Frost - Marianna Baer
subletting his place and it would actually be affordable if I get a
roommate.”
“A roommate?” I scooped a bit more Spackle from the
bucket.
“Yeah. With New York prices, I’ll be lucky to have only one
roommate.”
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“Huh. I wonder if . . .” My heart thudded harder and faster as
I strained to reach the next hole.
“If what?”
“If I’d have to live in a dorm at Columbia. I mean, maybe I’m
being crazy, but what if we shared a place?”
“Lived together?”
Crap. Why had I said that? Same city is one thing, but this
would probably completely freak him out. “Yeah, forget it. I was
just thinking that financially, it might . . . but I’m being—”
“No, Leena. It’s a great idea. I’d love to have you as a
roommate. Obviously.”
“Really? You would?” I said. “Because living with you is
probably the one thing that would make me psyched to leave
Frost House.”
All of a sudden, the earth tipped. I saw myself falling before
it happened, then it did happen. The chair toppled backward. My
cell and Spackle knife flew out of my hands. I pitched toward the
floor, hit with a thud, landing partially on top of the overturned
chair. Pain flared through me.
“Shit,” I said. “Oww!”
I rolled onto my side. After a second, I inched over and
grabbed my phone.
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“Are you there? Leena? Leena?” David was saying.
“Oww. I fell. It hurts.”
“Are you okay? Jesus, you scared me.”
“I think so,” I said, though I was shaking pretty hard from the
shock. I pulled myself up and walked wobbily over to the bed.
“What happened? Are you okay? Should I come over?”
“No. I’m okay. I don’t know what happened.” I rubbed my
hip. “The chair tipped. I guess I shifted my weight funny.”
I didn’t tell him that, actually, it felt like I’d been pushed.
I stared at the chair, searching for some evidence of what
had happened. It looked perfectly normal. Still, I didn’t trust it
enough to climb back up on it. After I’d physically calmed down, I
decided to work on the closet instead, cutting down the foam and
installing the lock. Once I had the foam down to the right size, I
covered it in an extra tapestry and nestled it into the space. It fit
perfectly. I’d even cut out one corner to accommodate a metal
scrollwork grate in the floor. I wasn’t quite sure but assumed the
grate had some purpose. Maybe it let air up from the basement,
which would explain the way it had stayed cool on hot days. I
took a couple of throw pillows off my bed and tossed them in.
Installing the lock required a bit more patience—measuring,
drilling holes. When I’d finished, I stood inside the dark closet and
slid the small bolt back and forth, back and forth, happy with how
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smoothly it worked. I left it in the locked position, turned on the
small camping lantern I’d bought, and curled up on the mattress,
enormously pleased with my new setup. Still a bit achy, though,
from my fall, I reached for Cubby, opened her up, and found a
pain reliever.
“David wants us to live together,” I said.
That’s not going to happen.
Cubby’s words came to me easily now whenever I was in the
closet. Like I’d realized before, the closet—its smell, its
familiarity—was what let me into my subconscious. I didn’t even
need Cubby here, although I usually still brought her in; she made
me feel less alone.
“I have to leave here,” I said. “And living with David would be
the best thing I could imagine.”
I’d never mean to hurt you.
“Hurt me?”
All I want is to protect you. If you can’t do it yourself.
You are myself, I thought. I shivered and reached up to
unlock the door.
Don’t go, she said.
I was pretty sleepy. I let my arm fall back down.
There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re weak, she said.
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I had given into David, when I said I wouldn’t.
In here, she said, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
My head felt strange, heavy. If nothing mattered, then it
wouldn’t be a problem for me to just lie down, take a little
nap. . . .
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Chapter 29
FOR THE NEXT COUPLE OF WEEKS, I divided my
nonstudying free time between being with David and working on
my room. Because painting edge-work around windows is so
much more difficult than covering big areas of open wall, it took
longer than I expected. But the meditative quality helped keep my
mind off how much I missed Viv and Abby. And, in the end, the
effort was worth it. With the paint, plants, shelves, and a new
furniture arrangement, it was the nicest room I’d ever seen at
Barcroft. I could tell how impressed David was when I showed
him. “You did this?” he kept saying, eyes all lit up. He was still
talking about it the next day as we sipped coffee at senior tea.
A change of expression on his face made me glance over my
shoulder. Abby was headed in our direction.
“I think I’ll give you some space,” he said.
I brushed muffin crumbs off my lap and tossed my napkin in
the trash.
“Hi,” I said as Abby stood in front of me. I scooched over on
the small love seat. “Want to sit?”
She shook her head. Her nails were newly painted deep
purple. I was suddenly conscious of my chipped and uneven ones.
All the work I’d been doing wasn’t conducive to pretty fingernails.
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“I want to make sure you know that you’re not coming home
with me for Thanksgiving,” she said, crossing her arms.
“Oh? I hadn’t really been thinking about it.” I was surprised
the lie made it past the grapefruit-size lump in my throat.
“Well, you need to make other plans.”
“Don’t you think, maybe, we’ll . . . we’ll be okay by then?” I
folded my hands so my nails, which looked more disgusting by the
minute, weren’t visible. “And, I mean, I always go with you. It’s
our tradition, right? Remember last year, how funny your mom
was with the turkey? Remember, you did that imitation of her
during dinner?”
I dared to look up, and thought I glimpsed a bit of a softening
in Abby’s face. She shrugged. “Yeah, but . . . just make other
plans, okay?” She turned to walk away, the black-and-white wool
skirt we’d bought together at Urban Outfitters swishing against
the top of her boots.
“Abby,” I said. I didn’t know what I was going to follow it
with. I just couldn’t stand for our interaction to be so brief. For it
to end like that.
“What?” She turned back to me.
“You should come downstairs and see all the stuff I’ve done
in my room,” I blurted.
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“What stuff? Something to do with all the noise you’ve been
making?”
I nodded. “Celeste moved across the hall, you know, so the
room’s just mine until Kate gets back next semester. I painted,
built some stuff. If you and Viv want to come down and hang out,
we don’t have to worry about Celeste being there or anything.”
Abby shook her head. “I can’t be—”
She stumbled sideways with a jolt. Ponytail Guy, her crush
from the beginning of the semester, had snuck up and hip
checked her.
“Hey,” she said, regaining her footing. “Watch out.” I could
tell by her smile she didn’t mean it. Something was going on with
them, obviously, and I didn’t know anything about it.
“Did you get what Brighton was saying about that whole
thing with peripeteia or whatever,” Ponytail Guy said. “The
Aristotle stuff?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Why? You want me to explain it to you,
dum-dum?”
“If you’ve got a minute in your busy schedule.”
“I might.” Abby cast a distracted glance in my direction.
“So, see you later?” I said.
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“Yeah, later.” She nudged Ponytail Guy as they walked away.
“You really don’t understand Aristotle?”
After dinner that night I spent a couple of hours cleaning and
re-reorganizing so everything was just how I wanted it. (How
could I have thought those Ball jars filled with pebbles and shells
looked good on that shelf? Way too Martha Stewart.) Then I went
upstairs for the first time since I’d told them about my meeting
with the dean.
I knocked on Abby’s door.
“Go away, Viv!” she called.
Were the two of them in a fight now? “It’s me,” I said. No
response. “I wanted to know if—”
The door cracked open and Abby slipped out, shutting it
behind her. Her hair was all mussed up, her cheeks flushed pink.
“What do you want?” she said in a rough, low voice.
“Is someone in there?” I said. “Ponytail Guy?”
“Shhh!” she whispered. “Yes. Now what do you want?”
“Just for you to come see my room. But you can come down
after he leaves, obviously. Or tomorrow. Sorry to interrupt!” I
gave her a smile and started to head down the stairs. I’d taken a
few steps when she spoke again.
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“Don’t you get it?” she said. I stopped and looked back up at
her. “You made your choice, Leena. All semester. You chose
Celeste over us. And you screwed everything up. You can’t just
come back now . . . like . . . I don’t know . . . like nothing
happened.”
“You’re blowing this all out of proportion,” I said. “And it had
nothing, nothing to do with choosing Celeste over you. Never.”
“That’s not what the facts say.” She rested her hands on her
hips. “Why don’t you think about it from our perspective for
once?”
“Abby, I know I screwed up. I feel terrible. But can’t we just
have it out and be done with it? Get in a fight and make up?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned. And Viv is the one whose
boyfriend is gone, so I wouldn’t count on her either.”
I didn’t know what more I could say. “Okay, well . . . let me
know when you’re ready to talk.” My back was to her when I
heard her voice again.
“You should know that we’re thinking about moving out next
semester.”
“What?” I swung around to face her.
“You heard me. We’d both rather be somewhere else. I don’t
know if they’ll let us. But we’re looking into it.”
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“But . . . but Celeste won’t even be living here next semester!
Kate will. The four of us. Like we planned!”
Abby reached to open her door. “It’s too late, Leena,” she
said. “Maybe Kate will stay here with you. Viv and I don’t want
to.” And with that, she disappeared.
I pressed my hands against the walls of the narrow staircase.
It felt like they were closing in, shutting out air. I tried to breathe
into my tight lungs and stepped down. The floor at the bottom
looked so far away, then veered up toward me, then fell back
down. Just one step at a time, I told myself, keeping my gaze on
my feet now. Step down and breathe. Step down and breathe.
When I made it to the bottom, I took my hands off the walls and
forbade myself from turning around. I knew what I’d see: the
walls of the staircase collapsing toward each other, closing me
out for good.
The pain was physical. My whole body hurt as I crawled into
the closet. I lifted off Cubby’s head, took one, then two of the
strong oval pills that would help me relax, and waited for some of
the pain to go away because I wasn’t sure I could stand it. I hadn’t
felt this desperate since not knowing what to do about my
parents, since feeling like my life was crashing apart. It was the
type of hurt that felt like it wouldn’t ever let me go, that I’d carry
it with me for the rest of my life.
I breathed in the soothing air and pressed my cheek against
the cool wall, wishing I could just become a part of it. I let the pills
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seep into my cells, telling myself I’d feel better soon, that help
was coming. And it did. I’m not sure how long it took, but the pills
and the quiet and the walls of the closet worked together to build
me back up. And eventually, what had happened drifted away
into a haze of unimportance.
“Everything’s easy in here,” I said, lying down now, staring up
into the dark. “If I don’t feel it, is the pain still there? Like the tree
falling in a forest? Because I should care about Abby and Viv. But
in here, I don’t.”
In here, none of that matters. What you don’t feel doesn’t
exist.
“I like that,” I said. “That’s how it should be.”
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Chapter 30
DURING THE NEXT WEEKS, my ability to concentrate
almost vanished with the last of the tree leaves. Responsibilities
faded into a sort of background noise that only rarely got loud
enough so I’d pay attention. Not that I stopped attending class or
doing homework, or that I wasn’t aware that college apps and
interviews were looming, just that I felt sort of numb when I tried
to care about any of it. Occasionally, I’d realize that I needed to
pull myself together—when I got a B minus on an English paper,
for example—but most of the time I couldn’t work up enough
energy to make a difference.
Some colleges sent interviewers to campus. Columbia was
one. The morning of my interview I woke up with the sudden
realization that I’d done nothing to prepare. Hadn’t I received a
Columbia catalogue? And hadn’t my college counselor given me a
handout with interview tips? Well, if I’d ever had either of these
things, I couldn’t find them. So instead of going to my Gender
