at my hands, pale and veiny. White and blue.

Like porcelain, I’d been told. I curled them into fists.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d taken

that resolve and told Dean Shepherd I wanted Celeste moved

somewhere else. Would things have turned out differently in the

end?

For Celeste, yes, of course. But for me?

I still would have lived in Frost House, after all.

26

Chapter 4

WITH ONLY TWENTY MINUTES before dinner, I couldn’t

bring myself to put on all my clothes after cold-showering. I stood

in front of a fan, wearing boy shorts and a bra, trying to figure out

the best furniture arrangement for my side of the bedroom.

The room extends off the back of Frost House—almost more

of a sunporch. Three of the walls have windows that look out on

the postcard-size backyard bordered by thick foliage. Even on a

gray day like this the room glowed with natural light. Along with

the original moldings around the windows and the worn wooden

floorboards, the light made the space especially cozy and

cheerful. Welcoming.

It was even nicer than I’d remembered over the summer.

But, of course, the furniture setup and decorations I’d planned

weren’t possible now that it was a double. Look on the bright

side , I told myself. Celeste’s bedspread and pillows were pretty,

and her hat collection looked funky lined up on a bookcase. It

could have been worse. She could have been a fan of cliché

posters like Starry Night and The Kiss .

David had placed a bunch of persimmon-orange tulips in a

painted ceramic vase on top of her dresser. He’d also put three

tulips on my dresser, in a water bottle. I couldn’t believe he’d

thought of that, considering everything else he had to do. And

considering how rude I’d been to him.

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A framed snapshot sat next to Celeste’s vase. I stepped over

and picked it up. David stood between Celeste and a stocky man I

assumed must be their father, an arm around each of them, on a

white-sand-turquoise-ocean beach. Celeste was laughing—

beautiful, as usual; David had a goofy look—eyebrows raised and

mouth in an O, like he was faking surprise. He was shirtless. My

gaze momentarily got stuck on the muscles that led from his hips

into his low-slung trunks. Other than his average height, I hadn’t

noticed much about his body during our disastrous meeting.

Looking at the picture, I could tell he was built like the soccer

guys—slim and cut.

On David’s left, Mr. Lazar was much rounder and his face

appeared to be in motion. The slight blur kept me from

recognizing any features he shared with his kids. What sort of

“difficulties” had the family had this past year? Mrs. Lazar wasn’t

in the photo. Maybe they’d gotten divorced. I’d spent enough

time with Celeste that I would have known if one of her parents

had died.

I set the photo back down. Next to the dresser, the closet

door stood open just enough to show the Mardi Gras effect of

Celeste’s wardrobe.

Out of curiosity, I opened the door wider. The closet air—still

cooler than the rest of the room, despite all the clothes—reached

out and brushed across my skin again, bringing with it that same

pungent scent. A pleasant shiver ran through me. Probably the

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smell was from the door having been sealed tight during the heat

of the summer. Or maybe a liquid—wine, cologne—spilled in

there once, permanently soaking into the wood. It reminded me

of something . . . or somewhere. I held the scent in my mind and

tried to remember, but couldn’t come up with anything more

concrete than a vague emotion. One you feel in your chest, not

your gut. Contentment, maybe.

As it had earlier, the combination of the cool air and the

smell made me wish that I could close myself up in there. Avoid

this altogether.

I ran my fingers over the clothing crowded together on the

hanging bar: a poufy red satin skirt, a geometric-patterned wrap

dress, a lapis-blue sari—the antithesis of my own unofficial prep-

school uniform of various jeans (straight leg, cutoffs, and minis),

T-shirts, and hoodies. My hand came to rest on a familiar fuchsia-

and-gold, gauzy fabric. I recognized the skirt Celeste had worn the

first day of chemistry class last year.

She had sashayed into the lab wearing this long, narrow skirt

with extra fabric gathered at the rear, like a bustle from the 1880s

made modern. I’d guessed that it was either some very expensive

designer thing, or that she’d made it herself. She hadn’t gotten it

at J.Crew. On top, she wore a plain white undershirt. No bra. She

didn’t need one, but still.

When we were put together as lab partners, I told her how

cool the skirt was.

29

“It hides my nonexistent ass,” Celeste had said. Her wide,

disconcerting eyes scanned me up and down before she added,

“You’re lucky. You don’t have that problem.”

“Thanks,” I’d murmured, not sure whether “screw off” would

have been a more appropriate response.

Now, I took the skirt out of the closet, searched along the

waistband, and couldn’t find a label. Maybe it was handmade. On

a whim, I undid the hidden zipper on the side, then stepped in,

wondering what it felt like to wear it. I wriggled the fabric up until

it hesitated at my thighs. I was much curvier than Celeste, but the

material had some stretch in it. I wriggled some more.

The skirt squeezed over my hips. I didn’t bother with the

zipper. Soft fabric hugged my bare legs as I took tiny steps toward

my full-length mirror. How had Celeste managed to sashay in

this?

“Leen?” Abby’s voice called. The thwak-thwak of her flip-

flops sounded from the hall. “Ready for dinner?”

“Not quite,” I called back.

She appeared in the doorway. “Whoa, Nelly.”

“What do you think?” I did an awkward 360-degree turn.

“I think you better be careful living with her doesn’t drag you

over to the dark side.”

“I lived with you for a year and emerged unscathed.”

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“Touché.” She sat on my bed, amidst the bags I hadn’t

unpacked yet. “Viv and I are starving. Are you wearing that to

Commons?”

“Yeah, right.” I eased the skirt back down. “Let me just—” A

tiny ripping sound froze my movements.

“Oops,” Abby said.

I slid it the rest of the way off and double-checked the fabric

all over, holding my breath. “Seems fine. Thank God,” I said. I

started to walk toward the closet, anxious to get the skirt out of

my hands.

“Hey,” Abby said. “Your tattoo!”

I stopped and twisted around to look at my low back. A

geometric flower grew there, a little larger than a silver dollar.

Thick black lines surrounded ruby, sapphire, and emerald petals. I

got a shock every time I saw it, like I’d inhabited someone else’s

body.

“It’s like stained glass,” she continued. “Really pretty.”

“Thanks. It’s of this window in my bedroom in Cambridge.”

“At your dad’s?”

“No. My old room. Before we moved.”

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I turned my attention back to the skirt, clipping it onto the