Frost - Marianna Baer

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Dedication

For my mother, with love

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Part One

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Chapter 1

BEFORE I LIVED THERE, before any of this happened, I

imagined Frost House as a sanctuary. It crouches on the northern

edge of Barcroft Academy in a tangle of lilac and evergreen

bushes, shadowed by oaks and sugar maples. Hidden enough that

I didn’t even know it existed until junior year, when I chased a

field hockey ball through the underbrush into its backyard. I

assumed the white-clapboard cottage was a faculty member’s

house. Most Barcroft dorms are three-story brick buildings; this

was a weathered old Victorian, small and squat, with a

wraparound porch and a mansard roof hugging the second floor.

The kind of place a family would live. The first time I saw it, I could

almost hear a whispered call mingling with the soft rattle of

leaves: Come inside, come inside. . . .

When I realized that the house was actually a tiny dorm, that

my friends and I could be that family for our final semesters, I

knew I’d discovered our school’s very own Shangri-La. I couldn’t

escape the reality of senior year at ultracompetitive Barcroft, but

at least my home life could be a fantasy.

Over the summer I kept thinking what good luck it was I’d

stumbled upon Frost House that day. If I’d believed in anything

more mystical than textbook facts back then, I might have

wondered if it had been fate. I have no idea, now, if fate exists.

But I do know one thing about the day I found Frost House:

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Good luck had nothing to do with it.

The afternoon we moved in, a late-August storm turned the

surrounding leaves into a rain-whipped, electric-green frenzy.

Frost House waited in their midst. A little old lady.

“Isn’t she sweet?” I said to Abby as I eased my car up the

narrow driveway, branches scraping the windows on either side

of us.

“Sweet?” Abby said. “Maybe a couple hundred years ago.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of shabby chic?” I turned off the

engine of my equally ancient Volvo station wagon. The windshield

wipers died; Frost House melted into a blur. Abby and I glanced

back at the carful of stuff we had to unload.

“Let’s register first,” I said. “I’ll just check if Viv is here, in

case she wants to ride over with us.” I also couldn’t wait to see

my room. I’d been picturing how to decorate it for weeks—my

nightly fall-asleep ritual on the pullout couch at my dad’s.

Shielding myself with an armload of cotton tapestries, I

splashed up a brick path to the side door. Unlocked, luckily. I

stood in the snug entryway, smelled the fresh paint fumes, and

wiped the rain off my glasses. Music—The Black Keys—pulsed in

the humid air. I called Viv’s name up the staircase in front of me,

then realized the bass vibrations were coming from a suite of

rooms on the ground floor, tucked in the rear. Strange. Abby’s

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and Viv’s bedrooms were upstairs. I was the only one living back

there for the next few months.

I passed through the common room—pausing to appreciate

the glistening, milk-white walls; the comfortable couch and

armchair; the mini-fridge and microwave—and down a short hall,

music getting louder with every step: Let me be your everlasting

light . . . . On the right, my bedroom door gaped wide. Cardboard

boxes, duffels, and garbage bags littered the floor. Piles of

colorful clothes covered one of the beds, which was made up with

a silky violet quilt and sunshine yellow pillows.

Classic Viv. She’d obviously mixed up our room assignments.

Sensing movement on the other side of an open closet door,

I laid my tapestries on the second, unmade bed. The pounding

bass line camouflaged my footsteps as I crept around boxes and

bags toward my unsuspecting housemate. I waited for a moment

in a spot where we still couldn’t see each other, only the

thickness of the door between us now, and then sprang—

“Boo!”

“Jesus!” A guy spun around. Something fell from his raised

hands. I reached out, caught it. Owww. A sharp corner of the

poster-sized frame had stabbed my palm.

“What the hell?” The guy—dark hair; olive, freckled skin;

about my age—took the frame from me and set it on the floor.

“Are you crazy?”

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“Sorry,” I said, my palm throbbing but not cut. “I thought you

were—”

“Wait a minute.” He edged past me and turned off the

speakers. The air took a second to recover. “Thought I was what?”

he said. “In need of a heart attack?”

For a moment, I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. Then

he smiled, brows raised above his heavy-lidded, intensely blue

eyes. Whoever he was, he didn’t go to school here. I’d have

noticed.

“No,” I said. “Thought you were someone else.” Duh, Leena.

Now he laughed and rested his hands on his hips. “I figured.

I’m Celeste’s brother. David. I transferred to Barcroft this year.”

Celeste. I knew only one—Celeste Lazar, the eccentric art

star of our senior class. After he said it, I recognized the delicate

lines of her face mirrored more roughly in his: wide forehead,

curved cheekbones, firm chin. His nose was more prominent than

hers—high-bridged, Roman.

“Oh. Cool,” I said as if he’d explained anything pertinent.

“I’m Leena. And, unless I am crazy, this is my room.”

David’s smile faltered.

“Don’t feel bad,” I said quickly. “The campus is confusing. I

can drive your stuff to the right dorm.”

“They didn’t tell you?” he said.

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“Tell me what?”

“Man, I can’t believe they didn’t tell you.” He ran his hand

through his short hair and shifted his weight to his other foot.

“Celeste broke her leg.”

“Oh? That sucks.” A cold tingle began in my fingertips. There

could be no happy reason I needed to know this.

“Yeah, her room was supposed to be on the third floor of

some other dorm. So they decided that since your roommate is

away for the semester, and your room is on the ground floor . . .”

The blood drained to my feet. “So Celeste is living here?” I

said, sitting on the closest bed.

“Well, yeah. For one semester. But it’s not like they’re

kicking you out.”

I nodded and concentrated on an acid-green, zebra-striped

silk dress lying next to me. How could I have thought this stuff

belonged to Viv? Or to a guy?

“Try to contain your excitement,” David said.

“I’m just surprised.” I forced myself to look at him and

attempted a smile. “Where is she?”

“She had a thing at the hospital today. She’ll be here

tomorrow. It’s a bad break. Really messed up the bone.”

“What happened?”

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He hesitated. “She fell off the roof.”

“God.” An image of Celeste crumpled on the ground flashed

in my mind.

“Trying to get one of these birds’ nests she’s been

collecting,” David explained, answering my unspoken question.