Frost - Marianna Baer

“Let’s go upstairs, Dad,” Celeste said. “We can decide what

you want to wear for the party. Mom and I bought you some new

shirts yesterday.”

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“I’m not going to the party,” Mr. Lazar said. He leaned

forward so that his face was practically touching the windowpane.

“That’s okay,” Celeste said. “We still need to get you cleaned

up and dressed.”

“Can’t you do that in a bit?” David said. “Leena just met

him.”

“Don’t you have to go finish cooking or something?” Celeste

replied. “People will be here in a couple of hours.”

I hooked a finger in one of David’s belt loops. “I can see your

father later. What can I do to help out?”

“Anything Leena can do?” David said. “To help with your

project?”

“I don’t give a fuck what Leena does,” Celeste said.

“Jesus,” David said. “What’s your problem?”

I had to blink away the threat of shocked tears, even though I

knew better.

“Nothing,” she said. “Sorry. I have a terrible headache.” She

clamped the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index

finger.

“Do you want something for it?” I asked.

“No.”

“I know you don’t like taking stuff. But it will—”

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“ Nothing will make it better.”

After Celeste’s outburst and meeting Mr. Lazar, I slipped

away to a downstairs half bath and used one of the pills I’d

brought with me to take the edge off. I hadn’t wanted to

medicate today, mostly because of Celeste’s theory that I had a

problem with it. But my first day at the Lazars’ house didn’t seem

to be a good time to prove I was fine without them. Not to

mention, who cared if I wasn’t fine without them? They weren’t

harmful, like alcohol or whatever. They were a valid way of

dealing with a stressful situation. If David didn’t have such a harsh

view of meds, I wouldn’t have cared at all if Celeste told him.

Ironically, though, after the initial bumps, the day became

surprisingly enjoyable. Mrs. Lazar— Phippy —had plenty of things

for me to do around the house while we were waiting for people

to come, and David needed help in the kitchen. Once everyone

arrived, you’d have thought I’d been coming to Lazar functions

since birth. Everyone was nice and funny and easy to talk to. And

not one person asked me where I was applying to college. That

had to be some sort of record for a high school senior at a social

event with adults. Most of the time was spent talking about food.

“This pea-pod thing is amazing! Did you try one, Leena,

hon?” David’s aunt Jill said. “Davey’s incredible, isn’t he? And do

you know he’s like a genius? He was doing multiplication at two

or something. Ask Phippy about it.”

333

I’d definitely learned that the female members of the family

thought I’d snagged quite a catch.

“What about the bruschetta?” her daughter, Meg, said.

“God. And where did you get that dress, Leena? It’s really cute.”

“Thanks. Anthropologie.” A sticky warmth embraced my

hand. One or another small cousin had grabbed it. Which one was

the towhead?

“I show you somefing,” he said. Gabe. That was his name.

“Leena’s having some food now, hon,” Jill said. “Later you

can show her.”

“Actually, I show now.” He tugged.

Tiny Gabe had an easier time than I did worming through the

clumps of people, most of whom were holding plates and glasses.

I tried to keep up, so that he wouldn’t rip my arm out of its

socket. “Sorry!” I kept saying as I bumped into most of them.

Where was David? I had barely seen him.

“Joan Fontaine,” a white-haired man I’d met earlier said as I

pushed by. He tapped my shoulder repeatedly. “That’s it. You

look like a young Joan Fontaine. I’m sure someone’s told you

that.”

“Nope,” I said. I wasn’t quite sure who Joan Fontaine was. An

old actress, I thought. My arm was still moving so I couldn’t even

stop to find out.

334

Gabe pulled me to the bottom of the staircase then let go of

my hand and scrambled up the stairs like a spider.

“Gabe,” I said, “let’s stay downstairs.” But by the time I said

it he was around the landing and up the next flight. I followed.

At the top of the stairs he pushed open a door into a dim

room—curtains drawn, a big bed over to one side covered with a

mess of burgundy paisley sheets and comforter. Clothes strewn

around. The master bedroom. I’d been shown David’s and

Celeste’s rooms, but not this one.

Gabe pushed open another door, put a hand to his mouth,

and gave a guilty little smile. A big bathroom stood in front of us.

He giggled.

“What did you want to show me?” I said. “We shouldn’t

really be in here.” As if he cared.

He pointed. “Dey’ve got a potty.”

“Yes,” I said. “They do have a potty.”

“I wear big-boy underpants.”

“Gabe?” The woman’s voice came from out in the hallway.

She stuck her face in. “I thought I saw you racing up here.”

Gabe ran over to her.

“He was just showing me the potty,” I said.

“He’s big on potties,” she said. “Do you have to go, Gabey?”

335

“No!” Gabe shouted, and ran off down the hall. His mother

gave me a quick, tired smile and followed him.

I was reaching to pull the bathroom door closed the way we

found it, when it occurred to me that as long as I was here, I

might as well pee.

The toilet seat had a disconcerting, squishy plastic cover on

it. Instead of making me feel comfortable, it made me think of the

other thighs, the other skin, that had pressed on it over the years.

The thought made me shiver.

I washed my hands quickly and was about to slip out when I

noticed a piece of sundried tomato snagged between my front

teeth. Crap. How long had it been there? I leaned forward and

picked at it with my pinky nail. Did I have crumbs in my hair, too?

As I checked, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a largish

metal bracket on one side of the medicine cabinet. Huh. A lock? I

pulled at the mirrored door. Yup. It made sense, if this was Mr.

Lazar’s room. My hand automatically reached up and swept

across the cabinet’s top. Sure enough, a blip in the surface turned

out to be a small key.

I had been expecting something , of course, otherwise the

cabinet wouldn’t have been locked, but not what I saw. Rows and

rows of little orange-and-white bottles, interspersed with more

mundane items, but still filling up the majority of the shelf space.

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I began adjusting the bottles to read their labels. They were

outdated prescriptions, for almost every psychotropic drug I’d

ever heard of: antipsychotics, antianxiety, antidepressives,

sleeping pills. . . .

I stared in amazement. Then, realizing I shouldn’t stay too

long, I began fumbling with the caps and with the tiny tablets and

not-so-tiny tablets, wrapping each group in separate wads of

tissue, writing on the outside in an eyeliner pencil what each

group was. Not all the bottles, of course. I picked five. My bag was

downstairs, and I didn’t have any pockets. How was I going to

carry them? I shoved a couple of packets down the sides of my

high leather boots, a couple in my bra, one in my tights.

A noise came from outside the door. I turned on the tap,