Frost

“I hate it here!” She flung her arms out. “I hate this room. I have to talk to Dean Shepherd, tell her I need to move.”

Defensiveness flared inside me. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the room,” I said. “If someone is doing this to you, they’d do it wherever you lived.”

She was quiet. I knew I’d sounded mean. “Another dorm wouldn’t have all these windows,” she said.

“What does that have to do with it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“These things that are happening have nothing to do with the room,” I said again. “If you really think this is someone, then the best thing to do is ignore it. Don’t give them the satisfaction of caring. Right?”

She wiped her cheek and leaned forward to pick up a clump of nest. “How can I not care? I worked so hard on this, Leena. This is me. Why would someone punish me like this? It doesn’t even matter if the mess said some stupid thing or not. They ruined my work.”

She was crying for real. I stood up from the floor, sat next to her, and put an arm around her shoulders. “Hey,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“I can trust you, right?” she asked, her voice shaky and thin. “You’d tell me if you knew who was doing this, right? I just, I’m so sick of it. And I’m . . . scared. You know. It’s all so mean. Like someone really hates me. More than Ann—Abby, I think.”

It’s all so mean. “We’re just talking about the vase and this, right?” I said.

“That rip in the skirt, too,” she said. “You said you didn’t do it.” She looked out the window. “I can feel them watching, you know? Waiting till we’re gone so they can do this stuff. David and you are the only people I trust. And I can’t even tell David how upset I am, because he’ll worry.”

“You still feel like someone’s watching you?” I said, a heavy dread descending on me.

“Sometimes,” Celeste continued as if she hadn’t even heard me, “when I open the closet . . .” She motioned toward it with her head and spoke quietly. “Sometimes I feel like whoever it is is in there. I have to look through all the clothes, you know, to make sure no one is hiding. But it’s like I feel them.”

My stomach constricted. I had sat in the closet a couple more times recently, just for a little while when I needed to clear my head. And although I’d never done it while she was in the room, it was as if she’d sensed I’d been in there.

“Celeste,” I said, “you realize that you sound a little . . . irrational? No one’s watching you.”

 “So, what?” she said. “You think I’m . . . what, imagining it? Don’t tell me I’m making it up. This stuff is real, this stuff that’s happened to me.”

“Honestly?” I said. “I think that you had a hard summer, dealing with your boyfriend. And a hard year, with your dad. I think that some weird, bad stuff has happened to you in this room. And it’s freaked you out.”

Celeste’s eyes rolled up and she stared at the ceiling, as if trying not to cry again.

“Maybe you should talk to someone,” I said.

“A therapist? They’d just stick me on some medication. Don’t . . . don’t tell anyone I have these feelings, okay? Not the dorm, or David. Okay? Please. It’s really important.”

She gripped one of my hands in both of hers. They felt cold, bony.

“I just think it would be good if you talked to someone,” I said.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “With a father like mine, people—everyone—they’re just waiting for me to crack up. And I can’t do anything without everyone thinking I tried to kill myself or whatever. And I’ve done stupid stuff in the past, and now it’s like, if they . . . you know . . . I don’t get the benefit of the doubt. Please, Leena. Please. It’s not like I’m making up these feelings from nowhere. This stuff happened.”

I remembered the horrible feeling after I’d tried to hurt myself in eighth grade, when my parents would stare at me with these expressions like they were worried I was going to crack into a thousand pieces at any moment.

“Please, Leena,” she said. “I’m not crazy. I’m not.” Her voice was stronger. “Promise you won’t tell.”

“Okay,” I said. “I promise. But you have to promise to let me know if it doesn’t get better. Okay?”

We agreed.

Later, as I was about to turn off my bedside lamp, Celeste came into the room wearing the Moroccan caftan she slept in. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed while I was still awake. As if reading my mind, she said, “Maybe I’ll be able to sleep. Now that the heat is on.” I didn’t point out that she hadn’t been able to sleep when the weather was warm either.

She lingered at her mirror, smoothing cream on her face, brushing her hair. Finally, she turned off her light and headed toward her bed. On the way, she paused in front of the slightly open closet door. After a second, she kept walking. She sat down on the comforter, laid her crutches on the floor, glanced at the closet again, stood up, closed the door.

This didn’t bode well.

“Do you want something mild to help? Just tonight?” I said.

“No, thanks.”