Frost Read online

  Viv turned around and lifted up her skirt. Smack in the middle of the left cheek of her thong-clad butt was a heraldic crest: black and red, with fleur-de-lis designs around a knight’s helmet and a stag’s head.

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s … amazing. It’s so elaborate.”

  “Oh my God,” Abby said. “It’s the Parker family crest! Isn’t it? The one you showed me online?”

  Viv turned back around. “Yup. Isn’t it funky? It’s thanks to. Orin.”

  “Your astrologer—sorry, your advisor,” I corrected myself, “told you to get your family crest tattooed on your butt?”

  “No, of course not,” Viv said. “He told me I should incorporate my family history into my identity.”

  Abby covered her mouth; a snort escaped her nose.

  “It’s an important part of my being,” Viv added.

  I made the mistake of looking into Abby’s glimmering brown eyes, and we lost it.

  I shook with laughter until my cheek muscles ached. It was perfect. The Parker-Whites are a bizarre hybrid of old money aristocracy (Parker) and new-age bohemianism (White). Their psychic “advisor” is practically a full-time employee.

  Eventually, the bathroom filled with wheezes and deep breaths as Abby and I struggled to compose ourselves. Viv waited, arms crossed.

  She leaned back against a sink. “Laugh all you want. But Orin said something else, too. Something not so good.”

  “What?” I said, bracing myself for another absurdity.

  Before she could continue, the bathroom door swished open and three of our dorm-mates from junior year bustled in.

  “I heard about your new roommate, Leena,” Jessica Liu said as the other two went into stalls. “That should be entertaining.”

  “You heard? How?” I didn’t like that. Other people knowing made it seem more like a done deal.

  “My brother went to school with her brother. They were on the phone yesterday and her brother asked to talk to me. He wanted to make sure she wasn’t rooming with some psycho.”

  “Hah!” Abby said. “That’s rich.”

  “What did you tell him?” I asked Jess.

  “The truth. That Celeste was in serious danger.”

  “Thanks.” I gave her a sarcastic smile. “Anyway, I’m not sure if it’s going to work out for her to live with us. Dean Shepherd wants to meet. Speaking of which …” I checked my watch. “She won’t be in her office much longer. I should get going.”

  “Leen, we’re not done!” Abby said.

  “We’ll finish later, okay?” I gripped the chilly metal door handle. “I need to deal with this.”

  Chapter 3

  ALTHOUGH THE RAIN HAD STOPPED, the humid air still clung to me like a full-body sweater as I hurried past the stately brick buildings of the main quad on my way to Irving Hall. Barcroft is one of the oldest boarding schools in the country, and while the newer buildings are flashy and modern, the central campus is quintessential New England prep school.

  Marcia, the dean’s assistant, said I’d have to wait a few minutes. I sat on a leather chair and rearranged the legs of my cutoffs to separate my clammy skin from the slick surface, then took out my packet and thumbed through my registration materials. Black type floated into abstract designs as I silently rehearsed my conversation with the dean.

  Until now, I hadn’t given much thought to the fact that it would have been her decision to move Celeste to Frost House. But sitting here, I couldn’t understand it, given how well Dean. Shepherd knew the situation. How well she knew me.

  After answering a posting on the job board freshman year. I’d started babysitting her daughter on Sunday afternoons while the dean was with her husband, who was in hospice with terminal cancer. We kept the arrangement after he died, as well. Sometimes I stayed to help with dinner and ended up eating with her and Anya. I think she was happy to have someone to distract her from stuff with her husband, and I loved listening to her talk about books and music and places she’d lived and traveled. Growing up as an only child, I’d spent a lot of time with my parents and their friends; she reminded me of one of them.

  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….

  “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.”

  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.”

&
nbsp; “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.

  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.

  “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.

  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.

  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. “Yo
u’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.”