Marianna Baer - Frost

caretaking mother; me, the problem-solving, fix-it father; Abby,

the impatient, excitable kid. Where would Celeste fit in?

“I just don’t picture the two of us as roommates,” I said.

“I know, Leena. But Ed Roper told me you got along

beautifully as lab partners in his class last year. One of the things

we all appreciate about you is your ability to get along with

different people. Frankly, I didn’t feel comfortable with the other

possible roommate matchups.”

Her eyes held mine. I saw admiration in them, but also

expectation. The vise tightened around my chest again.

A knock came at the door.

“Yes?” Dean Shepherd said.

While the dean had a conversation with Marcia, I scanned

the paper-strewn surface of her desk. Two thick manila files sat by

a Lymphoma Society mug. Handwritten tabs read Celeste P. Lazar

and David M. Lazar.

I never wanted to be a thick file.

25

“Of course,” Dean Shepherd said, once we were alone again,

“if you have any serious objections, I’ll rethink the other options.

The last thing I want is to make you unhappy. And I know how

much you’ve been looking forward to Frost House.”

Even though she knew that, she was counting on me to

agree to this. For some reason, she thought Celeste needed Frost

House, and I trusted Dean Shepherd. Could I do this for her?

“Just this one semester, right?” I said. “When Kate comes

back from Moscow, she’ll be able to move in?”

“Definitely. Kate will be your roommate this spring, as

planned. Celeste’s cast will be off by then.”

“What if it’s not? Or what if she wants to stay?”

“Leena.” The dean smiled. “You have my word that Kate will

be your roommate in Frost House next semester. No matter what

happens with Celeste.”

I looked down at my hands, pale and veiny. White and blue.

Like porcelain, I’d been told. I curled them into fists.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d taken

that resolve and told Dean Shepherd I wanted Celeste moved

somewhere else. Would things have turned out differently in the

end?

For Celeste, yes, of course. But for me?

I still would have lived in Frost House, after all.

26

Chapter 4

WITH ONLY TWENTY MINUTES before dinner, I couldn’t

bring myself to put on all my clothes after cold-showering. I stood

in front of a fan, wearing boy shorts and a bra, trying to figure out

the best furniture arrangement for my side of the bedroom.

The room extends off the back of Frost House—almost more

of a sunporch. Three of the walls have windows that look out on

the postcard-size backyard bordered by thick foliage. Even on a

gray day like this the room glowed with natural light. Along with

the original moldings around the windows and the worn wooden

floorboards, the light made the space especially cozy and

cheerful. Welcoming.

It was even nicer than I’d remembered over the summer.

But, of course, the furniture setup and decorations I’d planned

weren’t possible now that it was a double. Look on the bright

side, I told myself. Celeste’s bedspread and pillows were pretty,

and her hat collection looked funky lined up on a bookcase. It

could have been worse. She could have been a fan of cliché

posters like Starry Night and The Kiss.

David had placed a bunch of persimmon-orange tulips in a

painted ceramic vase on top of her dresser. He’d also put three

tulips on my dresser, in a water bottle. I couldn’t believe he’d

thought of that, considering everything else he had to do. And

considering how rude I’d been to him.

27

A framed snapshot sat next to Celeste’s vase. I stepped over

and picked it up. David stood between Celeste and a stocky man I

assumed must be their father, an arm around each of them, on a

white-sand-turquoise-ocean beach. Celeste was laughing—

beautiful, as usual; David had a goofy look—eyebrows raised and

mouth in an O, like he was faking surprise. He was shirtless. My

gaze momentarily got stuck on the muscles that led from his hips

into his low-slung trunks. Other than his average height, I hadn’t

noticed much about his body during our disastrous meeting.

Looking at the picture, I could tell he was built like the soccer

guys—slim and cut.

On David’s left, Mr. Lazar was much rounder and his face

appeared to be in motion. The slight blur kept me from

recognizing any features he shared with his kids. What sort of

“difficulties” had the family had this past year? Mrs. Lazar wasn’t

in the photo. Maybe they’d gotten divorced. I’d spent enough

time with Celeste that I would have known if one of her parents

had died.

I set the photo back down. Next to the dresser, the closet

door stood open just enough to show the Mardi Gras effect of

Celeste’s wardrobe.

Out of curiosity, I opened the door wider. The closet air—still

cooler than the rest of the room, despite all the clothes—reached

out and brushed across my skin again, bringing with it that same

pungent scent. A pleasant shiver ran through me. Probably the

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smell was from the door having been sealed tight during the heat

of the summer. Or maybe a liquid—wine, cologne—spilled in

there once, permanently soaking into the wood. It reminded me

of something . . . or somewhere. I held the scent in my mind and

tried to remember, but couldn’t come up with anything more

concrete than a vague emotion. One you feel in your chest, not

your gut. Contentment, maybe.

As it had earlier, the combination of the cool air and the

smell made me wish that I could close myself up in there. Avoid

this altogether.

I ran my fingers over the clothing crowded together on the

hanging bar: a poufy red satin skirt, a geometric-patterned wrap

dress, a lapis-blue sari—the antithesis of my own unofficial prep-

school uniform of various jeans (straight leg, cutoffs, and minis),

T-shirts, and hoodies. My hand came to rest on a familiar fuchsia-

and-gold, gauzy fabric. I recognized the skirt Celeste had worn the

first day of chemistry class last year.

She had sashayed into the lab wearing this long, narrow skirt

with extra fabric gathered at the rear, like a bustle from the 1880s

made modern. I’d guessed that it was either some very expensive

designer thing, or that she’d made it herself. She hadn’t gotten it

at J.Crew. On top, she wore a plain white undershirt. No bra. She

didn’t need one, but still.

When we were put together as lab partners, I told her how

cool the skirt was.

29

“It hides my nonexistent ass,” Celeste had said. Her wide,

disconcerting eyes scanned me up and down before she added,

“You’re lucky. You don’t have that problem.”

“Thanks,” I’d murmured, not sure whether “screw off” would

have been a more appropriate response.

Now, I took the skirt out of the closet, searched along the

waistband, and couldn’t find a label. Maybe it was handmade. On

a whim, I undid the hidden zipper on the side, then stepped in,

wondering what it felt like to wear it. I wriggled the fabric up until

it hesitated at my thighs. I was much curvier than Celeste, but the

material had some stretch in it. I wriggled some more.

The skirt squeezed over my hips. I didn’t bother with the

zipper. Soft fabric hugged my bare legs as I took tiny steps toward

my full-length mirror. How had Celeste managed to sashay in

this?

“Leen?” Abby’s voice called. The thwak-thwak of her flip-

flops sounded from the hall. “Ready for dinner?”

“Not quite,” I called back.

She appeared in the doorway. “Whoa, Nelly.”

“What do you think?” I did an awkward 360-degree turn.

“I think you better be careful living with her doesn’t drag you

over to the dark side.”

“I lived with you for a year and emerged unscathed.”

30

“Touché.” She sat on my bed, amidst the bags I hadn’t

unpacked yet. “Viv and I are starving. Are you wearing that to

Commons?”

“Yeah, right.” I eased the skirt back down. “Let me just—” A

tiny ripping sound froze my movements.

“Oops,” Abby said.

I slid it the rest of the way off and double-checked the fabric

all over, holding my breath. “Seems fine. Thank God,” I said. I

started to walk toward the closet, anxious to get the skirt out of

my hands.

“Hey,” Abby said. “Your tattoo!”

I stopped and twisted around to look at my low back. A

geometric flower grew there, a little larger than a silver dollar.

Thick black lines surrounded ruby, sapphire, and emerald petals. I

got a shock every time I saw it, like I’d inhabited someone else’s

body.

“It’s like stained glass,” she continued. “Really pretty.”

“Thanks. It’s of this window in my bedroom in Cambridge.”

“At your dad’s?”

“No. My old room. Before we moved.”

31

I turned my attention back to the skirt, clipping it onto the

hanger and hanging it up in the exact spot it had been before. I

felt an immediate sense of relief.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” I said, shutting the closet

behind me and leaning against the door.

“What?”

“Tried on her skirt. Or looked through her stuff at all. Here I

am, worried about what kind of roommate she’ll be, and I’m

totally invading her privacy.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Abby said. “And if Celeste thinks you’re a

bad roommate, maybe she’ll move out.” She raised her eyebrows.

No—I didn’t want it to be like that. I’d agreed to the

arrangement, after all. Being a bitch wouldn’t help anything. And,

despite my fleeting urges, neither would disappearing into the

depths of the closet. I wasn’t Lucy Pevensie and this wasn’t a

magic wardrobe.

“Give me two minutes to get dressed,” I said. “I’ll meet you

out front.”

I rummaged through my bags until I found a denim mini and

my favorite navy-and-white-striped tee, quickly put them on, and

sat on my bed to do the buckles on my sandals.

32

Across the room, I noticed that the closet hadn’t stayed shut.

The latch must not have caught, even though I’d leaned against

the door. It had eased open to show a strip of inviting darkness.

As if it was telling me I could always change my mind.

33

Chapter 5

“ I’M GOING TO FIND CAM ”, Viv called. She headed out of

the food-service area into upper left, our favorite of the four

dining rooms in Commons, where Cameron, her boyfriend, was

saving us a table.

“Behind you,” Abby called back.

I took a minute to pick a Granny Smith apple from the fruit

bowl and followed in their direction.

At the entrance to the dining room, a lone guy with dark hair

and a soccer player’s build stood holding a tray, his back to me.

David Lazar. Damn. Could I slip past unnoticed? Did I want to? He

turned his head, side to side, shifted his weight from foot to foot,

the way he had when he’d told me about Celeste. Of course, the

view in front of him was a sea of unknown faces.

“Need a place to sit?” I asked, stepping up beside him.

He glanced over. “Leena, hey,” he said. “Thanks, but I’m

pretty wiped. Probably wouldn’t be great company.”

So why hadn’t he just taken an empty seat? Maybe, despite

the tulip gesture, he didn’t want to eat with me.

“Sorry I was rude at the dorm,” I said, adjusting the dishes on

my tray so it was more balanced. “If you want to sit alone, that’s

34

cool. But I’m with the rest of Frost House, if you’re curious to

meet them.”

He tilted his head slightly. “They’re not going to hide under

the table and jump out at me, are they?” he said.

I laughed. “No. I think you’re safe.”

We started into the room. I scanned it quickly until I spotted

Viv and Abby at a table by the tea-and-coffee station.

Commons is one of Barcroft’s older buildings. It has a grand,

Gothic feel—high, arched windows, paneled walls, massive

chandeliers, and dangerously slippery marble floors. It took

serious concentration to walk, hold my tray, and say hi to

everyone I passed whom I hadn’t seen yet since being back at

school, especially since I was conscious of David watching me

from behind.

As we neared the table, Abby’s eyes were round, like I was

bringing a gift-wrapped box with her name on it. The neckline of

her tank top had dipped mysteriously lower.

“So,” she said to David, after he and I had sat down and I’d

introduced everyone, “your first meal here and you already found

the best dining room.”

“Did I?” he said. “Celeste mentioned this is the one she

usually eats in.”

“Yeah, she would,” Abby said.

35

“Why’s that?” David asked. I thought I heard an edge in his

voice.

“Upper left tends to have more artsy types.” Abby gestured

at students around us, as if they were all splattered with oil paint.

“Although, Leena and Viv aren’t artsy, so it’s not a given. Jocks

and more conservative types tend toward upper right. But some

of the football guys are in here tonight, so that’s not a given

either. The lower halls tend to have underclassmen and more

nondescripts. Kind of a mishmash. Anyway, this is where you

should look for us first. We’re usually here. Except when we’re

not.” She grinned.

“Valuable information,” he said, smiling back.

A tall, auburn-haired girl I recognized but didn’t know

stopped at the table. “David, right?” she said. “We met earlier? At

registration? I just wanted to say that if you’re interested in the

Ride Club, you should totally come talk to me about it. My name’s