Frost - Marianna Baer

“Celeste told me about it,” David said. “And I noticed your

thing on the orientation schedule.”

“We’re excited to have her in the dorm,” Abby said. David

didn’t respond so she added, “Your sister.”

“Oh,” he said. “Uh-huh.”

38

“Are you guys twins?” she asked. “Or are you a junior?”

“A senior, but I’m a year older.” He paused. “I took last year

off.”

“Ahh—an older man . . .” Abby’s voice was kiddingly

suggestive. “What’d you do?”

David pushed his rigatoni marinara around his plate.

“Different things.” His energy had shifted. Maybe he really was

tired, like he’d said, and not in the mood to be grilled.

“Abby?” I said. “Can you pass the salt? And the pepper, too?”

She pulled a Plastic Man to reach the shakers but didn’t

switch her focus. “Did you travel?” she asked him.

“Not really. A week in Costa Rica.”

“If you did anything interesting, you should be on Viv’s

show.”

“Definitely,” Viv said. “Cam and I host a WBAR show on

Tuesday nights. We play music, but we also have guests on to talk

about whatever. You could talk about what you did last year, why

you’re at Barcroft now, what sign you are . . . you know, stuff. It’s

fun.”

David laid a napkin over his pasta, as if covering a corpse.

Blots of red seeped through the thin, white paper. “How’s this?”

he said. “I had to leave school—Pembroke—because they busted

me for cheating. At the same time, my dad’s mental illness got

39

really bad and I didn’t want him to have to live in a group facility,

so I moved home to help my mother take care of him. But I guess

I didn’t do a very good job because he decided the government

had sent me there to poison him. Barcroft took into account the

extenuating circumstances, and the fact that I got really good

grades at Pembroke, and let me in. Any questions?”

The sounds of other diners’ conversations, laughter, and

utensils clanking against their plates seemed to swell around us as

we sat there staring at our food. I struggled to come up with the

right words. A schizophrenic father. God.

Unfortunately, Abby spoke first. “You might want to put a

different spin on that for the radio show,” she said.

I knew she was hoping to lighten the moment, but she just

sounded harsh.

David didn’t look up.

The meal ended quickly. On my way out of the dining hall, I

stopped to put my tray—minus silverware and uneaten apple—

on the kitchen conveyor belt. David placed his after mine.

“Sorry,” he said. “Long day. I should have sat alone.”

“It wasn’t you.” I plunked my utensils in the designated bin

of murky dishwater, trying not to let any splash on us. “They

meant well, though.”

40

We followed the flow of students into the hallway and down

marble stairs that were smoothed unevenly by years of footsteps.

I let Viv and Abby go on ahead, instead keeping pace with David.

Outside, he said, “I have my ride,” and gestured to the bike

rack at the north end of Commons. I was walking the same

general direction, so I drifted next to him.

“Is, um, is your father okay?” I asked as he squatted by a blue

road bike. He’d obviously gotten sick of answering questions. Still,

I couldn’t leave it hanging like that.

“Depends what you mean by okay,” he said, undoing the

chunky padlock. “He’s alive. Living in a facility, for now.”

“I think it’s amazing that you took care of him,” I said.

“Schizophrenia must be so . . . scary.”

“He’s actually not schizophrenic. Something similar.”

“Oh. The one . . . what’s it called . . . with mood-disorder

symptoms?” I asked.

David stood up, massively thick chain in his hands, brows

drawing together. “Schizoaffective,” he said. “Yeah. Do you know

someone—?”

“No, no. I took Intro Psych last year.”

“Oh.” He wrapped and fastened the chain around his waist. I

couldn’t believe he could bike with it on. “Well, yeah. It’s scary. In

lots of ways.”

41

I watched the late sun stream orange through plum-colored

clouds. Probably one of the reasons it was scary was because it

has a genetic component. The things I didn’t want to inherit from

my parents—selfishness, undependability—were things that were

under my control, not predetermined, but I still worried about

them. This was a whole different story.

“When is Celeste getting here tomorrow?” I asked as David

backed his bike away from the rack.

“Not sure yet. You know . . . what Abby said in there . . .” He

stopped and met my eyes. “You guys don’t have to pretend

you’re happy to live with her. I know you’re not, and I don’t

blame you. You had this nice, private thing going on.”

Even though he didn’t sound defensive or judgmental, my

first instinct was to lie, to tell him that we really were happy to

live with Celeste. Then I wondered what the point was.

“It’s not that I dislike her,” I said, twisting the stem of my

apple. “I mean, I love how creative and . . . passionate she is. But

she makes me nervous. Sometimes, I think she might not even

like me.”

“Really?” he said. “I know she can be a pain in the ass, but

she definitely likes you. She said . . . What was it?” He thought for

a minute and then smiled. “Oh, yeah. You remind her of an

angel.”

“An angel?” I said. “Hardly.”

42

His gaze traced a path from my chin to my hair. “Maybe she

meant you look like one.”

My hand flew to the top of my head. “Frizz. Not a halo,” I

said, hoping my suddenly hot cheeks hadn’t pinked. “And if you

knew she liked me, why did you have to talk to Jessica Liu?”

“Jess—? Oh. Right.” He sounded a bit sheepish. “It’s just,

Celeste doesn’t always have the best judgment about people

and . . . I tend to be pretty protective of her.”

We held eyes for a minute. Something had shifted; the

connection between us had changed. We’d stripped some things

away, like when you strip away layers of lumpy paint and get

down to the smooth, original wood.

I gestured in the direction of Frost House. “I have to go

prepare my presentation.”

David nodded and swung a leg over the frame. “Guess I’ll see

you there, if not before.”

I’d turned the corner toward home when I heard, “Leena?”

He biked toward me. “One other thing.”

“What?” I said.

“Spoons.”

“What?”

43

He rode around me in a circle. “Abby wanted to know what I

do. That’s it.”

“Spoons? ” I said, turning to follow his path.

He smiled, wide, with full-on dimples. In this light, the blue of

his eyes reminded me of raspberry slushies. “See you, Leena,” he

said. And rode away.

I decided to finish unpacking and arranging my room before

working on my presentation, and as I filled drawers and shifted

furniture and hung pictures, I kept wondering what David had

meant. People played spoons as instruments, but he’d said he

wasn’t a musician. There was a card game called Spoons; I found

that hard to imagine. So, what . . . ?

I hadn’t come up with any feasible possibilities when I joined

Viv and Abby upstairs. I didn’t ask for their input, though. Not that

I thought it was a big secret. Just that something about the way