Frost

A framed snapshot sat next to Celeste’s vase. I stepped over and picked it up. David stood between Celeste and a stocky man I assumed must be their father, an arm around each of them, on a white-sand-turquoise-ocean beach. Celeste was laughing— beautiful, as usual; David had a goofy look—eyebrows raised and mouth in an O, like he was faking surprise. He was shirtless. My gaze momentarily got stuck on the muscles that led from his hips into his low-slung trunks. Other than his average height, I hadn’t noticed much about his body during our disastrous meeting. Looking at the picture, I could tell he was built like the soccer guys—slim and cut.

On David’s left, Mr. Lazar was much rounder and his face appeared to be in motion. The slight blur kept me from recognizing any features he shared with his kids. What sort of “difficulties” had the family had this past year? Mrs. Lazar wasn’t in the photo. Maybe they’d gotten divorced. I’d spent enough time with Celeste that I would have known if one of her parents had died.

I set the photo back down. Next to the dresser, the closet door stood open just enough to show the Mardi Gras effect of. Celeste’s wardrobe.

Out of curiosity, I opened the door wider. The closet air—still cooler than the rest of the room, despite all the clothes—reached out and brushed across my skin again, bringing with it that same pungent scent. A pleasant shiver ran through me. Probably the smell was from the door having been sealed tight during the heat of the summer. Or maybe a liquid—wine, cologne—spilled in there once, permanently soaking into the wood. It reminded me of something . . . or somewhere. I held the scent in my mind and tried to remember, but couldn’t come up with anything more concrete than a vague emotion. One you feel in your chest, not your gut. Contentment, maybe.

As it had earlier, the combination of the cool air and the smell made me wish that I could close myself up in there. Avoid this altogether.

I ran my fingers over the clothing crowded together on the hanging bar: a poufy red satin skirt, a geometric-patterned wrap dress, a lapis-blue sari—the antithesis of my own unofficial prep- school uniform of various jeans (straight leg, cutoffs, and minis), T-shirts, and hoodies. My hand came to rest on a familiar fuchsia- and-gold, gauzy fabric. I recognized the skirt Celeste had worn the first day of chemistry class last year.

She had sashayed into the lab wearing this long, narrow skirt with extra fabric gathered at the rear, like a bustle from the 1880s made modern. I’d guessed that it was either some very expensive designer thing, or that she’d made it herself. She hadn’t gotten it at J.Crew. On top, she wore a plain white undershirt. No bra. She didn’t need one, but still.

When we were put together as lab partners, I told her how cool the skirt was.

“It hides my nonexistent ass,” Celeste had said. Her wide, disconcerting eyes scanned me up and down before she added. “You’re lucky. You don’t have that problem.”

“Thanks,” I’d murmured, not sure whether “screw off” would have been a more appropriate response.

Now, I took the skirt out of the closet, searched along the waistband, and couldn’t find a label. Maybe it was handmade. On a whim, I undid the hidden zipper on the side, then stepped in, wondering what it felt like to wear it. I wriggled the fabric up until it hesitated at my thighs. I was much curvier than Celeste, but the material had some stretch in it. I wriggled some more.

The skirt squeezed over my hips. I didn’t bother with the zipper. Soft fabric hugged my bare legs as I took tiny steps toward my full-length mirror. How had Celeste managed to sashay in this?

“Leen?” Abby’s voice called. The thwak-thwak of her flip- flops sounded from the hall. “Ready for dinner?”

“Not quite,” I called back.

She appeared in the doorway. “Whoa, Nelly.”

“What do you think?” I did an awkward 360-degree turn.

“I think you better be careful living with her doesn’t drag you over to the dark side.”

“I lived with you for a year and emerged unscathed.”

“Touché.” She sat on my bed, amidst the bags I hadn’t unpacked yet. “Viv and I are starving. Are you wearing that to. Commons?”

“Yeah, right.” I eased the skirt back down. “Let me just—” A tiny ripping sound froze my movements.

“Oops,” Abby said.

I slid it the rest of the way off and double-checked the fabric all over, holding my breath. “Seems fine. Thank God,” I said. I started to walk toward the closet, anxious to get the skirt out of my hands.

“Hey,” Abby said. “Your tattoo!”

I stopped and twisted around to look at my low back. A geometric flower grew there, a little larger than a silver dollar. Thick black lines surrounded ruby, sapphire, and emerald petals. I got a shock every time I saw it, like I’d inhabited someone else’s body.

“It’s like stained glass,” she continued. “Really pretty.”

“Thanks. It’s of this window in my bedroom in Cambridge.”

“At your dad’s?”

“No. My old room. Before we moved.”