Читать интересную книгу Marianna Baer - Frost

Ride Club, you should totally come talk to me about it. My name’s

Cora.”

“Thanks so much,” David said. “I will.”

After Cora floated away, Abby pointed a carrot stick in her

direction and said to David, “That’s why you’re going to want to

find us at meals.”

“Uh, why?” he said.

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“You’re such a rarity,” she explained. “A new guy who’s not

fourteen years old. You’re going to need our protection from the

swarming hoards.”

“Should I carry a Taser or something?” he said, pretending to

be alarmed.

“Oh, definitely.” More grinning.

I took a bite of thick, buttered bread and swallowed past my

immature jealousy of the obvious spark between Abby and David.

Also, I hoped Abby was just flirting, that she wasn’t considering

him as a possibility. Gorgeous as he was, we were living with his

sister. It could get messy if one of us hooked up with him and it

didn’t go well. Although maybe I didn’t have to worry about that

with Abby. She didn’t have the fiascos I did when it came to guys.

“Cam?” I said. “You go on Ride Club trips sometimes, don’t

you?”

“Yep,” Cameron said, peeling a banana. “Usually the

overnights.” He and Viv had been together since freshman year.

They were noticeable around campus since, after a late growth

spurt, Viv towered five inches taller than him. They hated when

people called them cute; but, well, they were. “You bike for fun?”

he asked David. “Or are you trying out for the team?”

“For fun,” David said, “and transportation.”

“Are you an artist, like your sister?” Abby asked.

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He shook his head and took a sip of lemonade.

“I bet you’re a . . .” She rested her fingertips on her temples,

pretending to be psychic. “A musician. You play guitar.”

“Nope,” he said. “Tone-deaf.”

There was a brief silence. I think we were all expecting David

to say what he did do, what activity/talent/passion he’d be

emphasizing on his college apps. He didn’t say anything, though,

just ate a couple of black olives off his salad.

“Will you guys help me with my peer-counseling

presentation for the new students tonight?” I asked Viv and Abby.

“I’m already nervous.”

“You’ll be amazing,” Viv said. She looked at David. “Leena

started this whole program where students are trained to counsel

other students about stuff, for kids who’d rather not go to psych

services. It’s been really successful.” She said this so proudly. I

squirmed in my seat, embarrassed.

“Other schools have similar programs,” I said. “It’s not that

big a deal.”

“Celeste told me about it,” David said. “And I noticed your

thing on the orientation schedule.”

“We’re excited to have her in the dorm,” Abby said. David

didn’t respond so she added, “Your sister.”

“Oh,” he said. “Uh-huh.”

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“Are you guys twins?” she asked. “Or are you a junior?”

“A senior, but I’m a year older.” He paused. “I took last year

off.”

“Ahh—an older man . . .” Abby’s voice was kiddingly

suggestive. “What’d you do?”

David pushed his rigatoni marinara around his plate.

“Different things.” His energy had shifted. Maybe he really was

tired, like he’d said, and not in the mood to be grilled.

“Abby?” I said. “Can you pass the salt? And the pepper, too?”

She pulled a Plastic Man to reach the shakers but didn’t

switch her focus. “Did you travel?” she asked him.

“Not really. A week in Costa Rica.”

“If you did anything interesting, you should be on Viv’s

show.”

“Definitely,” Viv said. “Cam and I host a WBAR show on

Tuesday nights. We play music, but we also have guests on to talk

about whatever. You could talk about what you did last year, why

you’re at Barcroft now, what sign you are . . . you know, stuff. It’s

fun.”

David laid a napkin over his pasta, as if covering a corpse.

Blots of red seeped through the thin, white paper. “How’s this?”

he said. “I had to leave school—Pembroke—because they busted

me for cheating. At the same time, my dad’s mental illness got

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really bad and I didn’t want him to have to live in a group facility,

so I moved home to help my mother take care of him. But I guess

I didn’t do a very good job because he decided the government

had sent me there to poison him. Barcroft took into account the

extenuating circumstances, and the fact that I got really good

grades at Pembroke, and let me in. Any questions?”

The sounds of other diners’ conversations, laughter, and

utensils clanking against their plates seemed to swell around us as

we sat there staring at our food. I struggled to come up with the

right words. A schizophrenic father. God.

Unfortunately, Abby spoke first. “You might want to put a

different spin on that for the radio show,” she said.

I knew she was hoping to lighten the moment, but she just

sounded harsh.

David didn’t look up.

The meal ended quickly. On my way out of the dining hall, I

stopped to put my tray—minus silverware and uneaten apple—

on the kitchen conveyor belt. David placed his after mine.

“Sorry,” he said. “Long day. I should have sat alone.”

“It wasn’t you.” I plunked my utensils in the designated bin

of murky dishwater, trying not to let any splash on us. “They

meant well, though.”

40

We followed the flow of students into the hallway and down

marble stairs that were smoothed unevenly by years of footsteps.

I let Viv and Abby go on ahead, instead keeping pace with David.

Outside, he said, “I have my ride,” and gestured to the bike

rack at the north end of Commons. I was walking the same

general direction, so I drifted next to him.

“Is, um, is your father okay?” I asked as he squatted by a blue

road bike. He’d obviously gotten sick of answering questions. Still,

I couldn’t leave it hanging like that.

“Depends what you mean by okay,” he said, undoing the

chunky padlock. “He’s alive. Living in a facility, for now.”

“I think it’s amazing that you took care of him,” I said.

“Schizophrenia must be so . . . scary.”

“He’s actually not schizophrenic. Something similar.”

“Oh. The one . . . what’s it called . . . with mood-disorder

symptoms?” I asked.

David stood up, massively thick chain in his hands, brows

drawing together. “Schizoaffective,” he said. “Yeah. Do you know

someone—?”

“No, no. I took Intro Psych last year.”

“Oh.” He wrapped and fastened the chain around his waist. I

couldn’t believe he could bike with it on. “Well, yeah. It’s scary. In

lots of ways.”

41

I watched the late sun stream orange through plum-colored

clouds. Probably one of the reasons it was scary was because it

has a genetic component. The things I didn’t want to inherit from

my parents—selfishness, undependability—were things that were

under my control, not predetermined, but I still worried about

them. This was a whole different story.

“When is Celeste getting here tomorrow?” I asked as David

backed his bike away from the rack.

“Not sure yet. You know . . . what Abby said in there . . .” He

stopped and met my eyes. “You guys don’t have to pretend

you’re happy to live with her. I know you’re not, and I don’t

blame you. You had this nice, private thing going on.”

Even though he didn’t sound defensive or judgmental, my

first instinct was to lie, to tell him that we really were happy to

live with Celeste. Then I wondered what the point was.

“It’s not that I dislike her,” I said, twisting the stem of my

apple. “I mean, I love how creative and . . . passionate she is. But

she makes me nervous. Sometimes, I think she might not even

like me.”

“Really?” he said. “I know she can be a pain in the ass, but

she definitely likes you. She said . . . What was it?” He thought for

a minute and then smiled. “Oh, yeah. You remind her of an

angel.”

“An angel?” I said. “Hardly.”

42

His gaze traced a path from my chin to my hair. “Maybe she

meant you look like one.”

My hand flew to the top of my head. “Frizz. Not a halo,” I

said, hoping my suddenly hot cheeks hadn’t pinked. “And if you

knew she liked me, why did you have to talk to Jessica Liu?”

“Jess—? Oh. Right.” He sounded a bit sheepish. “It’s just,

Celeste doesn’t always have the best judgment about people

and . . . I tend to be pretty protective of her.”

We held eyes for a minute. Something had shifted; the

connection between us had changed. We’d stripped some things

away, like when you strip away layers of lumpy paint and get

down to the smooth, original wood.

I gestured in the direction of Frost House. “I have to go

prepare my presentation.”

David nodded and swung a leg over the frame. “Guess I’ll see

you there, if not before.”

I’d turned the corner toward home when I heard, “Leena?”

He biked toward me. “One other thing.”

“What?” I said.

“Spoons.”

“What?”

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He rode around me in a circle. “Abby wanted to know what I

do. That’s it.”

“Spoons? ” I said, turning to follow his path.

He smiled, wide, with full-on dimples. In this light, the blue of

his eyes reminded me of raspberry slushies. “See you, Leena,” he

said. And rode away.

I decided to finish unpacking and arranging my room before

working on my presentation, and as I filled drawers and shifted

furniture and hung pictures, I kept wondering what David had

meant. People played spoons as instruments, but he’d said he

wasn’t a musician. There was a card game called Spoons; I found

that hard to imagine. So, what . . . ?

I hadn’t come up with any feasible possibilities when I joined

Viv and Abby upstairs. I didn’t ask for their input, though. Not that

I thought it was a big secret. Just that something about the way

he hadn’t said anything at dinner made me keep it to myself.

I did want to talk about something else.

“You guys?” I said after they’d declared my speech ready for

the tender ears of the newbies. “I know that having Celeste here

wasn’t the plan, but I think we should make an effort to be

welcoming. Not fakey-fake nicey-nice. Friendly.”

“Seriously?” Abby had been sprawled on Viv’s shaggy white

rug, eating a brownie. Now she sat up. “You realize you’re asking

44

me to go against my true nature? Like asking a vampire to be a

phlebotomist and not drink from the vials.”

“I know,” I said, placing my hand on hers in faux sympathy.

“You’re truly a mean, mean person. But this won’t change who

you are. No one outside of the dorm has to know.”

She sighed. “In that case, I suppose I can do it.”

“Viv?” I said.

“I’m always nice,” she answered from her cross-legged

position on the cushioned window seat. “And I don’t even care

she’s living with us. I love it here already. This room is so damn

cozy. Orin must’ve read it wrong.” Rain tapped the glass behind

her. Another storm had started.

“What does Orin have to do with anything?” I asked.

Viv paused, a mug of tea halfway to her mouth. Her eyes

darted to Abby, who shrugged, and then back to me. “Oh,

nothing.”

“You obviously told Abby,” I said. “Come on, you know I

won’t take it seriously.”

“We decided not to tell you because you’re the one who

picked Frost House,” Viv said, resting her mug next to her knee. “I

guess, though, if you won’t believe it anyway . . . He didn’t want

me to live here. There’s some sort of . . . darkness connected to

it.”

45

Heat spread up the back of my neck. “You’re right. That’s

stupid.”

“Then again . . .” Abby waved her brownie. “He could be

talking about Green Beret.”

I loved Abby, but that was the last straw. “That’s it,” I

announced, pointing at her. “Let it all out now. Purge. Every nasty

thing you have to say about Celeste.”

“What?” she said.

“Pretend Celeste is here with us. Let her have it. So when she

gets here you don’t have all this snark built up.”

Viv laughed. “Abby has an endless reserve of snark.”

“Just try,” I said.

Abby shrugged. “Okay.” She took a bite of brownie, closed

her eyes, and thought for a minute while chewing, then began.

“What are you wearing you look like a crazy person and why are

you so dramatic and your brother seems nuts too and why are

you living here we don’t even know you and why do you wear

that green beret all the time or ever la la la I can’t think of

anything else oh yeah if you’re going to go schizo like your dad

please don’t do it here and stay away from matches.” She opened

her eyes.

“Is that it?” I asked.

Abby nodded.

46

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have a toast.” We all picked up our tea

and scootched closer together. “To Frost House,” I said.

“To Frost House,” they echoed.

We clunked mugs and drank, to the applause of a deep

rumble of thunder.

The first night in a new place usually gives me a tinny,

homesick feeling that makes it hard to sleep. Not homesick for

anywhere in particular. Just a general feeling of uprootedness.

Loneliness. Even if people I love are sleeping nearby.

To help me that night in Frost House, I put on my favorite

mellow-girl-singers playlist; made up my bed with my oldest,

softest sheets; and set Cubby—a hollow wooden owl my dad

carved for me—on the windowsill near my pillow. Cubby’s spot

has always been next to my bed. When I was little and scared of