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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.
    “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 the dark, I kept a small flashlight inside her. Now, I just liked the familiarity of having her watching over me with her round, yellow glass eyes.
    Even with Cubby here, I was expecting to toss and turn.
    And, at first, moments from the strange day cluttered my head—so different from what I’d anticipated when I woke up this morning. Not all bad—there was David’s smile as he rode away . . . Soon, though, thoughts of the day faded and I was just here , in my new room. I concentrated on the breezes that slipped through the slightly open windows and fluttered across my skin. The air was cooler now, because of the second storm. I listened to the sounds that mingled with Rachael Yamagata’s low, breathy voice: rain pattering on leaves, windowpanes rattling softly, a door creaking. I imagined the house was saying it was happy I’d finally arrived.
    The feel of the bed underneath me, the shape of the room around me, the woody smell of the air: it was all so familiar. I didn’t feel homesick or lonely at all. In fact, just the opposite. I was so comfortable—so at home—that Viv probably would have said I’d lived in Frost House in a past life.
    Viv. The darkness. I smiled at the ridiculousness.
    Before I knew it, I was asleep.

Chapter 6
    T HE NEXT MORNING , I was sitting on my bed reading an online article about schizoaffective disorder and its effect on families while supposedly reaping the soothing benefits of a chamomile-jasmine aromatherapy facial mask. I breathed in deeply through my nose. If the aromatherapy was bull, at least the extra oxygen would relax me.
    The side door to Frost House squeaked open and the thud of uneven footsteps sounded in the common area.
    “Hello, hello?” Celeste’s voice called.
    I shut my laptop and rushed to the bathroom. For some reason, I hadn’t expected her to arrive this early.
    I rinsed and dried my face, put my glasses on, checked my reflection in the mirror, tightened my ponytail. Celeste was just another person. No need to be nervous.
    She and David stood in the middle of the bedroom. A chunky cast on her left leg peeked out of a full-skirted white dress with Mexican-style embroidery and a turquoise sash. The cast was painted gold, her toenails neon orange. Her thick, dark brown hair was longer than I’d ever seen it,