Frost - Marianna Baer

Probably some kids at Barcroft thought I was a suck-up,

hanging out with the Dean of Students. But I didn’t ask her for any

special treatment. Until Frost House, of course.

I called her the day I discovered it last fall. “I saw the most

amazing house all hidden in the bushes,” I said, words rushing

out. “And I peeked in the windows and I think it might be a dorm.

Is it? Because it would be the most perfect place to live for senior

year. All quiet and separate, kind of like living off campus, away

from the frenzy. And if it is a dorm, how many—”

“Slow down,” she’d said. “Describe it for me.”

“Off Highland Street, by the playing fields. White clapboard,

Victorian.”

I could have described it down to the fish-scale pattern of

the shingles on the roof. My father restores old houses and my

mother is a realtor, so I grew up learning all about colonials and

Victorians, gables and lintels and cornices. From the moment I

saw the little house, I’d felt a weirdly intense desire to live there.

As if it was the answer to a question I didn’t even know I’d been

asking. I’d wandered around all four sides, appreciating its

architectural quirks and fantasizing: warm evenings hanging out

on the porch; reading, curled up in a window seat. . . .

21

“Off Highland Street?” the dean had said. “That’s Frost

House. A four-student dorm. Reserved for senior boys.”

“Boys? ” I hadn’t considered that possibility.

My reluctant acceptance of this news lasted less than

twenty-four hours, during which I kept going back to Frost House

in my mind. The next day, I couldn’t resist an urge—a pull—to

visit again in person. As I stood there, staring up like I was lovesick

for one of the guys inside, I struggled with what to do. I wanted to

call the dean back, wanted to see if there was any chance it might

be switched to a girls’ dorm for the next year. But it seemed like

such a big favor. While I debated, a slender column of smoke rose

from the chimney and curled into the blue sky. A working

fireplace? In a dorm? I took my phone out of my bag and called.

I told her honestly how worried I was about the stress of

senior year, and how much difference living in a small dorm

would make. I told her that boys didn’t appreciate window seats

and wraparound porches. She laughed.

“Even if we could switch it to a girls’ dorm,” the dean said,

“you’d still have to go through the housing lottery. There’s no

guarantee you’d be the girls who get to live there.”

“I know,” I said, watching the smoke from the chimney dance

away. “But if it’s a boys’ dorm, we won’t even have a chance.”

“Well,” she said after a moment. “It is only a matter of four

students. Let’s see what we can do.”

22

And now she’d moved Celeste in, without even telling me?

I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the blue

paper that listed my class schedule: Molecular Biology, Gender

Relations in America, Calculus—

“Leena?” The dean’s voice made me look up. She was

standing in the door to her office, smiling warmly.

“Welcome back,” she said, beckoning me to her. “Come on

in.”

Dean Shepherd closed the office door behind us and drew

me into a hug. “It’s wonderful to see you,” she said. “You look

healthy, rested, all those good things.”

“Thanks. You too.” Her ash-blond hair had been cut pixie-

short, bringing out her bright hazel irises.

She patted the chair next to her desk. “How was your

summer? You survived the twins?”

“Barely,” I said, sitting. I was indescribably thankful my stint

at all-day babysitting for five-year-old twin boys was over. “But it

paid really well. So thanks again for recommending me. How’s

Anya?”

“Great. She can’t wait to see you.” The dean’s smile lingered,

but not in her eyes. “I want to talk more about everything later,

Leena. There’s another reason I wanted to see you now. Not to

catch up.”

23

“I know.”

“Oh.” She nodded once. “I’m so sorry you didn’t hear it from

me first. I left a message with your father for you to call me

yesterday, when we made the decision.”

“He must have forgotten,” I said, unsurprised. It did make

me feel a little better to know she’d tried to get in touch with me,

though.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should have called again. Celeste

is just one of the crises I’ve had to deal with this week.”

“I feel bad for her, of course,” I said. “But, the thing is, it’s

only me, Viv, and Abby in Frost House, and I’m wondering if she

might feel uncomfortable, living with a group of friends. Not that

we wouldn’t be nice to her. Just . . . it might be awkward. Do you

know if . . . if there might be another first-floor room open

somewhere?”

From the slightest intake of her lips, I could tell this wasn’t

what the dean wanted to hear. A pang of guilt twitched in my gut.

“Maybe one of the dorms in the middle of campus,” I added.

“More convenient.”

“There were a couple of other rooms we could have moved

her to,” she said. “But I talked it over with faculty who know

Celeste, and we all felt that Frost House was the best option.”

“Really? Can I ask why?” There were other rooms—that was

good news.

24

She placed her palms together and interlocked her fingers.

“Between us, there’s been some difficulty with Celeste’s family

over the past year. We think it’s best if she’s in a small, quiet

dorm. More like a home.”

With Celeste there, it wasn’t a home anymore. Homes are

for families, not strangers. And our family was set—Viv, the

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

28

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