Frost

I didn’t say anything, just watched our healthy breaths puff white in the cold air and thought about Celeste’s theory, thought about my answer to her final question. And while thinking, I realized: I knew everything that had happened to Celeste this semester, but she didn’t know anything that had happened to me. Somehow, it didn’t seem right.

Then I told her my version of the past months, including my theory of what Frost House had wanted:

She had wanted Celeste to leave. But she had wanted me to stay.

Forever.

Chapter 42

I DROVE OUT TO BARCROFT this morning. Later today I have a series of meetings with my teachers and Dean Shepherd. I’ve fallen too far behind to finish the semester in some classes, but we’re going to try and figure out if I can still get enough credits to graduate on time.

I’m also having dinner with David. I don’t think either of us is sure what’s going on with our relationship—things have changed, obviously. But we’re taking slow steps, at least toward staying friends. Celeste and I still haven’t talked to him about what might have really happened in the dorm. We will, though. It’s too big a secret to keep from someone I want to be close to. I told Viv everything, and she immediately knew which possible story she wanted to believe. “I’m so sorry, Leen,” she said, giving me a hug. “I should have made us listen to Orin.”

When I made plans to come out here today, I was explicitly told—by my therapist, my father, the dean—to stay away from Frost House. Right. Like that was going to happen.

I parked in the gym lot and pushed my way through the bushes and tree branches, into the backyard. I didn’t want to walk in off the road, in case someone happened to see me. I’d heard from Viv that the whole Frost House thing had completely overshadowed any other campus gossip. And to think, all they knew was that we’d had carbon monoxide poisoning.

I paused for a moment before going inside. The house appeared just as cozy and welcoming as the first time I saw it. Now, though, I knew what I was seeing was just the architecture, the outer shell; it didn’t mean anything about the type of house it was inside. If I could see the house as it really was, it would be dark and windowless. Uninhabitable.

My heart jumped when I entered the common room. The light was dim and, at first glance, it seemed as if a tall figure stood there, waiting for me. But I quickly saw what it was. The couch had been moved into the middle of the room. The other furniture was stacked precariously on top of it—table on top of armchair. Maybe they were painting the walls again? Although I’d heard a rumor that they were talking about tearing the house down, so that didn’t make sense.

I worked my way around the odd sculpture and down the hall. I ran my hand over the plaster wall, listened to the conversation between floorboards. Celeste’s door stood open. I pushed it farther with my index finger, but stayed in the hall as I looked in. Shadowy. Empty. Very empty, if that’s possible.

I turned my back and crossed the hall. Bright sun filled my room, bright enough so that it obliterated the room’s faults—bumpy walls, gaps in the floorboards—instead of illuminating them. The mattress had been removed from my bed. Otherwise, all the furniture was still there.

The door to the closet stood open a crack, the wood on the edge split and splintered where it had been broken when they got me out. I turned away and studied the bare tree branches outside.

The heat wasn’t on in the house; a chill breeze leaked through the windowpanes. I could feel it even in my down coat. I pulled my hat over my ears and took a seat in the corner, as far out of the cold drafts as I could get without going in the closet. I spent the morning sitting there, going over the story in my mind, from start to finish. Trying again to piece together the truth of it. Knowing I probably never would have answers for some things, like a tattoo of a stained-glass window—the memory of my childhood and a house that I loved—that’s now almost invisible, as if someone wanted it erased.

There is one thing I know to be true, though. No matter what voice said those horrible things to me, that last time in the closet—the voice of my own, darkest insecurities, or . . . something else—in the end, I didn’t listen. I wouldn’t still be here if I had.

It was almost time for my meeting with Dean Shepherd. I hadn’t seen her since a short, confused visit at the hospital. I took a moment to breathe away the rush of nerves, then stood and stretched my chilled, stiff bones.

Took a last look at this beautiful room.