Frost

Celeste. I knew only one—Celeste Lazar, the eccentric art star of our senior class. After he said it, I recognized the delicate lines of her face mirrored more roughly in his: wide forehead, curved cheekbones, firm chin. His nose was more prominent than hers—high-bridged, Roman.

“Oh. Cool,” I said as if he’d explained anything pertinent. “I’m Leena. And, unless I am crazy, this is my room.”

David’s smile faltered.

“Don’t feel bad,” I said quickly. “The campus is confusing. I can drive your stuff to the right dorm.”

“They didn’t tell you?” he said.

“Tell me what?”

“Man, I can’t believe they didn’t tell you.” He ran his hand through his short hair and shifted his weight to his other foot. “Celeste broke her leg.”

“Oh? That sucks.” A cold tingle began in my fingertips. There could be no happy reason I needed to know this.

“Yeah, her room was supposed to be on the third floor of some other dorm. So they decided that since your roommate is away for the semester, and your room is on the ground floor . . .”

The blood drained to my feet. “So Celeste is living here?” I said, sitting on the closest bed.

“Well, yeah. For one semester. But it’s not like they’re kicking you out.”

I nodded and concentrated on an acid-green, zebra-striped silk dress lying next to me. How could I have thought this stuff belonged to Viv? Or to a guy?

“Try to contain your excitement,” David said.

“I’m just surprised.” I forced myself to look at him and attempted a smile. “Where is she?”

“She had a thing at the hospital today. She’ll be here tomorrow. It’s a bad break. Really messed up the bone.”

“What happened?”

He hesitated. “She fell off the roof.”

“God.” An image of Celeste crumpled on the ground flashed in my mind.

“Trying to get one of these birds’ nests she’s been collecting,” David explained, answering my unspoken question. He didn’t sound quite sure about it, though, and I wondered if there was more to the story. Knowing Celeste, there probably was.

A muffled ringtone came from over by the door. “Speak of the devil,” he said. “She can always tell when I’m talking about her.” He pulled a cell out of a backpack and disappeared into the hallway. “Hey. Everything okay?” was the only thing I heard before his footsteps receded into the common room.

I stared out a window. Branches drooped and swayed under the heavy rain.

Celeste Lazar. Living here.

A vise squeezed my chest. The same feeling I’d gotten before every chem lab last year, only tighter.

We’d been partners. The mood of the period depended entirely on what was going on in Celeste’s life that week—always a new, convoluted drama: a fight, a hookup, trouble with a teacher. . . . I’d spend the seventy-five minutes listening to her stories while trying to keep her distraction from causing some sort of fiery accident with the Bunsen burner and chemicals. To make it worse, I was never sure what Celeste actually thought of me. One day, she brought me a gift to thank me for advice I’d given her: a chocolate-chili cupcake from the best bakery downtown. As we walked out of class, me happily holding the box with my exotic treat inside, I asked about her plans for the weekend. “None of your damn business,” she’d snapped. Just like that, I’d become some random, nosy stranger.

And now we were roommates? I’d chosen Frost House to escape any drama.

Leaves swam together in my watery vision, melding into a solid plane.

A crash shook the silence.

I turned. The print David had leaned next to the closet had tipped over. I moved from the bed and picked it up. It was framed with Plexiglas, so hadn’t broken. I studied the image for the first time: a close-up of Celeste’s face—a self-portrait, I assumed. She was lying in dirt, eyes glassy, lips slightly parted, hair fanned out. A beetle—a big beetle—wrapped in and trailing a thin white satin ribbon walked across her forehead. The ribbon wound its way down and into Celeste’s mouth.

Ugh. I rested the frame back on the floor, leaning it so the image faced the wall.

Before I could move away, though, a chill reached out from the mostly empty walk-in closet. It felt good on my hot cheeks. Not harsh and spiky, like air-conditioning, but soft, as if the door led to a deep, cool basement. I took a step inside the shadowy space, lifted my hair and let the chill skim the back of my neck, closed my eyes and breathed in. A fragrant scent—woody, musky, fermented—filled my lungs. In a strange way, the scent appealed to me, warmed me inside as the cool air stroked my skin. I imagined stepping further into the darkness and closing the door, leaving behind this unexpected new reality.

“Did something break?” David said.

I let my hair fal . “No.” I faced him and placed a hand on the closet’s doorframe. “This is mine.”

“What?”

“This closet. It’s mine. Not your sister’s.” The words shot out, sharp and unplanned.

David frowned slightly. “The other closet’s across the hall. With Celeste’s leg, I figured she should have this one.”