Frost

“Oh,” I said. “Right.” All of my muscles tightened. I had known Nicole would only tell Dean Shepherd about the bruises, of course. Why had I assumed that would lead to the dean finding out everything else?

Instead, it had led nowhere.

“The good news is I think David figured out a plan,” Celeste said. “Like we discussed.”

The tightness in my chest was keeping me from breathing. “Already?”

“Of course already. The sooner the better. You want me to die in there?”

“What is it? He’s not going to do anything too extreme, is he?”

“He hasn’t told me,” she said. “He sent a text that says, ‘Got it.’”

“‘Got it’? That could mean anything.”

“No way. It means he’s got a plan.”

As much as I wanted to believe otherwise, I knew she was right.

This couldn’t happen. I couldn’t let David do something horrible to Frost House. I couldn’t go along with this fantasy that Celeste wasn’t sick. And if I waited any longer, it would be too late.

“Can Dean Shepherd see me?” I asked Marcia. “It’s an emergency.”

I stood in front of Marcia’s desk, scrunching and unscrunching my toes in my boots, telling myself that this was the right thing to do. That whatever happened with David, I had no choice. I couldn’t jeopardize Celeste’s life just to hold on to him. I checked my phone about a hundred times to make sure I hadn’t missed a call or text. I’d left David a message that he shouldn’t do anything until we spoke. I was reaching in my bag to check it again when Marcia motioned me to go into the office.

Dean Shepherd was wiping the sleeve of her blouse with a paper towel. “Coffee spill,” she said. “Have a seat, Leena.”

I sat down and laced my fingers together tightly in my lap to keep my hands still.

The dean set aside the paper towel and gave me a small smile. “So,” she said. “Judging from the morning I’ve had, I’ll guess this is about Celeste?”

I started at the beginning, with the ripped skirt, the broken vase, the ruined nests. “I thought she believed Ms. Martin’s cat had done everything,” I said. “I didn’t realize she was connecting it to this other stuff.” I explained about Celeste’s fear she was being watched, the knocking noises, everything Celeste had told me, how she’d built it all up into this final paranoid delusion.

Dean Shepherd listened with a furrowed brow, absentmindedly running her fingers over her chin. “Are you sure this isn’t a joke?” she said when I’d finished. “Maybe she’s upset about you and David, trying to get back at you. Isn’t that what you told me before?”

“No,” I said. “She’s serious.”

“And the bruises? They’re part of this?”

I repeated what I’d told David, about how she might not realize she’s hurting herself. The way she might not have realized she was causing the other things to happen, as well.

“It sounds like there’s been a lot of trouble in the dorm I didn’t know about,” Dean Shepherd said. “I can’t help feeling that maybe it could have been noticed earlier that something was wrong.”

“Noticed by me, you mean.”

Most people might have missed the look that flitted across her face, but I didn’t. Just a twitch of her lips that let me know that’s exactly what she’d meant. That it was my fault for not coming to her earlier. That I’d missed obvious signs the person I was living with—the person she’d trusted me to watch out for—was deeply sick.

“I just thought she was eccentric,” I said, trying to ignore the heavy sadness bearing down. “How could I ever have guessed something like this? It’s completely crazy. I was trying to make things work out okay . . . you know, in the dorm. I didn’t know.”

The dean nodded, her mouth a solemn straight line. “Okay,” she said. “We don’t want to come to any premature conclusions, of course. But I’ll handle it from here.”

“What will you do?”

“Don’t worry—I’ll do what’s best for Celeste. Does David know yet?”

“No,” I lied. “Not yet.”

We sat for a moment. Her face seemed to sag slightly, as if the conversation had added years to her age. “What happened this semester, Leena?” she said. “I feel like in the past, you would have come to me with this.”

I swallowed and tried not to tear up. “I . . . I kept screwing up. You’ve been so mad at me.”

“It’s been a rough semester,” she said. “That’s true. But I would still have been here for you. Always.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. All her words did was make me feel worse.

The paths crisscrossing the Great Lawn stretched empty; everyone else was in class. I fought against a strong wind as I hurried toward Frost House. Leaves swirled above me like the flocks of ravens in Hitchcock’s The Birds.