He stopped dunking his tea bag. “Are you still worried she
did those things herself?”
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“No. I’m just . . . I don’t know. Confused,” I said. “I haven’t
been able to figure any of this out. I mean, I knew that it caused
my headaches and probably made me throw up, and made me
tired and generally not feel well. But I don’t get . . . There’s a lot I
don’t get.”
“If I didn’t know better,” he said, nudging me, “I’d think you
were trying to convince me that there was something weird going
on in that house.”
Before, I would have been the first one to buy into David’s
theory. The first one to say that was what happened to me, too.
That my thoughts had been altered, twisted by the unhealthy air
I’d been breathing. But then I remember the pull I felt toward the
closet, that very first day. And even before the first day we moved
in, the way I felt the first time I ever saw the house, that intense
need to live there.
And what had I seen that day last fall? What had I mistaken
for smoke, as it drifted from the unusable chimney and danced
into the sky?
After sending David away to the coffee shop, Celeste and I
sat on my dad’s balcony, even though it was cold outside. I think
we both wanted as much fresh air as we could get. We sat quiet
for a moment.
“So,” I finally said. “This is fucked up.”
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Celeste looked at me and laughed, a real laugh. “Yeah,” she
said. “It is.”
“There are still so many things I don’t understand,” I said.
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“How did you get the bruises?”
She pulled up the fur-lined collar of her vintage coat. “I’d
wake up, find them on me,” she said. “And I’d have strange
memories of fighting something off. It seemed like I was awake
when I did it.” She paused. “Who the hell knows? My shrink
thinks they happened during my night terrors. That I’d thrash
around so much I hurt myself.”
“I saw you do that,” I said. “I guess it could have happened.”
“Maybe.” We held eyes, though, and another conversation
passed between us. One in which we agreed on the possibility
that maybe she had been awake when she fought something off
all those nights. I knew it then: Celeste was as confused as I was.
“Something else,” I said. “Did you ever throw your beetle
photo across the room?”
“What?” she said. “No. When did that—?”
“The same night you were burned in the tub. I didn’t want to
tell you.”
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“That burn . . .” Celeste rubbed the spot where it had been.
“I know which handle I turned that night. The water coming out of
the faucet was cold.”
“But the faucet was hot enough to burn you?”
She nodded.
“What does your shrink say about that?”
She gave a half smile. “I’m waiting until a later session to
break it to her.” After a moment she continued. “You know, you
were right to tell Dean Shepherd what was happening. Thanks for
doing that.”
I felt a rush of shame, knowing that the main reason I had
done it was that I didn’t want to lose Frost House. How could I
have thought that I was so weak? How could I have been so
convinced that Frost House was the only place I could ever be
happy?
I might need a long time to answer those questions. Now, I
still had more for Celeste.
“So that night at your parents’,” I said, “you had a whole
story, about that woman who had lived in Frost House. Didn’t you
wonder why she hadn’t done anything before? To other
students? I’m assuming we would have heard if there were other
people who had trouble in the dorm.”
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She tightened her silver-wool-with-sequins scarf around her
neck.
“I thought it was because we were the first girls to live
there,” she said. “It was a woman who died; she’d had a baby girl
taken away from her. I thought she wasn’t interested in boys.”
Celeste stared off at a plane in the sky. “I couldn’t figure out what
she wanted, aside from me leaving, though.”
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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A breeze shivered across my face; I sensed movement. The
closet door had blown open wider. I walked in slow, measured
steps until I was close enough to run a fingertip along the
splintered edge of the door, daring it to bite. Then, closing my
eyes, I drew a deep, deep breath. The feeling flooded me. The
same pull penetrated my body. It wrapped around me, strong as
an undertow; it wanted me to come in. I wanted to go in. I
wanted to go inside and shut the door behind me.
But I didn’t.
Part of me is still there, I believe. In that way, Frost House
will always be my home. But not the rest of me. I shut the closet
door. And walked out.
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Acknowledgments
Exuberant and heartfelt thanks:
To my agent, Sara Crowe: for her enthusiasm and hard work,
and for placing Frost in such good hands. To my editor, Kristin
Daly Rens: for her insight, positivity, and patience, and for
believing in me. To Sarah Hoy and Alison Donalty: for designing
the most stunning cover imaginable. And to the rest of the team
at Balzer + Bray: for caring about my book.
To the Vermont College of Fine Arts faculty, especially my
wise, witty, and deeply admired advisors—Cynthia Leitich Smith,
Brent Hartinger, Sharon Darrow, and Tim Wynne-Jones: for their
generous help in building Frost House. It’s a much creepier place,
thanks to them, and I mean that in the best way. To the students
at VCFA, especially my wonderful classmates, the Cliff-Hangers:
for their friendship and loyal support. To Galen Longstreth: for
her warmth and encouragement. To Jill Santopolo: for all the
advice and cheerleading, and for nudging Frost in the right
direction. And to Jandy Nelson: for making me laugh, keeping me
sane, and leading the way.
To all of my amazing friends, especially those who helped me
muddle through story issues while writing Frost—Stephanie
Knowles, Signy Peck, and Samera Nasereddin. To Annie and
Robert Del Principe, Julie and Chris Cummings, and Rachel, Bob
(and Ava!) Prince: for making sure I have a life outside of the
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fictional one in my apartment. To Louise Williams: for astute
critiques and invaluable guidance when I was starting out. To
Sandra Gering: for being a fan of everything I’ve ever written,
down to the last email. To Robin Spigel: for having way more faith
in me than I have in myself. To Brandon Russell: for his spoons.
And to the real girls of Frost House—Kate Donchi, Christina Henry
De Tessan, Marlene Laro Joel, Amanda Lydon, and Christina
Weaver Vest: for letting me sully the name of a place that held
only good memories.
To Tim Sultan: for taking care of me in so many ways; for
inspiring me to be a better writer; and for loving me even though
I have two legs, not four.
To Alexandra Bageris: for listening to me read Frost aloud
and gasping at all the right places; and for over thirty years of
being my best friend and encouraging me (sometimes forcefully!)
to take risks. I don’t know if I’d ever have been brave enough to
write a book without her standing next to me.
Finally, to my family: for raising me to be an avid reader; for
being so proud, supportive, and loving; for everything.
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About the Author
Marianna Baer received an MFA in writing for children and
young adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a BA in art
from Oberlin College. She also attended boarding school, where
she lived in a tiny dorm called Frost House, which was
subsequently torn down. She currently lives in Brooklyn, New
York. FROST is her first novel. You can visit her online at
www.mariannabaer.com.
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