Frost (3 page)

Chapter 4

W
ITH 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.

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 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.

“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.”

“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.”

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.

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.

Chapter 5

“I’
M GOING TO FIND
C
AM
,” 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 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.

“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 Cora.”

“Thanks so much,” David said. “I will.”

After Cora floated away, Abby pointed a carrot stick in her direction and said to David, “
That’s
why you’re going to want to find us at meals.”

“Uh, why?” he said.

“You’re such a rarity,” she explained. “A new guy who’s not fourteen years old. You’re going to need our protection from the swarming hoards.”

“Should I carry a Taser or something?” he said, pretending to be alarmed.

“Oh, definitely.” More grinning.

I took a bite of thick, buttered bread and swallowed past my immature jealousy of the obvious spark between Abby and David. Also, I hoped Abby was just flirting, that she wasn’t considering him as a possibility. Gorgeous as he was, we were living with his sister. It could get messy if one of us hooked up with him and it didn’t go well. Although maybe I didn’t have to worry about that with Abby. She didn’t have the fiascos I did when it came to guys.

“Cam?” I said. “You go on Ride Club trips sometimes, don’t you?”

“Yep,” Cameron said, peeling a banana. “Usually the overnights.” He and Viv had been together since freshman year. They were noticeable around campus since, after a late growth spurt, Viv towered five inches taller than him. They hated when people called them cute; but, well, they
were
. “You bike for fun?” he asked David. “Or are you trying out for the team?”

“For fun,” David said, “and transportation.”

“Are you an artist, like your sister?” Abby asked.

He shook his head and took a sip of lemonade.

“I bet you’re a . . .” She rested her fingertips on her temples, pretending to be psychic. “A musician. You play guitar.”

“Nope,” he said. “Tone-deaf.”

There was a brief silence. I think we were all expecting David to say what he
did
do, what activity/talent/passion he’d be emphasizing on his college apps. He didn’t say anything, though, just ate a couple of black olives off his salad.

“Will you guys help me with my peer-counseling presentation for the new students tonight?” I asked Viv and Abby. “I’m already nervous.”

“You’ll be amazing,” Viv said. She looked at David. “Leena started this whole program where students are trained to counsel other students about stuff, for kids who’d rather not go to psych services. It’s been really successful.” She said this so proudly. I squirmed in my seat, embarrassed.

“Other schools have similar programs,” I said. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“Celeste told me about it,” David said. “And I noticed your thing on the orientation schedule.”

“We’re excited to have her in the dorm,” Abby said. David didn’t respond so she added, “Your sister.”

“Oh,” he said. “Uh-huh.”

“Are you guys twins?” she asked. “Or are you a junior?”

“A senior, but I’m a year older.” He paused. “I took last year off.”

“Ahh—an older man . . .” Abby’s voice was kiddingly suggestive. “What’d you do?”

David pushed his rigatoni marinara around his plate. “Different things.” His energy had shifted. Maybe he really was tired, like he’d said, and not in the mood to be grilled.

“Abby?” I said. “Can you pass the salt? And the pepper, too?”

She pulled a Plastic Man to reach the shakers but didn’t switch her focus. “Did you travel?” she asked him.

“Not really. A week in Costa Rica.”

“If you did anything interesting, you should be on Viv’s show.”

“Definitely,” Viv said. “Cam and I host a WBAR show on Tuesday nights. We play music, but we also have guests on to talk about whatever. You could talk about what you did last year, why you’re at Barcroft now, what sign you are . . . you know, stuff. It’s fun.”

David laid a napkin over his pasta, as if covering a corpse. Blots of red seeped through the thin, white paper. “How’s this?” he said. “I had to leave school—Pembroke—because they busted me for cheating. At the same time, my dad’s mental illness got really bad and I didn’t want him to have to live in a group facility, so I moved home to help my mother take care of him. But I guess I didn’t do a very good job because he decided the government had sent me there to poison him. Barcroft took into account the extenuating circumstances, and the fact that I got really good grades at Pembroke, and let me in. Any questions?”

The sounds of other diners’ conversations, laughter, and utensils clanking against their plates seemed to swell around us as we sat there staring at our food. I struggled to come up with the right words. A schizophrenic father. God.

Unfortunately, Abby spoke first. “You might want to put a different spin on that for the radio show,” she said.

I knew she was hoping to lighten the moment, but she just sounded harsh.

David didn’t look up.

The meal ended quickly. On my way out of the dining hall, I stopped to put my tray—minus silverware and uneaten apple—on the kitchen conveyor belt. David placed his after mine.

“Sorry,” he said. “Long day. I should have sat alone.”

“It wasn’t you.” I plunked my utensils in the designated bin of murky dishwater, trying not to let any splash on us. “They meant well, though.”

We followed the flow of students into the hallway and down marble stairs that were smoothed unevenly by years of footsteps. I let Viv and Abby go on ahead, instead keeping pace with David.

Outside, he said, “I have my ride,” and gestured to the bike rack at the north end of Commons. I was walking the same general direction, so I drifted next to him.

“Is, um, is your father okay?” I asked as he squatted by a blue road bike. He’d obviously gotten sick of answering questions. Still, I couldn’t leave it hanging like that.

“Depends what you mean by okay,” he said, undoing the chunky padlock. “He’s alive. Living in a facility, for now.”

“I think it’s amazing that you took care of him,” I said. “Schizophrenia must be so . . . scary.”

“He’s actually not schizophrenic. Something similar.”

“Oh. The one . . . what’s it called . . . with mood-disorder symptoms?” I asked.

David stood up, massively thick chain in his hands, brows drawing together. “Schizoaffective,” he said. “Yeah. Do you know someone—?”

“No, no. I took Intro Psych last year.”

“Oh.” He wrapped and fastened the chain around his waist. I couldn’t believe he could bike with it on. “Well, yeah. It’s scary. In lots of ways.”

I watched the late sun stream orange through plum-colored clouds. Probably one of the reasons it was scary was because it has a genetic component. The things I didn’t want to inherit from my parents—selfishness, undependability—were things that were under my control, not predetermined, but I still worried about them. This was a whole different story.

“When is Celeste getting here tomorrow?” I asked as David backed his bike away from the rack.

“Not sure yet. You know . . . what Abby said in there . . .” He stopped and met my eyes. “You guys don’t have to pretend you’re happy to live with her. I know you’re not, and I don’t blame you. You had this nice, private thing going on.”

Even though he didn’t sound defensive or judgmental, my first instinct was to lie, to tell him that we really were happy to live with Celeste. Then I wondered what the point was.

“It’s not that I dislike her,” I said, twisting the stem of my apple. “I mean, I love how creative and . . . passionate she is. But she makes me nervous. Sometimes, I think she might not even like me.”

“Really?” he said. “I know she can be a pain in the ass, but she definitely likes you. She said . . . What was it?” He thought for a minute and then smiled. “Oh, yeah. You remind her of an angel.”

“An angel?” I said. “Hardly.”

His gaze traced a path from my chin to my hair. “Maybe she meant you look like one.”

My hand flew to the top of my head. “Frizz. Not a halo,” I said, hoping my suddenly hot cheeks hadn’t pinked. “And if you knew she liked me, why did you have to talk to Jessica Liu?”

“Jess—? Oh. Right.” He sounded a bit sheepish. “It’s just, Celeste doesn’t always have the best judgment about people and . . . I tend to be pretty protective of her.”

We held eyes for a minute. Something had shifted; the connection between us had changed. We’d stripped some things away, like when you strip away layers of lumpy paint and get down to the smooth, original wood.

I gestured in the direction of Frost House. “I have to go prepare my presentation.”

David nodded and swung a leg over the frame. “Guess I’ll see you there, if not before.”

I’d turned the corner toward home when I heard, “Leena?” He biked toward me. “One other thing.”

“What?” I said.

“Spoons.”

“What?”

He rode around me in a circle. “Abby wanted to know what I do. That’s it.”

“Spoons?
” I said, turning to follow his path.

He smiled, wide, with full-on dimples. In this light, the blue of his eyes reminded me of raspberry slushies. “See you, Leena,” he said. And rode away.

I decided to finish unpacking and arranging my room before working on my presentation, and as I filled drawers and shifted furniture and hung pictures, I kept wondering what David had meant. People played spoons as instruments, but he’d said he wasn’t a musician. There was a card game called Spoons; I found that hard to imagine. So, what . . . ?

I hadn’t come up with any feasible possibilities when I joined Viv and Abby upstairs. I didn’t ask for their input, though. Not that I thought it was a big secret. Just that something about the way he hadn’t said anything at dinner made me keep it to myself.

I did want to talk about something else.

“You guys?” I said after they’d declared my speech ready for the tender ears of the newbies. “I know that having Celeste here wasn’t the plan, but I think we should make an effort to be welcoming. Not fakey-fake nicey-nice. Friendly.”

“Seriously?” Abby had been sprawled on Viv’s shaggy white rug, eating a brownie. Now she sat up. “You realize you’re asking me to go against my true nature? Like asking a vampire to be a phlebotomist and not drink from the vials.”

“I know,” I said, placing my hand on hers in faux sympathy. “You’re truly a mean, mean person. But this won’t change who you are. No one outside of the dorm has to know.”

She sighed. “In that case, I suppose I can do it.”

“Viv?” I said.

“I’m always nice,” she answered from her cross-legged position on the cushioned window seat. “And I don’t even care she’s living with us. I love it here already. This room is so damn cozy. Orin must’ve read it wrong.” Rain tapped the glass behind her. Another storm had started.

“What does Orin have to do with anything?” I asked.

Viv paused, a mug of tea halfway to her mouth. Her eyes darted to Abby, who shrugged, and then back to me. “Oh, nothing.”

“You obviously told Abby,” I said. “Come on, you know I won’t take it seriously.”