Marianna Baer - Frost

own family. Not about yours.”

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It took a couple of seconds for his face to soften. “Sorry,” he

said. “I just assumed.”

“That’s okay.” I stepped back up on the chair and refocused

on hanging the shades, something I knew how to do. My hands

trembled.

We worked for a while in unsettled silence. I couldn’t believe

how many stupid things I’d said. I wasn’t usually so tactless. After

a few minutes, I asked, “Would you mind if we listened to my bio

lecture?”

David didn’t answer right away. “It’s not you,” he finally said,

keeping his eyes on what he was doing. “I’m just so used to being

defensive about my family. But you’ve been so cool about Celeste

moving in here, hanging these blinds for her, and you’re not all

freaked out about my dad, like people get. I appreciate it.”

I could tell that this was a major thing for him, protecting his

family. I guessed maybe he’d had to take his dad’s place, in some

ways.

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate . . . your appreciation.” Really?

That’s the best you could do?

Now he looked at me and smiled. “And I appreciate your

appreciation of my appreciation.”

“That’s so sweet.” I put a hand on my heart. “I appreciate

your appreciation of my appreciation of your appreciation.”

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We laughed—holding eyes. As I stared, something moved

behind him. I looked just in time to see the photo he’d hung fall

right off the wall, onto the bed. It landed with a clatter as the

Plexiglas jostled in the frame.

David turned. “Oops,” he said.

Because we’d smoothed over the tension between us, I

allowed myself a little dig. “I think, maybe, it’s better if you leave

the home-improvement projects to me.”

After David left, I couldn’t settle down to homework quite

yet—the conversation had been too intense and now I had too

much on my mind. I decided to see if there was anything I could

do to fix Celeste’s closet door. She kept having trouble opening it,

and I didn’t know if it was a problem with the knob, or if the wood

was swelling.

I tried the handle and the door opened smoothly. I turned

the knob back and forth, looked at the movement of the latch. It

seemed fine. I shut the door and opened it again, seeing if the

wood stuck. It didn’t. I couldn’t tell what the problem was. I

leaned my back against the doorframe, shut my eyes, and

breathed in. My skin tingled. Then the emotion—that sense of

contentment, safety—penetrated my cells. It’s weird, how scents

can be so powerful. My mother once told me that smells are key

to selling a house. Freshly baked bread, cinnamon, and coffee are

best, she’d said.

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The day I came home from school in eighth grade and our

own house smelled of baking bread, I wanted to vomit. Instead, I

ran upstairs, to the one place the smell couldn’t reach.

Wait a minute.

I breathed in again.

The attic.

That was it, wasn’t it? My attic fort in our house in

Cambridge. That’s what the closet smell reminded me of. I slid

down to the floor and folded my legs into my body. I couldn’t

believe it had taken me this long to make the connection.

Our house was a fixer-upper; my parents had always planned

on turning the spacious attic into a living space. But, in the

meantime, it had been a curious kid’s heaven—full of my parents’

and even my grandparents’ histories in junk and paper: love

letters, old school report cards, yearbooks, clothing, toys. . . .

If the whole attic was my kingdom, my fort was my castle. It

was hidden behind a rusty file cabinet and a coatrack where

someone’s ancient furs hung in plastic bags, just a simple pine

frame, covered by an old sheet, with pillows and a few stuffed

animals inside. An older cousin had helped me build it, and I’d

sworn her to secrecy. What was the point in having somewhere

to disappear to if other people knew where I went?

I squeezed my knees closer to my chest now, remembering

the day the Dumpster had arrived, the week we’d moved out.

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“Okay if I trash the wood from your old playhouse, Bean?” my

dad had said. Turned out, my parents had known about it the

whole time. One of the many things I’d become disillusioned

about.

“We’ve grown apart,” my mother said when she’d told me

they were splitting up. “All we have in common are you and the

house, Leenie.”

Well, yes. Wasn’t that their life?

We were a trio, after all. A unit. Whenever we played the

“what building would you be?” game, I’d tell them that Mom was

the downstairs floor of our house, I was the middle floor, and Dad

was the top, not separate buildings at all. They let me believe I

was right.

It was obvious why I’d thought that. I’d lived in that house

from the time I was born, and fixing it up was my parents’

passion. Why had they bothered if they knew we were just going

to sell it to strangers?

After the divorce, they both moved to condos: my mother to

an all-glass, modern monstrosity in LA, where she was originally

from, and my dad to a supposedly “luxury” one-bedroom on the

outskirts of Cambridge with hear-through walls and hollow doors.

I was reading Catcher in the Rye the first time I saw my dad’s

place. I decided his condo was the architectural equivalent of

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Holden’s phonies. I couldn’t believe my dad, of all people, was

living there. He said it was temporary; that was three years ago.

Now, I ran my hand lightly across Celeste’s clothes. Was

David trying to bring his sister back to a less messy time, by being

so protective of her? Maybe they’d had an idyllic childhood, with

a father who wasn’t sick yet. Maybe David’s vigilance was an

attempt at keeping Celeste safe from the ugliness of reality.

Maybe he was trying to build her a fort.

When I emerged from my closet reverie, I took a moment to

rehang Celeste’s photo. I wasn’t quite sure why it had fallen to

begin with—there was actually nothing wrong with the way David

had installed the nail. To be safe, I took the nail out and

hammered it in again, at a bit of a steeper angle. After resting the

frame on it, I studied the image for a moment. Even though it was

disturbing, there was something compelling about it. Still, I didn’t

understand how Celeste could want to look at a picture of herself

in which she appeared dead. I hoped—for both of their sakes—

that David was just a worrier. That he didn’t need to protect his

sister from anything.

Later, after dinner, I was in the bedroom going over my

notes for my first, short English paper when Celeste appeared in

the doorway. “I’ve never been so over-caffeinated in my life,” she

announced, then hopped in and collapsed next to me on my bed,

letting her crutches fall on the floor.

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“Where’ve you been?” I asked.

“The Mean Bean. The guy there is madly in love with me.”

She handed me a crumpled, white paper bag. “He gave me two

free iced latte refills and three of those dark chocolate biscotti.

Now I’m supposed to meet people at open mic at Graham House

and I’m all juiced up. And I’m going to have to pee every five

minutes. You want to come? I might sing. If they’re lucky.”

“You sing?” I opened the bag and broke off a piece of cookie.

“No. But I pretend I can.”

“Tempting,” I said, smiling. “I think I’ll stay here, though.” I

was about to turn back to my notes when I remembered. “Hey.

Don’t you notice anything?”

It took her a moment. “The shades, you mean?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“They look okay,” she said. “But can’t people see right

through them? They’re just paper.”

“No,” I said. “Maybe at most someone could see fuzzy

silhouettes.”

I went back to studying as Celeste got up and began putting

together an outfit to wear to the open-mic thing. When she’d

finally settled on a dark red dress with black net tights, I noticed

her looking around at the windows. I thought I saw her shiver

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slightly, before she grabbed her crutches and her clothes and

headed to change in the bathroom.

That night was only one week into the semester. I don’t think

I ever saw her undress in the bedroom again.

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Chapter 10

THE SHADES DIDN’T DO A VERY GOOD job of helping

Celeste sleep, either. With the windows open, they flapped and

crackled in the wind. Or so she said. With the windows closed, the

air in the room was stagnant and stifling. Also, moonlight filtered

in through the rice paper. So, despite my best efforts, after three

or so weeks at school, Celeste hadn’t gotten a good night of sleep

yet, and I heard about it. Often.

Every time someone came to me for peer counseling and had

complaints about their roommate—which was a lot of what us

counselors dealt with at the beginning of the year—I wished I

could offer my own stories, so we could commiserate.

During one of my sessions, a redheaded freshman was

especially upset. She sat in the chair across from mine, crying,

trying to explain to me all of the ways in which she was unhappy.

“Is the roommate situation what’s bothering you the most?”

I asked when she seemed to have finished her initial, somewhat

rambling explanation.

“Uh-huh.” She blew her nose into the tissue I’d given her.

“Are people ever allowed to switch?”

“Only in extraordinary circumstances,” I said. “Having a

roommate is like living with your sister. She might not be your

best friend, but you have to make it work.”

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“But I liked living with my sister,” the girl said in a tone

verging on a whine. “I wish I still were.”

“Why did you come to Barcroft?” I asked. Maybe this wasn’t

so much about her actual roommate.

“My dad wanted me to. He went here. I . . . I guess I didn’t

really not want to come. But I would’ve rather stayed with them. I

want to be home.” She crossed her arms and stared out the

window. Beyond our reflections in the glass, the new addition to

the library glowed in the night, like an enormous, geometric ice

sculpture. I could see two people inside gazing back in our

direction. For a moment, I thought one was David.

Since spending that morning together installing the shades,

he and I had started hanging out a bit—walking to classes, sitting

on the steps before the bell, sometimes having a meal at

Commons. He’d left a series of notes in my mailbox: The

Principles of Spoon Theory. I smiled, thinking of them, forgetting

for a moment the girl was waiting for me to say something.

“Well, look at it this way,” I said. “You have to change your

frame of mind so that from now on, Barcroft is home. When you

go visit your parents, you need to think of it that way—as visiting.

Otherwise when you’re here, you’ll always feel like you’re away,

which is kind of an ungrounded way to feel. Right?”

She nodded and sniffled. I offered her the tissue box again.

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“So, if you went into Boston next weekend and met

someone, and they asked where you lived, you’d say, ‘Barcroft,’

you know? Instead of . . . ?”

“Greenwich.”

“Right. Greenwich. So, to feel like you’re in a comfortable,

happy home, you need to develop a better relationship with your

roommate. Should we write down some ways you might like to

talk to her?”

Another nod.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll get this all worked out.”

At nine thirty, I locked the door to the counseling offices

behind me and headed to the dorm, enjoying the unmistakable

crispness of Massachusetts fall that had blown in this week. I’d

looked for Frost House’s working fireplace this afternoon,

thinking we could start using it soon, and had been surprised to

find that it was all bricked up and obviously had been for years.

What had I seen that day last fall, when I was deciding whether or

not to call the dean? Not smoke from the chimney, sadly.

But fireplace or no, I did still have that lovely, deep, claw-

foot tub. As I walked up the porch steps, trying to convince myself

that I could concentrate on my homework in a bubble bath, my

phone rang. Abby.

“Are you on your way back here?” she said.

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“Opening the door now.”

“Good,” she said, and hung up.

No one was in the common room; somehow, though, the air

still snapped with tension, like it was warning me to be on my

guard. Voices echoed from down the hall.

Celeste, Abby, and Viv stood in my bedroom, in various

postures of hostility—arms crossed or on hips, chins thrust out,

feet planted wide. Shards of familiar glossy white-and-green

ceramic lay on the floor at their feet, with dried Chinese lantern

flowers scattered among the pieces. My stomach plummeted.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Celeste is accusing me of breaking her vase,” Abby said.

“Why? What happened?” I asked Celeste.

“She doesn’t know,” Abby answered before Celeste could

speak.

“Jesus.” Celeste briefly raised her eyes to the ceiling then

looked at me. “I came back from the studio and found Annie

standing here with the vase in pieces on the floor. Now she’s

trying to say David did it? What am I, stupid?”

“I guess so,” Abby said. “Because it’s Abby. Not Annie.”

“Okay, Abby, but you were in here?” I said. For an ugly

moment, I remembered the rip in Celeste’s skirt and Abby’s

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comments about hoping Celeste would move out. . . . But no,

there was no way she’d do something this mean.

Abby held her hands up in front of her. “It was broken when I