Frost

 I made my mind a blank slate, ignored that neon sign over his head. Or at least I tried.

“Pretty much, thanks,” he said, then turned to me. “Actually, I just wondered if you were going back to the dorm now?”

I moistened my lips. “After lunch, I am.” Was he looking at me with more than friendly interest? It was hard to tell; his eyes had such a natural intensity. In the end, probably better if he wasn’t. I might not be strong enough to resist.

“Could you give this to my sister?” he said. “I’d bring it myself, but I have another orientation thing and I know I’ll just end up forgetting.” He handed me a small white envelope, then added, “Assuming you haven’t kicked her out already, that is.”

An image of her holding the dead tulips flashed in my mind. “Not yet,” I joked back. Folding the envelope into my bag, I could tell it contained a key.

 “David,” the dean said. “I spoke to Harry Weintraub and he’s ready to meet with you whenever. You have his number and email?”

“I do,” David said. “Thanks.”

“Seems like a nice young man,” Dean Shepherd said as he walked away.

I watched his retreating figure—the broad shoulders, the defined calf muscles—and noticed he had a bounce in his walk, not the usual too-cool saunter of a good-looking guy. “Nice young man. Is that a euphemism for hot as hell?” I asked the dean.

She laughed.

“And what was that about Dr. Weintraub?” I said. He was a teacher and well-known mathematician. I’d wanted him for Calculus, but he was taking a couple of years off. “Isn’t he still on leave?”

“Official y, yes. But he agreed to work with David on an independent study.”

So math was David’s thing? He must have been pretty brilliant for Dr. Weintraub to make a special point of working with him. I wondered what spoons had to do with it. . . .

 “David told me,” I said. “You know, about their father.”

The dean nodded. “It wasn’t my place. But I’m glad he did. And Celeste arrived this morning?”

“Yup.”

“How was that?” she asked, putting an arm around my shoulders.

 “Well,” I said, “it’s going to be an interesting semester.”

 “You know what Edith Wharton said?” the dean replied. “She said, ‘I don’t know if I should care for a man who made life easy; I should want someone who made life interesting.’ Maybe the same applies for roommates.”

 I supposed that was the best way to look at it. If I anticipated an interesting—if odd—semester with Celeste, someone so different from me and my friends, and saw it as a chance to get to know her better, then I wouldn’t be disappointed. Still, I held on to the hope that didn’t necessarily mean it wouldn’t also be easy.

Chapter 7

MY MOTHER CALLED WHEN I WAS on my way back to Frost House after lunch. I wasn’t in the mood for a long conversation, but picked up anyway because I knew she’d keep calling until she reached me. I hadn’t talked to her since arriving at school, had only sent her and my father brief messages saying I’d gotten here safely. My father had written back: “Remember to get car inspected. Visit soon. Dad.” My mother was higher maintenance.

 I walked down Highland Street, giving her a brief summary of the weekend.

 “What kind of interesting?” she said when I used the word to describe Celeste again. “Medieval castle? Skyscraper?”

Matching up people with architecture: our family version of “If you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be?”

The perfect answer came as I turned into the Frost House driveway.

“Casa Batlló,” I said. Casa Batlló—an outrageous apartment building in Barcelona with colorful, mosaic walls that seem to ripple, balconies that look like enormous skulls, a ceiling that swirls like a whirlpool. Disconcerting, but beautiful.

“You were scared to death of Casa Batlló,” my mother said. “Do you need me to call that Dean of Students woman, honey? I don’t want you living with some girl you’re scared—”

“Mom,” I interrupted. “I was only six when we went to Barcelona.” Gravel pressed into the thin soles of my sandals. “Everything is fine here. I have to go, okay?” It bothered me when she tried to get involved in things about my life she didn’t understand, things I could take care of myself.

 If she wanted to be a part of it all, she shouldn’t have moved across the country.

 Ignoring my comment about needing to go, she began to tell me about an article on a new kind of yoga that she was going to email me. “Apparently, it’s much better for managing stress than the kind I’ve been doing,” she said. “If there’s a studio near Barcroft that offers it, I’d be happy to pay for you to take classes.”

 “Uh-huh,” I said, heading down the hall to my room. “Sounds great.”

As I set my bag on the floor in the bedroom, I registered something strange on my bed. My mother’s voice chirped on as I moved closer. Sheets of newspaper covered with rows of small, dark . . . what? I moved closer. Bugs?

“Sorry, have to go,” I said. I hung up without waiting for her response and stared.

 Cockroaches. Dead. At least a hundred. Shiny brown with spindly legs. On my bed.

A roar filled my ears.

“Celeste!”