Marianna Baer - Frost

He stopped dunking his tea bag. “Are you still worried she

did those things herself?”

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“No. I’m just . . . I don’t know. Confused,” I said. “I haven’t

been able to figure any of this out. I mean, I knew that it caused

my headaches and probably made me throw up, and made me

tired and generally not feel well. But I don’t get . . . There’s a lot I

don’t get.”

“If I didn’t know better,” he said, nudging me, “I’d think you

were trying to convince me that there was something weird going

on in that house.”

Before, I would have been the first one to buy into David’s

theory. The first one to say that was what happened to me, too.

That my thoughts had been altered, twisted by the unhealthy air

I’d been breathing. But then I remember the pull I felt toward the

closet, that very first day. And even before the first day we moved

in, the way I felt the first time I ever saw the house, that intense

need to live there.

And what had I seen that day last fall? What had I mistaken

for smoke, as it drifted from the unusable chimney and danced

into the sky?

After sending David away to the coffee shop, Celeste and I

sat on my dad’s balcony, even though it was cold outside. I think

we both wanted as much fresh air as we could get. We sat quiet

for a moment.

“So,” I finally said. “This is fucked up.”

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Celeste looked at me and laughed, a real laugh. “Yeah,” she

said. “It is.”

“There are still so many things I don’t understand,” I said.

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“How did you get the bruises?”

She pulled up the fur-lined collar of her vintage coat. “I’d

wake up, find them on me,” she said. “And I’d have strange

memories of fighting something off. It seemed like I was awake

when I did it.” She paused. “Who the hell knows? My shrink

thinks they happened during my night terrors. That I’d thrash

around so much I hurt myself.”

“I saw you do that,” I said. “I guess it could have happened.”

“Maybe.” We held eyes, though, and another conversation

passed between us. One in which we agreed on the possibility

that maybe she had been awake when she fought something off

all those nights. I knew it then: Celeste was as confused as I was.

“Something else,” I said. “Did you ever throw your beetle

photo across the room?”

“What?” she said. “No. When did that—?”

“The same night you were burned in the tub. I didn’t want to

tell you.”

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“That burn . . .” Celeste rubbed the spot where it had been.

“I know which handle I turned that night. The water coming out of

the faucet was cold.”

“But the faucet was hot enough to burn you?”

She nodded.

“What does your shrink say about that?”

She gave a half smile. “I’m waiting until a later session to

break it to her.” After a moment she continued. “You know, you

were right to tell Dean Shepherd what was happening. Thanks for

doing that.”

I felt a rush of shame, knowing that the main reason I had

done it was that I didn’t want to lose Frost House. How could I

have thought that I was so weak? How could I have been so

convinced that Frost House was the only place I could ever be

happy?

I might need a long time to answer those questions. Now, I

still had more for Celeste.

“So that night at your parents’,” I said, “you had a whole

story, about that woman who had lived in Frost House. Didn’t you

wonder why she hadn’t done anything before? To other

students? I’m assuming we would have heard if there were other

people who had trouble in the dorm.”

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She tightened her silver-wool-with-sequins scarf around her

neck.

“I thought it was because we were the first girls to live

there,” she said. “It was a woman who died; she’d had a baby girl

taken away from her. I thought she wasn’t interested in boys.”

Celeste stared off at a plane in the sky. “I couldn’t figure out what

she wanted, aside from me leaving, though.”

I didn’t say anything, just watched our healthy breaths puff

white in the cold air and thought about Celeste’s theory, thought

about my answer to her final question. And while thinking, I

realized: I knew everything that had happened to Celeste this

semester, but she didn’t know anything that had happened to

me. Somehow, it didn’t seem right.

Then I told her my version of the past months, including my

theory of what Frost House had wanted:

She had wanted Celeste to leave. But she had wanted me to

stay.

Forever.

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Chapter 42

I DROVE OUT TO BARCROFT this morning. Later today I

have a series of meetings with my teachers and Dean Shepherd.

I’ve fallen too far behind to finish the semester in some classes,

but we’re going to try and figure out if I can still get enough

credits to graduate on time.

I’m also having dinner with David. I don’t think either of us is

sure what’s going on with our relationship—things have changed,

obviously. But we’re taking slow steps, at least toward staying

friends. Celeste and I still haven’t talked to him about what might

have really happened in the dorm. We will, though. It’s too big a

secret to keep from someone I want to be close to. I told Viv

everything, and she immediately knew which possible story she

wanted to believe. “I’m so sorry, Leen,” she said, giving me a hug.

“I should have made us listen to Orin.”

When I made plans to come out here today, I was explicitly

told—by my therapist, my father, the dean—to stay away from

Frost House. Right. Like that was going to happen.

I parked in the gym lot and pushed my way through the

bushes and tree branches, into the backyard. I didn’t want to walk

in off the road, in case someone happened to see me. I’d heard

from Viv that the whole Frost House thing had completely

overshadowed any other campus gossip. And to think, all they

knew was that we’d had carbon monoxide poisoning.

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I paused for a moment before going inside. The house

appeared just as cozy and welcoming as the first time I saw it.

Now, though, I knew what I was seeing was just the architecture,

the outer shell; it didn’t mean anything about the type of house it

was inside. If I could see the house as it really was, it would be

dark and windowless. Uninhabitable.

My heart jumped when I entered the common room. The

light was dim and, at first glance, it seemed as if a tall figure stood

there, waiting for me. But I quickly saw what it was. The couch

had been moved into the middle of the room. The other furniture

was stacked precariously on top of it—table on top of armchair.

Maybe they were painting the walls again? Although I’d heard a

rumor that they were talking about tearing the house down, so

that didn’t make sense.

I worked my way around the odd sculpture and down the

hall. I ran my hand over the plaster wall, listened to the

conversation between floorboards. Celeste’s door stood open. I

pushed it farther with my index finger, but stayed in the hall as I

looked in. Shadowy. Empty. Very empty, if that’s possible.

I turned my back and crossed the hall. Bright sun filled my

room, bright enough so that it obliterated the room’s faults—

bumpy walls, gaps in the floorboards—instead of illuminating

them. The mattress had been removed from my bed. Otherwise,

all the furniture was still there.

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The door to the closet stood open a crack, the wood on the

edge split and splintered where it had been broken when they got

me out. I turned away and studied the bare tree branches

outside.

The heat wasn’t on in the house; a chill breeze leaked

through the windowpanes. I could feel it even in my down coat. I

pulled my hat over my ears and took a seat in the corner, as far

out of the cold drafts as I could get without going in the closet. I

spent the morning sitting there, going over the story in my mind,

from start to finish. Trying again to piece together the truth of it.

Knowing I probably never would have answers for some things,

like a tattoo of a stained-glass window—the memory of my

childhood and a house that I loved—that’s now almost invisible,

as if someone wanted it erased.

There is one thing I know to be true, though. No matter what

voice said those horrible things to me, that last time in the

closet—the voice of my own, darkest insecurities, or . . .

something else—in the end, I didn’t listen. I wouldn’t still be here

if I had.

It was almost time for my meeting with Dean Shepherd. I

hadn’t seen her since a short, confused visit at the hospital. I took

a moment to breathe away the rush of nerves, then stood and

stretched my chilled, stiff bones.

Took a last look at this beautiful room.

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A breeze shivered across my face; I sensed movement. The

closet door had blown open wider. I walked in slow, measured

steps until I was close enough to run a fingertip along the

splintered edge of the door, daring it to bite. Then, closing my

eyes, I drew a deep, deep breath. The feeling flooded me. The

same pull penetrated my body. It wrapped around me, strong as

an undertow; it wanted me to come in. I wanted to go in. I

wanted to go inside and shut the door behind me.

But I didn’t.

Part of me is still there, I believe. In that way, Frost House

will always be my home. But not the rest of me. I shut the closet

door. And walked out.

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Acknowledgments

Exuberant and heartfelt thanks:

To my agent, Sara Crowe: for her enthusiasm and hard work,

and for placing Frost in such good hands. To my editor, Kristin

Daly Rens: for her insight, positivity, and patience, and for

believing in me. To Sarah Hoy and Alison Donalty: for designing

the most stunning cover imaginable. And to the rest of the team

at Balzer + Bray: for caring about my book.

To the Vermont College of Fine Arts faculty, especially my

wise, witty, and deeply admired advisors—Cynthia Leitich Smith,

Brent Hartinger, Sharon Darrow, and Tim Wynne-Jones: for their

generous help in building Frost House. It’s a much creepier place,

thanks to them, and I mean that in the best way. To the students

at VCFA, especially my wonderful classmates, the Cliff-Hangers:

for their friendship and loyal support. To Galen Longstreth: for

her warmth and encouragement. To Jill Santopolo: for all the

advice and cheerleading, and for nudging Frost in the right

direction. And to Jandy Nelson: for making me laugh, keeping me

sane, and leading the way.

To all of my amazing friends, especially those who helped me

muddle through story issues while writing Frost—Stephanie

Knowles, Signy Peck, and Samera Nasereddin. To Annie and

Robert Del Principe, Julie and Chris Cummings, and Rachel, Bob

(and Ava!) Prince: for making sure I have a life outside of the

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fictional one in my apartment. To Louise Williams: for astute

critiques and invaluable guidance when I was starting out. To

Sandra Gering: for being a fan of everything I’ve ever written,

down to the last email. To Robin Spigel: for having way more faith

in me than I have in myself. To Brandon Russell: for his spoons.

And to the real girls of Frost House—Kate Donchi, Christina Henry

De Tessan, Marlene Laro Joel, Amanda Lydon, and Christina

Weaver Vest: for letting me sully the name of a place that held

only good memories.

To Tim Sultan: for taking care of me in so many ways; for

inspiring me to be a better writer; and for loving me even though

I have two legs, not four.

To Alexandra Bageris: for listening to me read Frost aloud

and gasping at all the right places; and for over thirty years of

being my best friend and encouraging me (sometimes forcefully!)

to take risks. I don’t know if I’d ever have been brave enough to

write a book without her standing next to me.

Finally, to my family: for raising me to be an avid reader; for

being so proud, supportive, and loving; for everything.

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About the Author

Marianna Baer received an MFA in writing for children and

young adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a BA in art

from Oberlin College. She also attended boarding school, where

she lived in a tiny dorm called Frost House, which was

subsequently torn down. She currently lives in Brooklyn, New

York. FROST is her first novel. You can visit her online at

www.mariannabaer.com.

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