Frost

I was about to give up when I heard the groan of a door being pushed open. David appeared, carrying a navy-blue laundry bag Santa style, sweaty and apologizing. “I had stuff in the dryer,” he said, leading me down the hall to his house counselor’s apartment. “And I realized that if I got it now, I could have you bring Celeste her clothes. Took longer than I thought. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, not mad, just relieved.

Prescott has none of the hominess of Frost House, and none of the stateliness of the larger brick dorms. Walking with David to his room after getting parietals, I cringed at the cinder-block walls, the fluorescent lighting, and the nubby brownish-orange carpeting spread everywhere like a fungus.

“Home, sweet home,” David said, pushing open the door to a second-floor single.

I guess I’d expected his aesthetic to be more like Celeste’s; the lack of decoration in his room surprised me. His comforter was plain black, his sheets and pillowcase light gray with white stripes. He’d hung nothing on the beige walls except a bulletin board, and the fungus carpeting had spread in here, too. Built-in plywood furniture gave the room even more of an institutional feel.

I’d have had no idea David even lived here if it weren’t for the photos on the bulletin board: the same snapshot Celeste had of the two of them on the beach with their father, and one of David wrestling on a lawn with three young boys. There was also a large one of a smiling, long-faced woman hugging an enormous black dog. Otherwise the board was covered with notebook paper with ungainly mathematical equations using symbols I’d never even seen before.

I handed David the cupcake and a paper napkin, and didn’t say what I was thinking—that I’d kill myself if I had to live in a room like this.

“Thanks a lot,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.” He sat on the bed and began unwrapping the tinfoil.

I didn’t know where to sit or what to do with myself—David’s desk chair had a pile of books on it and I wasn’t about to plop right next to him on the bed.

Then I noticed a cardboard box on the floor with a bunch of silvery stuff inside. Spoons.

“Hey!” I gestured at the box. “Can I look?”

“Sure,” David said through a bite of cupcake.

I picked it up and rested it on the desk, then began taking the spoons out and laying them next to each other. They were satisfyingly weighty, and all had the same handle design—a loop—but the bowl part was different. There were a few with different-size holes in the middle, one shaped like a small ladle, one with an inverted V-rest on the handle. . . . They looked handcrafted, but not in a bad way—like someone had put care into them.

“These are so cool,” I said. “Why are they all packed away?”

“You want me to bring them to Commons?” he asked.

“You should have used one at dinner tonight,” I said, smiling.

He finished chewing and wiped his mouth. “Great cake. Your lasagna, too. I’ll have to reciprocate sometime. I make killer Pad Thai.”

“You cook?”

“Last year, when I was home, my mom was working a lot, so I cooked all our family meals.” He tossed the aluminum foil in the trash and picked up his laundry bag. “Until my dad stopped eating anything I’d made, of course.”

Oh, right. I hadn’t thought about that since he’d first told us, the day we met. Now, knowing how much he cared about his family, it seemed that much more awful—his father thinking he was trying to poison him. Something inside me crumpled, imagining how David must have felt.

“All my paying jobs have been in restaurant kitchens,” he continued as he dumped the laundry on his bed and began sorting it into two piles. “Next year, I might just work at this place in New York where I know the owner, make some money.”

“Are you applying to schools this year? And then deferring?” I realized that in all our conversations, we’d never talked about his college plans.

“I don’t think so. It’s . . .” He kept his eyes on the laundry. “It’s complicated. There’s this professor I want to study with, but I’m not sure I want to go to school full-time, do all the required classes, you know. And the stuff with Pembroke won’t help me getting in.”

“What happened there?” I asked, since he’d brought it up.

“I plagiarized on a paper,” he said. “Stupid. I’d fallen really far behind because I was going home all the time. And I’d been caught before for something else, so I got booted.”

“Something else?”

“Illegal parietals,” he said, completely matter-of-fact, then looked over at me. “So, what’s the deal with this Whip guy? Has he been over to the dorm before?”

“Not that I know of.” I turned back to the spoons, trying not to wonder about the girl he’d gotten busted with. “I assume he’s just there to work on the project.”

“It was pretty obvious he wasn’t just there to work on the project.”

David was right, of course. And I understood why he’d been upset at dinner—he didn’t want his little sister’s sex life shoved in his face. But, in the end, wasn’t whatever Celeste wanted to do with Whip her own business?