Frost

“So, if you went into Boston next weekend and met someone, and they asked where you lived, you’d say, ‘Barcroft,’ you know? Instead of . . . ?”

“Greenwich.”

“Right. Greenwich. So, to feel like you’re in a comfortable, happy home, you need to develop a better relationship with your roommate. Should we write down some ways you might like to talk to her?”

Another nod.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll get this all worked out.”

At nine thirty, I locked the door to the counseling offices behind me and headed to the dorm, enjoying the unmistakable crispness of Massachusetts fall that had blown in this week. I’d looked for Frost House’s working fireplace this afternoon, thinking we could start using it soon, and had been surprised to find that it was all bricked up and obviously had been for years. What had I seen that day last fall, when I was deciding whether or not to call the dean? Not smoke from the chimney, sadly.

But fireplace or no, I did still have that lovely, deep, claw-foot tub. As I walked up the porch steps, trying to convince myself that I could concentrate on my homework in a bubble bath, my phone rang. Abby.

“Are you on your way back here?” she said.

102

“Opening the door now.”

“Good,” she said, and hung up.

No one was in the common room; somehow, though, the air still snapped with tension, like it was warning me to be on my guard. Voices echoed from down the hall.

Celeste, Abby, and Viv stood in my bedroom, in various postures of hostility—arms crossed or on hips, chins thrust out, feet planted wide. Shards of familiar glossy white-and-green ceramic lay on the floor at their feet, with dried Chinese lantern flowers scattered among the pieces. My stomach plummeted.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Celeste is accusing me of breaking her vase,” Abby said.

“Why? What happened?” I asked Celeste.

“She doesn’t know,” Abby answered before Celeste could speak.

“Jesus.” Celeste briefly raised her eyes to the ceiling then looked at me. “I came back from the studio and found Annie standing here with the vase in pieces on the floor. Now she’s trying to say David did it? What am I, stupid?”

“I guess so,” Abby said. “Because it’s Abby. Not Annie.”

“Okay, Abby, but you were in here?” I said. For an ugly moment, I remembered the rip in Celeste’s skirt and Abby’s comments about hoping Celeste would move out. . . . But no, there was no way she’d do something this mean.

Abby held her hands up in front of her. “It was broken when I got here. I swear. I was just borrowing the hoodie.” She was wearing a navy-blue sweatshirt of mine that she loved.

“Abby did tell me she was going down to borrow the hoodie,” Viv added. “And I didn’t hear the sound of something breaking.”

“David is here all the time,” Abby said. “Bringing her laundry and stuff.”

“Why the hell—” Celeste began.

“I know David’s around a lot,” I said, “but I’m sure he wouldn’t have knocked it over and just left it on the floor. And it’s not like he’s here when Celeste isn’t.”

“So what are you saying?” Abby asked.

“Nothing.” I tried to keep my voice even. “Just that accusing David isn’t helping.”

“Well, I didn’t do it,” she huffed.

“Then who did?” Celeste said.

“We’ve got some strong cross breezes in here,” I said, glancing around at the windows, many of which were open.  “You’re always complaining about them, Celeste. Maybe the vase tipped on its own.”

“Right.” She used the tip of a crutch to send one of the dried flowers skittering across the room. “You know, I didn’t ask to live here. To break up your little party. So I don’t see why we can’t just live and let live.”

Abby sputtered. “We can! You’re the one who accused me of doing this.”

“Okay!” I said. “Enough!” I dumped my bag on my bed and turned to Celeste. “If Abby says she didn’t do it, she didn’t do it.” I turned to Abby. “David wouldn’t have done it.” Then to all of them, “Do you guys realize how lucky we are? Instead of being in some big, impersonal dorm, we have this beautiful little house. But if you guys are going to act like this, it’s just . . . well, it’s going to suck. Am I right?”

I made eye contact with each of them. They nodded unenthusiastically.

“Good,” I said. Even though I was annoyed, I didn’t want to leave it on this note. “And did you all get my message about what I’m going to cook for the first Sunday dinner? Did it sound okay?”

More nodding. I seemed to be inspiring a lot of that tonight.

“I love your lasagna,” Viv said.

“Okay. Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I have a butt load of homework that I haven’t even started.”