Frost - Marianna Baer

367

“No,” I said. “He’s going to need me. He’s not going to have

Celeste anymore. He’ll need me.” I rubbed my temples. More and

more I’d been getting these deep, throbbing headaches.

Don’t you see? He’s sick, too. He’ll never want you the way he

wants her.

“Why do you say that? That’s awful.”

In here is the only place you get the truth.

I’d had enough of the truth these past couple of days. I was

exhausted from it all—the revelations, confrontations. And

though usually I loved the way I felt in here, right now, I couldn’t

handle any more insights into my sometimes ugly subconscious.

It took an enormous amount of energy to push myself up

and out into the blinding light of my room. And the minute I was

out there, I almost went back in. Somehow the open space of the

room was overwhelming. Not contained enough. I needed an

activity. Something to occupy me until David got in touch.

Something physical—there was no way I could concentrate on

homework. The furniture was happy in its arrangement. No space

on the walls to hang more pictures. Maybe the garden needed

something.

I crossed the room to look outside. The angle of the light

coming through the window brought out the layers of dirt that

had built up on the pane. Ugh. How had I not noticed this before?

I ran a finger down the cold glass. Dirt stuck to the tip.

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I got a pile of newspapers from the common room and the

Windex from under the bathroom sink. I started at the far right

window—just as dirty as the other. I sprayed the cleaner and

began wiping with a wadded-up clump of newspaper.

I breathed in and out with the strokes of my arm. Okay. I

didn’t need to think about David’s part in this. About his strange

reaction. Or what was going to happen to us. No good could come

from dwelling on the possibility of losing him, the way I always

seemed to do in the closet.

I rubbed circles of streaky liquid round and round the next

pane. My wad of newspaper bumped up against the wood frame

that had splintered when I’d been hanging the blinds with David.

It had been ready to fall apart, that piece of rotten wood. But it

took me drilling into it for the large chunk to splinter off. What

had happened to Celeste, to make her mind splinter like it had?

I thought back to the beginning of the semester, to the bad

things that happened to her right off the bat—the ripped skirt,

the broken vase. One possibility, of course, was that she had

unknowingly caused these things to happen herself. But maybe

she hadn’t. Maybe someone else had done these things, and that

had been part of what had instigated Celeste’s paranoia. She

thought someone was out to get her because, in a way, someone

was out to get her. Was it possible that a mental disorder could

be set off by something like that? Or had the mental disorder

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itself caused the things to happen? Which came first, the chicken

or the egg?

I didn’t hear from David until late that afternoon. I was about

to lose it, wondering whether he had talked to Celeste yet, when

my phone finally flashed his name.

“Can you have dinner at Tonio’s?” he said.

“Tonio’s? Sure, why?”

“I’m hungry.” I thought I heard laughter in the background.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

I was surprised that David was hungry at all, let alone in the

mood to go to a romantic, off-campus restaurant. I was even

more surprised when I picked him up at his dorm and found

Celeste there with him. He slid in the front, Celeste and her

crutches in the back.

“Where should I drop you off?” I asked her.

“I’m coming to dinner,” she said. Even in the small reflection

in the rearview mirror, I could see that despite the dark bags, her

eyes sparkled like they hadn’t before. Her whole expression was

entirely different from yesterday’s.

David’s face was more serious than hers, but not nearly as

morose as when I’d left him. A disturbing new idea wiggled its

way into my brain. Was it possible—at all possible—that this

whole thing had been a joke? Or some kind of sick Lazar family

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test? Well, if it was, there was no question—I was done with both

of them.

I got no clues from their conversation on the drive to Tonio’s.

Celeste spent the whole time talking about the upcoming student

exhibition her photos were going to be in, and soliciting our

opinions about what she should wear to the opening. If this

wasn’t a joke, had David even talked to her?

At Tonio’s, the maître d’ gave us the polite but tired smile

Barcroft students always get and led us to a small, velvet-

upholstered booth at the back of the dark restaurant.

Celeste immediately grabbed a breadstick from a ceramic jar.

David opened the stiff, gold-embossed cover of his menu.

I opened mine, but the words didn’t coalesce into

meaningful phrases. I shut it. “So, why are we here?” I said. “It’s

not your birthday, is it? That’s in a couple weeks.” A ludicrous

guess; of course this wasn’t a birthday party.

“We wanted somewhere private,” David said.

“Aren’t these booths great?” Celeste ran a hand over the

tufted, burgundy velvet. “Old-school glamour. I’d like to have one

in my house.”

A waiter in black pants and a white button-down appeared at

our table. “My name is Cliff and I’ll be your server this evening.

May I take your drink order?”

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“Diet Coke, please,” I said, then added, “Actually, just

water.” I didn’t need any caffeine.

“Club soda,” Celeste said. “With one maraschino cherry, and

a slice of lime.”

“Sam Adams,” David said.

“May I see some ID, sir?” Cliff said.

David looked surprised, then embarrassed. He began patting

his pockets. “Oh, sorry, I don’t think I brought . . . That’s okay. I’ll

just have a Coke.”

“Why somewhere private?” I said, once we were alone again.

“We have a plan,” David said. “Well, the start of one.”

“Okay . . .”

David placed both palms on the table and leaned forward.

“Here’s what we do. We convince the school that Frost House

isn’t safe to live in. That way, you all get to move out, no one

knowing the real reason you need to.”

“What do you mean, ‘isn’t safe’?” I said. “You’re going to tell

them there’s something evil in the house?”

“Of course not,” David said. “We prove that it’s physically

unstable. I don’t know, like the roof might collapse or whatever.

Maybe we could start a fire or something, just a small one.”

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I sat there, looking back and forth between the two of them.

Their expressions were anxious, but in an excited, not-nervous

way. Kids listening for Santa’s sleigh on the roof.

The waiter placed our drinks on the table. “Would you like to

hear this evening’s specials?” he said.

Specials? Who could think about food? I couldn’t even

conceive of reading through the menu with David’s words

hanging in the air. A fire? Was he kidding?

“I don’t need to hear specials,” I said, just to say something.

“I’ll have the fettuccini Alfredo, please.”

“Steak for me,” David said. “Rare.”

“Ooh, me too.” Celeste was almost giddy. “Listen,” she said