Marianna Baer - Frost

I CONCENTRATED ON THE SOUND of my cleats hitting the

slate path that crossed the quad— tock, tock, tock. I tried not to

run, but I wasn’t sure how long I could hold in the tears. A girl

from Gender class said hi as we passed, and I managed to say it

back, my smile straining from fakeness. Okay, I just had to pass

Commons and then down the hill and I’d almost be home. Tock,

tock, tock . . . I reached the driveway, turned in, and there was

Celeste. Coming toward me. I wiped under my nose.

“Can’t talk,” she said, moving as fast as I’d seen her go on

crutches. “I am so, so, so late.”

Thank God. “When will you be home?” I asked, trying to

sound casual.

“Not till after dinner.” She almost passed by me, but then

stopped. “By the way, thanks for telling David all that.” Her voice

was heavy with sarcasm.

“Oh. I—”

“You told him I was paranoid? What were you thinking? Do

you realize the crap I have to deal with now?”

I pulled myself together with my last bit of energy. “Sorry. I

was worried about you.”

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“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “David

doesn’t have to worry about me. I told you that before. I told you

to keep your mouth shut.”

“Sorry,” I said again, but she’d already turned away from me.

I hurried down the side path and up the porch steps, my field

hockey stick clattering against them. The minute I burst through

the door I knew the house was empty; I could tell by the stillness.

And, oh . . . it felt so good to be home. The solid walls wrapped

around me like a blanket. I headed straight to my bed, curled up

on my side, and hugged my pillow, letting my tears soak into it,

trying to muffle the dean’s voice echoing in my head. Bad

judgment . . . How could I have been so stupid, saying those

things to that girl? And what if she left school because of me? I’d

be responsible for ruining her chance here at Barcroft. All I

wanted was to turn back time, to talk to that girl again and say

the right thing.

I reached for Cubby and wrapped my hand tightly around

her. Calm down, I told myself. I drew in deep breaths as well as I

could through my stuffed nose. You made a mistake. Everyone

makes mistakes. I traced Cubby’s feathers with my fingertip—

over and over. It’s okay to be upset. You’ll feel better soon.

Through my rough breaths, I heard a noise—the front door

opening. I sat up and wiped my face, listened to the sound of

someone coming in the entryway. It wasn’t Celeste. Her crutches

were so distinctive. But whoever it was didn’t go upstairs either.

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Footsteps started across the common room, which meant they

were headed in this direction.

I didn’t have time to think, just knew I couldn’t bear talking

to anyone. Quick and quiet, I hurried to the only safe place—

Celeste’s closet. I pulled the door closed behind me—it made no

noise at all—slid through dresses and skirts, all the way to the

back, into a corner, Cubby clutched in my hand.

I made it there just in time; footsteps sounded in the room.

I sat very, very still. Who was out there? Viv or Abby,

borrowing clothes again? I didn’t hear drawers being opened. But

it wasn’t someone just checking if we were here—they would

have left already, if that were the case.

Maybe . . . maybe someone had broken Celeste’s vase on

purpose. Maybe whoever it was was in the room now, looking for

something else to do to her. Was that possible? I swallowed,

reached forward slowly, carefully, and parted the curtain of

clothes, hoping . . . No, there wasn’t a keyhole to look through,

nothing to—

Click-click.

My body went rigid.

The doorknob right in front of me—it was turning. The door

itself rattled.

Someone was trying to get into the closet.

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Click-click. I shrank back against the wall, my heart beating

like crazy now, beating so hard I was sure the person could hear it

through the solid wood barrier between us. What should I do?

What could I do? I pressed my spine harder against the wall as the

doorknob click-click-click ed and the door rattled some more. I

wondered if I pressed back hard enough whether the wall would

open up and swallow me before the door unstuck. Click, click,

rattle, rattle. My heart was about to stop, it was thump-thump-

thump ing too hard. I pressed back and closed my eyes, waiting for

the inevitable light to stream in. A little kid, thinking, If I don’t see

you, you don’t see me.

Rattle, rattle. BAM. Like a fist against the door now. Click-

click, rattle, rattle.

Maybe the person had ripped Celeste’s skirt, too, and had

hidden in this very closet and knocked on the wall with the same

fist they were now— BAM—banging against the door.

I held Cubby up to my face, wrapped both my hands around

her, and prayed to whatever nameless entity someone like me

who doesn’t believe in anything prays to, and then . . .

Nothing.

Wait . . .

Still nothing.

The rattling, the turning—they had stopped before my heart

did.

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Now, a voice. A male voice, incongruously calm, muffled but

still understandable. “Hey, so, I’m here trying to get your laundry

bag, but I can’t open the damn closet. Is there some trick?

Anyway, I’ll come by later, I guess. But call if you get this message

in the next couple minutes.”

David. Leaving a message for Celeste. It was David.

A shudder poured through me. Both relief that no one was

doing something bad to Celeste—of course they weren’t—but

also a moment of panic at the thought of David being the one to

find me in here. How would I have explained that I was hiding in

his sister’s closet?

His footsteps left the room. I sat for a minute, letting my

body recover from the scare. Every muscle had been taut, and as

they loosened, I even laughed quietly at how ridiculously

frightened I had been. I briefly considered taking some sort of

calming pill, but then realized that sitting here in the closet was

having a similar effect. Surrounded by the smell of my attic and

these cool walls, in the now not-quite-pitch dark. Just light

enough so I could make out where things were. Being in here

made everything seem so far away—what had happened with the

dean, my confusion about David. In here, there was a sense of

being out of time and place. Safe.

I held Cubby up to my face. “Rough day,” I said. “Any advice,

O wise one?”

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Stay in here, she said.

So I did. I leaned my head back against the wall and let

myself just be.

Eventually, though, I realized that Celeste might come home

earlier than she’d said. I pushed through her clothes, and as I put

my hand on the doorknob, I wondered why it hadn’t occurred to

me that I might not be able to get out, since David hadn’t been

able to get in. But when I turned the knob, the door opened

easily. Like it always did for me. Back in the bedroom, I shut the

door again and tried to open it. No problem. Why hadn’t it

opened for David, after all his shaking and rattling? Was it like

when you try to open a jar, and you strain with all your might, and

then hand it to someone else and it comes off first twist?

I supposed that’s all it was, that I’d been incredibly lucky, and

with one more pull, David would have gotten in. It didn’t seem

quite believable that he hadn’t been able to, since he was trying

so hard, but I couldn’t think of another explanation.

As I stood there with my hand on the door, I said a little

thank-you to Frost House, for doing such a good job of protecting

me.

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Chapter 13

MS. MARTIN’S KITCHEN RESEMBLED a construction site,

the counters covered with ingredients and cooking equipment for

the inaugural dorm dinner. Abby was helping me make vegetarian

lasagna, garlic bread, and arugula salad with apples and toasted

walnuts, and helping frost the red velvet cupcakes I’d baked

yesterday afternoon.

I opened the freezer door of the ancient mustard-yellow

refrigerator and took out two packets of spinach I’d stored there.

I’d just finished telling Abby how bad I’d screwed up when trying

to help that girl Nicole, and how upset Dean Shepherd had been.

I’d been worried that talking about it would make me feel like an

idiot, that it would bring back all of the horrible feelings. But Abby

was so incensed, so convinced I’d done nothing wrong, that I

actually felt better.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this sooner,” Abby said. “I

would’ve kicked that girl’s ass. And then kicked the dean’s ass,

too. Maybe I still will.”

“Please don’t,” I said, smiling as I imagined it.

“If she leaves school because of this, she’s a total wuss. Good

riddance.” Abby threw the top of an onion in the trash for

emphasis.

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“I saw her from across the quad today, so she hasn’t left

yet,” I said. “Can you hand me that?”

She reached for the glass bowl I’d gestured at. “Why’d you

lock your room today?” she said as she passed it to me. “I wanted

to get back the jeans you borrowed.”

I hadn’t mentioned to Viv and Abby that we’d started locking

it. I’d been hoping that, by some miracle, they wouldn’t find out,

and that Celeste would change her mind once she calmed down

and realized we didn’t need to.

“No reason,” I said, placing the icy, green bricks in the bowl.

Leo the cat rubbed his side against my leg. “I can’t pick you up

while I’m cooking, cutie. Sorry.”

“I’m too heavy to pick up anyway.” Abby patted her

stomach.

“Ha.”

“But seriously,” she said. “You never lock your room. There

must be some reason.”

“Celeste and I agreed that since we’re on the first floor,

maybe it’d be a good idea.” I slid the bowl in the microwave.

Abby was quiet for a moment. “Did she tell you to? Because

she thinks I broke that vase?”

“We’re just being careful, Abb. I told her you didn’t do it.”

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Abby rinsed a red pepper and set it on the cutting board.

Then she said, “I’ve tried to be nice. What’s her problem?”

“She doesn’t know you.” I turned my attention to the

flashing countdown on the microwave. I hated being caught

between them like this. “If she did, she wouldn’t have accused

you to begin with.” The microwave beeped. I stirred the spinach

into a ricotta-and-egg mixture.

Abby’s chopping had slowed to one chop per second. It

occurred to me that I had a perfect change of subject. “You

know,” I said. “She invited Whip to this dinner.”

Abby looked over at me. “Whip? Are you kidding?”

I grinned and shook my head. “Nope. I just found out.”

“Celeste invited Whip. Why? What possible reason?”

Whip Windham—Spaulding Whipple Windham IV—is an old-

school preppie of the madras shorts and bluchers, white-blond

hair and thin lips, destined to be a (Republican) member of

Congress, variety.

“They’re doing some project together,” I explained.

“Wow.” Abby smiled, bucked up by this amusing piece of

news, as I knew she would be. “That’s quite a couple. Green Beret

and Whippersnapper. Whichever teacher paired them up is my

new hero. I’d love to be a fly on the wall while they’re working

together.”

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I laughed. “Whip’s probably scared to death.”

“I assumed she invited David for dinner,” Abby said. “Viv told

me he’s coming.”

I stirred more vigorously.

“Leen? I thought we were all only supposed to invite one

person?”

“I invited David,” I said.

“What? Celeste made you?”

“No. I wanted to.” I poured olive oil into a pan on the stove.

“He’s a really good guy, Abby. You should see how much he

worries about his sister. He’s not all obsessed with himself, like

the other guys here are.”

“Yeah,” she said, “instead of being obsessed with himself

he’s obsessed with her. He’s in here all the time, carrying her

books, her laundry. God knows what else. I don’t think it’s nor—”

“Abby,” I said. “He’s my friend. Okay?”

“Oh my God,” she said, putting down her knife. “You like

him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do. As a friend.”

“You want to have his crazy babies!”

“Jesus.” I turned from the snapping and cracking pan of hot

oil to face her. “You sound just like Celeste.”

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Abby stared at me, obviously taken aback. “Thanks a lot.”

“I mean . . . the way you’re blowing this up just to make it

into a big drama. We’re friends, okay? Sure I have a crush on him,

but we’re just friends. And if you gave him a chance, you’d like

him, too. It doesn’t mean anything bad that he’s Celeste’s

brother.”

“Okay,” she said, picking up the knife again. “Whatever you

say.”

Whip brought out a silver, monogrammed flask from the

inside pocket of his navy blazer.

“My contribution to the evening, ladies.” He poured a shot

into the can of Coke I’d just given him and offered me the flask.

I sniffed it.

“Grey Goose,” he said. “I have a second one. Plenty for all.”

Ms. Martin was out until eight at the earliest—that’s when

we had to be finished in her kitchen—so I added a splash of the