Frost

“But, also, isn’t it so strange about the skirt?” I turned to Abby. “You were there when I tried it on. Wouldn’t we have been able to tell, if it ripped that bad?”

Abby shrugged.

 “You didn’t go back and try it on, did you?” I asked.

“And left it on the floor, ripped?” she said in a tone of disbelief. “Are you serious?”

I immediately realized how offensive the question had been. “Of course you didn’t,” I backtracked. “Forget I said it. It must have been me.”

Chapter 8

THAT NIGHT AFTER SIGN-IN, we all gathered in the common room for a beginning-of-school dorm meeting. Ms. Martin, our house counselor, was late. Abby, Viv, and I sat on the couch, which I’d spruced up with one of my tapestries. The cushions were so old and squishy that the three of us had sunk together in the middle, like we were in a hammock. Celeste sat in the armchair, her cast propped up on the coffee table. She wore a black silk camisole, green satin pajama pants, and an orange turban-type hat with a rhinestone pin on the side. Hopefully, Abby wouldn’t make a comment about the outfit. I’d asked her and Viv not to say anything about the roaches, and as far as I knew, they hadn’t.

 When I’d returned to the dorm this afternoon, the bugs were nowhere to be seen. In their place on my bed lay a vintage sleeveless top, light pink with tiny black beads in a fireworks pattern.

 “I don’t know why I bought it,” Celeste had said. “It’s too big for me. I know you’re not into clothes, but I think it would look hot on you. Keep it, if you want.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s really pretty.” I’d never have chosen it for myself, but I’d have liked it on someone else. Maybe it would look good. I handed Celeste my own peace offering—a bouquet of dried Chinese lantern flowers I’d bought for her in town.

“Dead already. Good thinking,” she joked as she reached for her vase. “Look, David told me it was a total bitch move to put those roaches on your bed. I suck at this roommate thing. I want to try to be better, though. You have to tell me when I’m screwing up.” After arranging the flowers, she set the vase back on her dresser. “Perfect. This was my granny’s. She had a superstition about never letting it sit empty.”

I’d felt better about the vibe between us after that, but the thing that still nagged at me—even now, as I waited for the dorm meeting to start—was the rip in her skirt. Like I’d said to Abby, I just didn’t see how I could have missed it. Not to mention that I’d definitely hung the skirt back up. I was sure of it. So if it wasn’t me . . . ? Had someone else been in our room, when neither of us was there?

 I was trying to stop worrying when Ms. Martin arrived.

Traditionally, at the first dorm meeting of the year, the faculty house counselor lies about how thrilled she is to be living with a bunch of teenagers.

Nothing happened the way I expected that semester.

“I’m on deadline to finish a book,” Ms. Martin said after briefly introducing herself. “So if the sign on my apartment door is turned to ‘privacy please,’ which it will be often, only knock for emergencies. You’re all seniors; I’m assuming you’re responsible enough not to need much supervision.”

Her most attractive quality seemed to be her cat, a big-bellied, saucer-eyed Russian Blue named Leo. When he trotted by, I scooped him up onto my lap and ran my hand through his thick, soft coat. He turned in a circle as if he was going to settle down, but when his face brushed against my T-shirt, he let out a sharp yowl, leapt off, and darted out of the room, hackles raised, tail puffed up like a billy club.

 “Sorry,” I said to Ms. Martin. “Most cats really like me.”

“He’s not usually going to be allowed out of my apartment,” she said. “So you won’t have to worry about him.”

 One of his claws had left a tiny pull in the fabric of my shorts. “Was he out earlier today?” I asked. “In our room, maybe?”

“Definitely not,” Ms. Martin said. “He was at my ex-husband’s. We share custody.”

They shared custody of their cat? Viv and Abby nudged me simultaneously; Celeste made a noise that began as a snort but turned into a cough. I bit down on my lips to keep from laughing.

 Oblivious, Ms. Martin began going over all of the dorm rules: sign-in at ten during the week; eleven thirty, face-to-face sign-in on Friday and Saturday; no drinking, smoking, drugs; parietals— permission to have a guy in your room—granted any time before sign-in, as long as Ms. Martin was home to give approval; same for permission to go outside the town of Barcroft, except for overnight, which required a chaperone letter. Then she asked if anyone had an issue to discuss.

“Last year,” I said, “I organized a dorm dinner one Sunday of every month. We switched off cooking. It was really fun. I’d like to do it again this year, if you don’t mind loaning us your kitchen. It’ll be easier with so few people. We could even invite guests from outside the dorm.”

“Sounds fine,” Ms. Martin said. “Just give me the dates well in advance. Anything else?” She checked her watch.