I supposed that’s all it was, that I’d been incredibly lucky, and with one more pull, David would have gotten in. It didn’t seem quite believable that he hadn’t been able to, since he was trying so hard, but I couldn’t think of another explanation.
As I stood there with my hand on the door, I said a little thank-you to Frost House, for doing such a good job of protecting me.
Chapter 13
MS. MARTIN’S KITCHEN RESEMBLED a construction site, the counters covered with ingredients and cooking equipment for the inaugural dorm dinner. Abby was helping me make vegetarian lasagna, garlic bread, and arugula salad with apples and toasted walnuts, and helping frost the red velvet cupcakes I’d baked yesterday afternoon.
I opened the freezer door of the ancient mustard-yellow refrigerator and took out two packets of spinach I’d stored there. I’d just finished telling Abby how bad I’d screwed up when trying to help that girl Nicole, and how upset Dean Shepherd had been. I’d been worried that talking about it would make me feel like an idiot, that it would bring back all of the horrible feelings. But Abby was so incensed, so convinced I’d done nothing wrong, that I actually felt better.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this sooner,” Abby said. “I would’ve kicked that girl’s ass. And then kicked the dean’s ass, too. Maybe I still will.”
“Please don’t,” I said, smiling as I imagined it.
“If she leaves school because of this, she’s a total wuss. Good riddance.” Abby threw the top of an onion in the trash for emphasis.
“I saw her from across the quad today, so she hasn’t left yet,” I said. “Can you hand me that?”
She reached for the glass bowl I’d gestured at. “Why’d you lock your room today?” she said as she passed it to me. “I wanted to get back the jeans you borrowed.”
I hadn’t mentioned to Viv and Abby that we’d started locking it. I’d been hoping that, by some miracle, they wouldn’t find out, and that Celeste would change her mind once she calmed down and realized we didn’t need to.
“No reason,” I said, placing the icy, green bricks in the bowl. Leo the cat rubbed his side against my leg. “I can’t pick you up while I’m cooking, cutie. Sorry.”
“I’m too heavy to pick up anyway.” Abby patted her stomach.
“Ha.”
“But seriously,” she said. “You never lock your room. There must be some reason.”
“Celeste and I agreed that since we’re on the first floor, maybe it’d be a good idea.” I slid the bowl in the microwave.
Abby was quiet for a moment. “Did she tell you to? Because she thinks I broke that vase?”
“We’re just being careful, Abb. I told her you didn’t do it.”
Abby rinsed a red pepper and set it on the cutting board. Then she said, “I’ve tried to be nice. What’s her problem?”
“She doesn’t know you.” I turned my attention to the flashing countdown on the microwave. I hated being caught between them like this. “If she did, she wouldn’t have accused you to begin with.” The microwave beeped. I stirred the spinach into a ricotta-and-egg mixture.
Abby’s chopping had slowed to one chop per second. It occurred to me that I had a perfect change of subject. “You know,” I said. “She invited Whip to this dinner.”
Abby looked over at me. “Whip? Are you kidding?”
I grinned and shook my head. “Nope. I just found out.”
“Celeste invited Whip. Why? What possible reason?”
Whip Windham—Spaulding Whipple Windham IV—is an old-school preppie of the madras shorts and bluchers, white-blond hair and thin lips, destined to be a (Republican) member of Congress, variety.
“They’re doing some project together,” I explained.
“Wow.” Abby smiled, bucked up by this amusing piece of news, as I knew she would be. “That’s quite a couple. Green Beret and Whippersnapper. Whichever teacher paired them up is my new hero. I’d love to be a fly on the wall while they’re working together.”
I laughed. “Whip’s probably scared to death.”
“I assumed she invited David for dinner,” Abby said. “Viv told me he’s coming.”
I stirred more vigorously.
“Leen? I thought we were all only supposed to invite one person?”
“I invited David,” I said.
“What? Celeste made you?”
“No. I wanted to.” I poured olive oil into a pan on the stove. “He’s a really good guy, Abby. You should see how much he worries about his sister. He’s not all obsessed with himself, like the other guys here are.”
“Yeah,” she said, “instead of being obsessed with himself he’s obsessed with her. He’s in here all the time, carrying her books, her laundry. God knows what else. I don’t think it’s nor—”
“Abby,” I said. “He’s my friend. Okay?”
“Oh my God,” she said, putting down her knife. “You like him.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I do. As a friend.”
“You want to have his crazy babies!”
“Jesus.” I turned from the snapping and cracking pan of hot oil to face her. “You sound just like Celeste.”
Abby stared at me, obviously taken aback. “Thanks a lot.”
“I mean … the way you’re blowing this up just to make it into a big drama. We’re friends, okay? Sure I have a crush on him, but we’re just friends. And if you gave him a chance, you’d like him, too. It doesn’t mean anything bad that he’s Celeste’s brother.”
“Okay,” she said, picking up the knife again. “Whatever you say.”
Whip brought out a silver, monogrammed flask from the inside pocket of his navy blazer.
“My contribution to the evening, ladies.” He poured a shot into the can of Coke I’d just given him and offered me the flask.
I sniffed it.
“Grey Goose,” he said. “I have a second one. Plenty for all.”
Ms. Martin was out until eight at the earliest—that’s when we had to be finished in her kitchen—so I added a splash of the vodka to my own can of soda and passed the flask to Cameron. Abby’s “date,” the guy who was playing Tilden in the play, had canceled; it was the four of us Frost Housers, plus David, Whip, and Cam.
Since we didn’t have a proper dining table, the seven of us were seated around the coffee table in the common room. Celeste wore a slinky silver evening dress and a thin black shawl over her shoulders. With Whip’s blazer and khaki pants with embroidered whales, they made quite a pair sitting together on the couch.
I went into the kitchen and started bringing out the plates of food I’d prepared. As I brought out the last two, Whip was saying, “I can’t believe they made this place a girls’ dorm. I was supposed to live here. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father all did. It’s a frigging Spaulding Whipple Windham tradition.”
“It’s been around that long?” Viv asked.
“My great-grandfather lived here the first year it was a dorm.”
“What was it before that?” I said, settling cross-legged on the floor next to David.
Whip took a bite of lasagna, chewed, wiped his mouth, and then said, “A family’s house—nothing to do with Barcroft. My grandfather says during his time, all the guys made a big joke of living here because there’d been some hysterical chick—I mean, woman—living in it years before. Like the chick in the attic in Wuthering Heights.”