Authors: Marianna Baer

Frost (27 page)

BOOK: Frost

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I
DROVE OUT TO
B
ARCROFT
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.

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.

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 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.

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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Credits

Front cover: Portrait © Jason Hetherington; House: Stockbyte
Jacket design by Sarah Hoy

Frost

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-0-06-179949-5

EPub Edition © AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 9780062093318

11 12 13 14 15
LP/RRDB
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FIRST EDITION

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