Frost

I continued on to town alone, my book bag not the only weight on my shoulders. Since Celeste and I rarely saw each other now, I had been trying to think about her as little as possible. Especially since when I did see her, she looked harried and tired. I’d heard her call out in the night, too, through her door. So I knew she was still having nightmares.

One thing Nicole said that struck me was the fact that Celeste had been showering at the gym. She wasn’t playing a sport, of course. So why would she be at the gym? Was she hoping to keep me from seeing the bruises? I tried to remember the last time I’d had to wait for her to get out of the bathroom so I could use it, the last time I’d seen her coming out in a towel. But I couldn’t. Whenever I was in my room I had my door closed, and if I heard her in the hall, I usually made a point of waiting to go out.

Sure enough, when I got back to the dorm and checked, I saw she’d taken away her wire basket of shampoo and soap. Her toothbrush still rested in the holder. That was the only sign of her in the bathroom. For some reason she was using the shower at the gym. And for some reason, she was covered in bruises.

Of course, they could be from Whip, like she’d said before. But I had my doubts. This had gotten to the point where I’d have to tell someone else—David or the dean. First, though, I wanted to know what I was dealing with.

I knocked on her door. “Celeste? Are you in there?”

I tried the knob. It wiggled only the slightest bit. Locked. I’m not Nancy Drew at heart and didn’t entertain thoughts of lock picking or anything like that. I decided to just wait until Celeste was back and go in while she was there. It’s not as if I knew what I’d be looking for, anyway. Just, something . . .

I’d given up and had moved on to writing a paper about the unreliable narrator in Nabokov’s Pale Fire when it occurred to me how stupid I was being. I had the key from before she’d changed our living arrangement. Duh.

Celeste’s windowless room was nighttime dark. I ran my hand over the rough plaster wall until I felt the switch. I held my breath and flipped it.

I don’t know what I expected. Nothing as obvious as whips and chains, of course. Something more subtle—a clue . . . One wall was covered with sketches and notes. Her hat collection sat piled in a corner. Shoe boxes sat in stacks, labeled on the side with notes like Bugs—done; Bugs—to do; Nests. All perfectly normal—for Celeste, at least.

Under her desk, there were six large, white candles, with deep enough depressions at the top that I could tell they’d been burned quite a bit. Candles were definitely not allowed in dorm rooms, so she was risking something by having them, which was odd. But nothing to do with bruises, clearly.

I turned off the light and closed and locked the door behind me, simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

David was standing in the hallway.

“What were you doing in there?” he asked.

“Oh, hi!” I shoved the key in my pocket. “I was just looking for my Barcroft sweatshirt. I thought I might have left it in the closet when we switched rooms. I wanted to wear it to the assembly later.”

“No luck?” His words, and his eyes, were steel hard. Because I’d been in there without Celeste?

“Nope,” I said, ignoring his strange reaction. “What’s up? Should I get parietals?”

“That’s okay.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Is there something you want to tell me, Leena?”

So it wasn’t me being in her room that had made him mad. A pressure started in my chest. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re just making it worse.”

Celeste’s bruises? Was that what he meant? “David,” I said, “I really don’t know what you mean. Honestly.”

“I know, Leena,” he said. “I know you were an hour late for your Columbia interview. An hour late.”

“No, I wasn’t,” I said, stiffening. “Who told you that?”

“Doesn’t matter. Is it true?”

“No!”

David raised his eyebrows.

“Twenty minutes,” I said. “I was twenty minutes late.”

“Still. You’re never late. Why would you be twenty minutes late for something so important?”

“It was an accident. Why are you so mad? Please, don’t be.” I reached out and touched his arm, but he brushed my hand off.

“Why am I mad? Leena, if you cared about being in New York with me, you wouldn’t have screwed up the interview. And you lied to me about it, too.”

“I didn’t screw it up,” I said. “The interview itself was fine. Look, don’t you want to go in the bedroom to talk?” Honestly, I didn’t know how the interview had gone. Once I arrived I was in such a state—blurry from sleeping, panicked at being late, nervous about being unprepared—that I barely heard myself answering the woman’s questions. It was probably a moot point, anyway. Columbia had been a long shot. And I had blown it.