Frost

She was trying to shock me. I should have been used to it by now. “Okay,” I said, “Kill Mr. Bart, sleep with Simone, marry David.”

“If that’s your plan, you better hurry up.” Celeste gestured with her chin toward the steps. “You’ll be out of luck on both counts.”

Simone had a hand on David’s shoulder and was laughing, her long legs—with striped knee socks and bare thighs—stretched out in front of her. David stared, apparently mesmerized. A lump settled in my stomach.

“So, what’s up with you and Whip?” I asked, turning away. Because of the distraction of her burn and the photo, I’d never asked her last night.

“He looks surprisingly good in body paint,” she said, “if that’s what you mean.”

“So, you had fun?”

“Jesus, Leena.” Celeste glared at me. “David’s obviously already using you to do his dirty work.”

My face flushed. “He worries about you.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s the goddamn problem.” She turned toward the steps and called, “Hey! David!” He looked in our direction and she beckoned him over. Crap. What was she planning?

David said something to Simone then grabbed his bag and walked over.

“What’s up?” he said.

“You guys are annoying me,” Celeste said, gesturing at the two of us. “That’s what’s up. All this delay. illy-dally, twiddle-twoddle. It’s annoying.”

The flush in my cheeks flared hotter. “Celeste—”

“No. Wait a minute.” She reached into her bag I was holding, brought out a bunch of papers, and began shuffling through them. “I don’t know what the holdup is, but . . . here. A catalyst.” She separated out a sheet of white paper. David reached for it but she hid it behind her back and turned to me. “The other day, David brought me papers he’d picked up for me at the office,” she said. “But a couple of his own things were mixed in the pile.” Now she held out the sheet for us to see.

The syllabus for David’s English class.

“So?” I said.

Celeste turned the paper over.

On the back, David had done a bunch of doodles: a remarkably realistic eye, a glass of water, a cartoon cat . . . My immediate thought was, Wow. David can draw. A split second later, though, my brain made sense of the largest doodle on the page. An elaborate graphic version of a name—in black ballpoint pen, a name turned into an almost Celtic twisty-turny hedge of intertwined, swooping strokes.

Leena.

My breath stopped.

David grabbed the paper from Celeste. “What the hell?” he said, shoving it in his bag. “Who cares?”

“Yeah,” I said, recovering enough to jump to his defense. “So he doodles. Big deal.”

Celeste snorted. “Anyone who has ever been in love knows the primal urge to doodle the loved one’s name.”

“You’re unbelievable,” David said, shaking his head. “I’m outta here.”

“It’s just a name on a piece of paper,” I added, to assure him I wasn’t making a big deal out of it.

David walked away without looking again at either one of us.

“I’m doing this for your own good,” she called after him. “Don’t you want to actually live life, instead of just thinking about it? Instead of focusing on everyone else?”

David didn’t turn around, just held up a hand giving Celeste the finger. People on the path had stopped and were staring.

“Thanks for ruining a nice friendship,” I said as his figure receded.

“He’ll get over it.”

We started walking again. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t making her carry her own bag after that little episode. And I couldn’t believe that instead of just being angry, some of what I felt coursing through my body was actually excitement. I didn’t want to let her know that, though.

“Has it occurred to you that if something were going to happen between me and your brother, it should happen at its own pace?” I said.

“No,” she said plainly.

I shifted her bag on my shoulder. “Well, has it occurred to you that if something were going to happen, the fact that you are so suspiciously, overly gung-ho about it would give someone like me second thoughts?”

“Huh.” She seemed to consider this. “No.”

“It is a little weird,” I said. “Your insistence. Just tell me—why do you want us to get together so bad? Do you have some ulterior motive?”

She stopped walking and looked at me. “Okay. Yes, actually, I do.”

Of course. I raised my eyebrows.

“I want you to get him off my back,” she said.

“What?”

“I want him to have someone he can take care of so he’ll stop spending every free minute wondering who I’m hooking up with or whether I’m losing my mind or whether I took a crap yesterday. Is that so weird? I have enough to worry about without worrying about him worrying about me.”

Her voice and face made it clear she was telling the truth. I didn’t quite know how to respond.

“I just know,” she added, “that if he had the right girlfriend, not just some fling, he’d be the best boyfriend ever. It’s not like I randomly picked you. I really, honestly think you’d be great for him. Don’t you think he’d be great for you?”

I stared at her some more, at the almost pleading look in her eyes. “You sound like you’re trying to sell your used car,” I said finally, laughing a little.