Frost

“It’s okay,” she said. “As long as you give me a chance to show that I’m not. You’ll see. It’ll be better for you, too. David’ll see how much he can trust you.” She reached up and brushed something off her cheek. The sleeve of her leopard-print vintage sweater crept up a bit. A bruise I’d never noticed before circled her wrist. “It bothered me a bit,” she said, “when you and David got together. Partly, you know, I already felt lonely because of this . . . this house stuff. But also, I think, as much as I hated how protective he was, I got nervous that I needed him. But now I’m glad you’re, like, in love. I’m sorry if I made it hard. I should’ve realized it didn’t have to be you or me. And that I’m stronger than I thought.”

I lay down on my bed and stared at the cockroach angel in Celeste’s photograph. I pictured that bruise on her tiny wrist, a bizarre bracelet. I couldn’t do what they wanted me to do. But maybe . . . maybe there was a way. A way I could take care of Celeste without losing David. Or Frost House. Because if I lost them, what would I have left?

Chapter 39

MOST FRESHMEN EAT IN LOWER RIGHT, at least the ones who haven’t made varsity teams or gotten leads in plays. Sure enough, the next morning I found Nicole there, eating breakfast with her friend, Sera.

“Can I talk to you, Nicole?” I said. “Alone?”

Sera stood and picked up her tray. “I was leaving anyway. FYI, Nicki, danger at ten o’clock.” She giggled. “See you later, lovebird.”

I followed Nicole’s eyes toward ten o’clock where a guy in an oversize Barcroft hoodie sat. Nicole jerked her gaze down to her plate. “Shoot. Did he see me?”

“I have no idea,” I said, sliding into the seat Sera had vacated. If only my main worry was running into some guy in Commons. “I need your help, Nicole. The situation is more complicated than I thought.”

“What situation?” Nicole’s eyes flicked back toward the guy. She smoothed her hair behind her ears.

“The thing with the girl in the locker room. I’m hoping you’ll do me a favor.”

Now she focused on me. “What can I do? I don’t even know her.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Just tell Dean Shepherd what you saw. You know, the bruises. Don’t mention my name. Tell the dean like she’s the only person you’ve told.”

“Why? Dean Shepherd hates me. Can’t you tell her?”

I shook my head, antagonizing the terrible headache I’d had since last night. I’d thrown up this morning, too. Nerves. “Like I said, it’s complicated. You don’t have to have a long thing with the dean. Just go in, tell her what you saw. That’s it.”

“Couldn’t it just be an anonymous tip?”

“Nicole,” I said. “You owe me.”

She bit her bottom lip and scraped her fork across her plate, through clumps of scrambled eggs.

“Okay,” she finally said. “I guess it’s not a big deal. I’ll do it.”

“Thanks.” I smiled with relief. One hurdle cleared. “Dean Shepherd usually gets to her office at seven thirty, so maybe you could stop by on your way to your first class.”

Nicole watched as I stood up to leave. “What’s going on with that girl, anyway?” she said. “Someone told me she’s going out with Whip Windham. Is it, like, an abusive relationship?” I could see in Nicole’s eyes that she’d be on the phone the minute I left, telling Sera what had just happened.

“No,” I said. “It’s nothing to do with that.” The last thing Celeste needed was to be the grist of the Barcroft rumor mill.

Although, I supposed that was the least of her problems.

There was a time bomb ticking. I could hear it counting off with every one of my shallow, accelerated breaths that morning. After bio, I wandered down the crowded hall, wondering if Nicole had done what I’d asked, if Celeste had been called to the office, if David knew. Silas Williams, from my Calculus class, stopped and asked me if I’d finished the homework. I couldn’t remember. Saturday, the day I’d last done homework, seemed so far away and fuzzy. I was about to tell him no when I felt a tug on my wrist. I turned.

“Leena,” Celeste said. “Come here.” My heart leapt into my throat. I followed her off to the side of the crowd, into an open space underneath the main staircase.

She stood so our faces were only inches apart and spoke in a whisper. “She told. The little redhead. She told Dean Shepherd.”

“She did?” I said. Celeste’s eyes betrayed no emotion. I hoped mine were just as unreadable.

“Yes! Can you believe it? She already snitched to you. Why would she tell the dean?”

“I guess she was worried,” I said. “So, are you okay? What’s going to happen?” Honestly, I was surprised she was in the classroom building. And that she seemed relatively calm.

“Nothing,” Celeste said. “Thank God. It’s just a pain in the ass.”

“Nothing?” That couldn’t be right.

Celeste brought out a tube of Blistex. I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from asking more questions as she ran it over her lips. “I saw the dean a few minutes ago,” she finally said. “I gave her the whole blood-disorder song and dance, told her about my doctor’s appointment, blah, blah, blah. . . .”