Frost - Marianna Baer Страница 17

The door to the office flew open. Abby breezed in and

dropped her bag on the floor. “I need help.” She placed the back

of her hand on her forehead in a swoon.

“I’ll take this one,” I said.

Abby followed me into one of the two small, private rooms

adjoining the main one.

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“I have to warn you,” I said as we settled into the plush

purple armchairs, “I may not be qualified to treat mental

disturbances as deep as yours.”

“That’s understandable,” she said. “I just wanted to tell you

the plan for New York.” She kicked off her shoes and drew her

legs up. “You still have an honor-roll day left, right?”

I nodded. “Two.” Barcroft has the ironic policy of awarding

honor-roll students with two days the next semester that they

can officially take off of classes.

“Cool. So, we’re going to beat the traffic by driving down on

Thursday night,” Abby said. “We’ll have an extra day in the city.

And the best thing is that Viv’s mom got us tickets to the new play

where Nate Warren does this whole scene naked, on Friday night,

so this way we could be there in time for that. Nate Warren

naked, in the same room as us! Can you believe it? I am so

psyched. Beyond psyched. It’ll be the best trip ever. Can I have a

Life Saver?”

I fished a pack out of my pocket and handed it to her. “The

thing is,” I said, “I’m supposed to drive David and Celeste, and

David obviously doesn’t have honor-roll days—he wasn’t even

here last semester. I don’t know about Celeste.”

“So?” Abby said. “They can find another way down. We’re

giving them a free place to stay, isn’t that enough? I mean, why

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are they even coming? Don’t they know Viv was just being

polite?”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“What’s there to think about?” Abby said. “I’m not going to

let your perverse sense of obligation get in the way of you having

a good time. Nate Warren, Leen!” She had stood up and was

mock-shaking me by the shoulders. “Nay-kid!”

Her face was so serious that I had to laugh. “Okay, okay. I’ll

let them find another way.”

Days went by, though, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell

David or Celeste. I didn’t know why not driving them felt like such

a big deal. It wasn’t. But at the same time, I worried that they’d

take it as a definite statement about not wanting them there.

Abby wanted me to make that statement, obviously. She didn’t

know what was going on with me and David. My own fault, for

being too chicken to tell her.

The dilemma wrapped itself up into a constant knot in my

gut. I needed to get it over with. Finally, one day I ran into Celeste

on my way home from dinner and steeled myself to do it. But the

whole way back to the dorm she was talking excitedly about a

guest artist who had come to her portfolio class and had loved

her work, and I couldn’t get a word in at all.

When we entered Frost House the loud clangs of the radiator

filled the common room.

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“Thank God the heat is finally on,” Celeste said.

“Yeah,” I said, “I spoke to maintenance about it. The way to

do it is talk to them in person, instead of just submitting a work

order.”

We reached the bedroom. I fumbled in my pocket for my

room key. Just tell her.

“Celeste . . .” I turned the key and pushed open the door. “I

don’t want—”

I froze. Scattered debris covered an area of the bedroom

floor stretching from Celeste’s closet more than halfway across

the room. “What the hell?” I flipped on the overhead light. Twigs,

twine, dried grass, dirty ribbons. Nests. Or what used to be nests.

I took a few careful steps. The closet door was wide open. Inside,

a cardboard box on the high shelf lay with its top facing front,

flaps agape. More remnants from the nests were below the box,

caught among Celeste’s dresses and skirts.

Celeste hadn’t moved from the doorway. Her face was pale,

mouth small.

“The box must have tipped over,” I said. My heart

hammered.

“And this happened how?”

“Maybe by accident,” I said. “The box tipped when you were

getting something? But didn’t spill until—”

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“By accident?” She looked at me. “How can you say that?

Don’t you see?”

“What?”

She pointed at the floor. “Can’t you see what it says?”

I surveyed the scraggly mess. Then it came together, into two

big letters.

GO.

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Chapter 18

A SHUDDER BEGAN AT MY NECK and spread throughout

my limbs. I shook my head a little, forced myself to see it as just a

jumble, a jumble that somewhat resembled the letters. It was a

random mess. It had to be.

“That’s not on purpose,” I said. “You’re seeing what you

want to see.”

“What I want to see?” Celeste said in a tone of disbelief.

“Well, what you’re scared to see. Why would someone do

that?” I asked. “Who would want you to go?”

She stared at the floor. “I don’t know.”

“Like finding shapes in clouds,” I said. “You can see what you

look for.” I squatted down and began filling my cupped palm with

thin twigs and bits of twine. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll be careful.”

“What does it matter now?” Celeste’s voice was tight. “Do

you know how long this all took me?”

“Collecting the nests?”

She nodded. Her chin trembled. “And then I wove other

materials into them. It’s a whole project.”

I picked up a narrow purple ribbon, a length of unspooled

cassette tape . . .

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“Who would do this?” she said.

“The door was locked.”

“It wasn’t an accident, Leena. I know what I saw.”

I swallowed. “David and I are the only other people who

have keys.”

“It wasn’t David.”

“I know. I didn’t mean that. I meant that I think there’s

another explanation.” I sat back on my heels. “Maybe the house

has mice or rats. In the closet.” I didn’t know why I was even

saying this. Mice or rats hadn’t thrown the photo the other day.

Should I have told her about that? Should I tell her about it now?

It would upset her even more, but maybe she needed to know.

Celeste collapsed on her bed and held her head in her hands,

then began rocking back and forth.

I looked down again, picked up a fragile clump of materials

that had stayed together and set it aside. “Some of this might be

salvageable,” I said hopefully.

The squeaking of bedsprings stopped, and Celeste let out a

cry. “I can’t take this anymore! I can’t! What do you think I should

do?”

“What do you mean?”

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“I hate it here!” She flung her arms out. “I hate this room. I

have to talk to Dean Shepherd, tell her I need to move.”

Defensiveness flared inside me. “This doesn’t have anything

to do with the room,” I said. “If someone is doing this to you,

they’d do it wherever you lived.”

She was quiet. I knew I’d sounded mean. “Another dorm

wouldn’t have all these windows,” she said.

“What does that have to do with it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“These things that are happening have nothing to do with

the room,” I said again. “If you really think this is someone, then

the best thing to do is ignore it. Don’t give them the satisfaction

of caring. Right?”

She wiped her cheek and leaned forward to pick up a clump

of nest. “How can I not care? I worked so hard on this, Leena. This

is me. Why would someone punish me like this? It doesn’t even

matter if the mess said some stupid thing or not. They ruined my

work.”

She was crying for real. I stood up from the floor, sat next to

her, and put an arm around her shoulders. “Hey,” I said. “It’s

okay.”

“I can trust you, right?” she asked, her voice shaky and thin.

“You’d tell me if you knew who was doing this, right? I just, I’m so

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sick of it. And I’m . . . scared. You know. It’s all so mean. Like

someone really hates me. More than Ann—Abby, I think.”

It’s all so mean. “We’re just talking about the vase and this,

right?” I said.

“That rip in the skirt, too,” she said. “You said you didn’t do

it.” She looked out the window. “I can feel them watching, you

know? Waiting till we’re gone so they can do this stuff. David and

you are the only people I trust. And I can’t even tell David how

upset I am, because he’ll worry.”

“You still feel like someone’s watching you?” I said, a heavy

dread descending on me.

“Sometimes,” Celeste continued as if she hadn’t even heard

me, “when I open the closet . . .” She motioned toward it with her

head and spoke quietly. “Sometimes I feel like whoever it is is in

there. I have to look through all the clothes, you know, to make

sure no one is hiding. But it’s like I feel them.”

My stomach constricted. I had sat in the closet a couple

more times recently, just for a little while when I needed to clear

my head. And although I’d never done it while she was in the

room, it was as if she’d sensed I’d been in there.

“Celeste,” I said, “you realize that you sound a little . . .

irrational? No one’s watching you.”

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“So, what?” she said. “You think I’m . . . what, imagining it?

Don’t tell me I’m making it up. This stuff is real, this stuff that’s

happened to me.”

“Honestly?” I said. “I think that you had a hard summer,

dealing with your boyfriend. And a hard year, with your dad. I

think that some weird, bad stuff has happened to you in this

room. And it’s freaked you out.”

Celeste’s eyes rolled up and she stared at the ceiling, as if

trying not to cry again.

“Maybe you should talk to someone,” I said.

“A therapist? They’d just stick me on some medication.

Don’t . . . don’t tell anyone I have these feelings, okay? Not the

dorm, or David. Okay? Please. It’s really important.”

She gripped one of my hands in both of hers. They felt cold,

bony.

“I just think it would be good if you talked to someone,” I

said.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “With a father like mine,

people—everyone—they’re just waiting for me to crack up. And I

can’t do anything without everyone thinking I tried to kill myself

or whatever. And I’ve done stupid stuff in the past, and now it’s

like, if they . . . you know . . . I don’t get the benefit of the doubt.

Please, Leena. Please. It’s not like I’m making up these feelings

from nowhere. This stuff happened.”

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I remembered the horrible feeling after I’d tried to hurt

myself in eighth grade, when my parents would stare at me with

these expressions like they were worried I was going to crack into

a thousand pieces at any moment.

“Please, Leena,” she said. “I’m not crazy. I’m not.” Her voice

was stronger. “Promise you won’t tell.”

“Okay,” I said. “I promise. But you have to promise to let me

know if it doesn’t get better. Okay?”

We agreed.

Later, as I was about to turn off my bedside lamp, Celeste

came into the room wearing the Moroccan caftan she slept in. I

couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed while I was

still awake. As if reading my mind, she said, “Maybe I’ll be able to

sleep. Now that the heat is on.” I didn’t point out that she hadn’t

been able to sleep when the weather was warm either.

She lingered at her mirror, smoothing cream on her face,

brushing her hair. Finally, she turned off her light and headed

toward her bed. On the way, she paused in front of the slightly

open closet door. After a second, she kept walking. She sat down

on the comforter, laid her crutches on the floor, glanced at the

closet again, stood up, closed the door.

This didn’t bode well.

“Do you want something mild to help? Just tonight?” I said.

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“No, thanks.”

When the lights had been off for a minute, she said, “You . . .

you know I was speaking . . . metaphorically, before. Right, Leena?

I don’t really think someone’s in the closet. I was just trying to

describe what it’s like, to feel like someone wants to hurt you.

You know that, right? I don’t really think someone’s in here or

whatever.”

I hesitated. “Sure,” I said. “I know what you meant.”

Sleep came easily for me, as it always did in that room, even

though I was picturing those scattered nests, telling myself they’d

been in a random pattern. It was deep, as well, so I had no idea

how long Celeste had been shouting when I woke up.

“Get off! Get off of me!”

Without my glasses and in the darkish room, I panicked—

someone was on Celeste’s bed! “Hey,” I cried. “Stop!” But as I

leapt up and hurried across the floor, I realized it was her arms

thrashing underneath the covers, not another body. I turned on

the light.

“Celeste.” I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Wake up.”

She sat straight up. “I’m awake,” she said. Her face shone

white and glistened with sweat.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You were having a nightmare.”

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“No, I wasn’t,” she said. “I wasn’t. Someone was here.” She

turned her head back and forth, searching. “I was awake.”

“You’re okay, Celeste.” I sat down and moved my hand to

her back. “No one was here except me. It was a bad dream.”

She shook her head. Her pupils were huge, swallowing up

her irises. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t. Someone was here. Someone’s

always here.”

“Shh,” I said. “No one was here. It’s okay. You’re just upset,