Rule of Thirds, The (9 page)

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 2
4 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

WTF?

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. And then it all comes back. Again.

“Oh . . .” I roll over and stare up at my dad’s photo. “Why couldn’t I just be a normal teenager and get super wasted, make a total ass of myself and
then
feel like this?

I bury my head under my covers, shutting out the waft of coffee that means Mom is up, and I’m going to have to explain last night to her.

“Get up,” Dad tells me. He’s right. Staying in bed, replaying things, only makes things worse. Passing out in Dylan’s car, waking up in the driveway. Dylan helping me to the door. The worried look on Mom’s face when she let us in. Dylan explaining what happened. Mom taking me upstairs to bed. Putting a glass of water on the nightstand and kissing me goodnight. Telling me to get some rest, and not to worry. The guilt of knowing she would be sleeplessly worrying for both of us.

“Waffles,” Mom says, pushing open my door with her foot, carrying a tray. She’s in jeans, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She places the tray on the bed and hands me a plate and a fork and knife. She pulls the chair from my desk and sits down, taking the other plate, and her cup of coffee.

“Why are you still home?” I ask, digging in.

“Pippa, I was worried. Wanna talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Really? Because you arrived home in the arms of a very nervous-looking boy who explained you’d passed out. I thought you’d been roofied.”

“I was drinking Diet Coke from a bottle. I wasn’t roofied.” I say, putting my plate on the nightstand. Telling her I’d been roofied is probably better than telling her the truth.

“So what happened then?” she asks gently. She puts her plate on the desk and gets up, then climbs onto the bed beside me, leaning into the pillows.

I sigh. “I had another panic attack. A bad one.”

“Oh honey . . .” Mom wraps her arms around me and pulls me into her for a hug. I bury my head in her shoulder. “What caused it?”

“Dylan took me to Scoops.”

“But you love Scoops,” Mom says, confused. I shake my head.

“I haven’t been there since Dad . . .”

She squeezes me harder, and says she had no idea. “I thought you didn’t have the panic attacks anymore. You told me you and Dr. Judy worked through them. Even Dr. Judy told me months ago that you weren’t having them anymore.”

I sniffle. “That’s because I told her they’d stopped.”

“But why would you lie about this?”

“Well, they had stopped, kind of. I have all these coping mechanisms Dr. Judy taught me. And it’s better, it really is. It’s just . . . I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot. And my Vantage Point theme brings back more memories of him. And I started freaking out and I didn’t want to tell Dr. Judy because she was being so positive about how I wasn’t having panic attacks anymore. I felt like I’d been failing her and that made me feel like I’m wasting your money by even going to see her.” I haven’t been this honest with my mom in months.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t know being at the hospital was making you feel that way.” She pulls away from me so she can look me in the eye.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Oh Pippa. I’m going to worry about you no matter what. It’s my job. Like it or not. So you might as well give me concrete things to worry about,” she says with a smile. “OK?”

I nod. “OK.” She smoothes my hair, like she’s been doing since I was little. I tuck my head back onto her shoulder.

“So this guy you went to the concert with . . .”

“Is so awesome,” I moan. “And now he probably thinks I’m a total freak.”

“I highly doubt that. He seemed very nice. And he said to tell you that he was sorry for rifling through your bag, but he was trying to find something with your address on it because he didn’t know where we live.”

All I can think is that I’m glad I didn’t have any underwear in my bag, which is such a bizarre thought because I can’t even imagine why I
would
have underwear in my bag. Ever.

“This boy seemed genuinely concerned about you,” Mom says, retrieving her coffee and taking a sip. She sits back on the desk chair.

I pull my legs under me.

“Can you really defer on a school like Harvard?” Mom wonders aloud.

“Ugh—Mom. We’ve already talked about this.”

“I’m just asking!” She looks at the wall behind me. “You know, when your dad wanted to do this thing with the wallpaper? I was so against it. We fought about it for weeks.”

“Why?”

She sighs. “I don’t know. It was silly but I was worried he was going to influence you too heavily to be a photographer. It’s such a risky business. I don’t want you to have to struggle the way we did because we both had such unstable jobs.”

“How did he finally convince you?”

“He didn’t. He just did it.” She looks at the wall, at Dad. “I’m glad.”

• • •

In the afternoon, while I’m going through my photos from last night for the millionth time (OK mostly staring at the ones of Dylan), he texts.

Dylan: Ding! Thank you for saving me from what’s obv. v. bad ice cream. A bit dramatic but I’m impressed by ur dedication to cause. (U OK?)

Me: Scoops ice cream actually v. good. Just me that’s crazy. Sorry.

Dylan: I like crazy. I like u. So u feeling better?

Me: Yes.

Dylan: Good! Liam Argyle photo exhibit at Train Station tomorrow night. 1 night only. Inspiration break? Burgers & shakes at BRGR first?

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 3
3 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

Dace hands me a blue and white polka dot Kate Spade cosmetics bag on Thursday morning.

“What’s this?” It’s filled with unopened makeup—mascara, two eyeliners, three lipglosses, a creamy M.A.C blush Dace swears by, and a couple of nail polishes.

“Not that you need it, but just a little something for tonight. Just because.”

I hug her tight. “Love you.” I put the bag in my locker, and my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Mom: Dace’s mom is trying to reach her. Tell her to answer her phone.

I show the phone to Dace. She groans.

“Someone stole my mom’s iPad,” Dace says.

“What? Are you sure?”

“Positive. Vivs reamed me out this morning when she couldn’t find it. I told her I haven’t seen it but she says that it was on her nightstand when they left for Vegas. She thinks I brought it to school—so I went with that, to buy some time, but I don’t even know why, because I haven’t touched the thing. I don’t know what I’m going to do. She’s going to kill me if I don’t get it back from whoever stole it.”

“Who would steal it?”

“Well, someone who was in the house. We’ve got to figure out who that chick was that was making out with Cole. It’s got to be her.”

“I guess . . .” I say. “But what about Cole or Asher, if they were in the house?”

“Well, if we’re going down the boytoy route, what about Ben . . .” she says, warningly.

“But he was with me the whole time,” I say, feeling a strange defensiveness.

“Fuck.”

“—tional,” I say out of habit.

She glares at me. “I wish we knew who the girl was. That’s it, I’m calling him.” She punches Cole’s number into her phone. “Of course, no answer. Screening my calls. Ugh. Ass.”

“—phixiation.”

“
Really
not in the mood, Pippa.”

“Sorry. Maybe his phone’s off. He could be in class.”

Dace groans. “Blonde hair . . . let’s think.”

“Caitlyn. Elaine. Jade. Vanessa,” I say.

Dace rattles off a few more: “Lauren. Emi.”

“I think we need to make a list.” I grab a binder from my locker and flip to the back where there are blank pages.

IPAD THEFT SUSPECTS

Ben (but he was with me the whole time)

Cole (too preoccupied with girl he was with?)

Random girl who hooked up with Cole (Need to narrow down list to fewer than 17 possible blondes)

Gemma (no way—we’ve been friends with Gemma since sixth grade)

Emma (see “Gemma”)

Asher (doesn’t make sense since he doesn’t go to Spalding, so not connected to other stolen items)

Pippa (obviously not)

Dace (see “Pippa”)

“This is why we made the no-one-gets-in-the-house rule,” Dace groans. “At least we’ve got a short list, I guess.”

“Of no one who did it. Which means it’s probably someone we didn’t know who got in.”

“But how?”

“Same way Cole and that girl got in.” I shrug. “Did we leave a door open? Did someone find the spare key?”

Dace leans back against her locker. “What are we going to do?”

“
Hall Pass
comes out tomorrow. You can show your mom that there’s been a bunch of thefts, especially of electronics, and then she’ll know it’s not really your fault. It was circumstantial,” I offer, but she shakes her head.

“No offense, Pip, but an article isn’t going to do me any good. What I need is an iPad. I have to replace my mom’s. Can you go in on it with me?”

I laugh but then I realize from the look on her face that she isn’t joking.

“I don’t even have a job, Dace. Or an allowance. Why don’t you just tell your mom the truth? Seriously, it’s not your fault.”

“You don’t get it. Not only was I not allowed to have a party, I was supposed to be at that Cheektowaga car show. If my mom finds out I bailed on it and lied about it too, she’s going to kill me.”

“Wait, what? The car show was last weekend? Why didn’t you go?”

She looks at me, exasperated. “Because, Pippa . . .” and she looks like she’s going to cry.

I go to hug her but she pulls away. “I had a go-see for
Marie Claire
,” she says. “That’s why.”

“You did? That’s incredible. When did this happen?” Why didn’t she tell me earlier? I try to replay the last few days to figure out when Dace and I weren’t together.

She shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a
huge
deal.”

“You know what?” Dace says, slamming her locker. “It’s fine. I’ll just use the money I made at my last shoot to buy the iPad. No big deal.”

• • •

Dace is sitting in the caf with a bunch of seniors she used to play basketball with. I sit down, putting my tray of fries and chocolate milk on the table. She reaches over and picks up a fry, then breaks off tiny pieces before putting them in her mouth.

“Can you eat the whole thing?” I say grumpily.

She grabs another, pops it in her mouth, chews it and spits it into a napkin.

“That’s disgusting.”

“You know what’s disgusting? Muffin tops.” She contorts herself to check out the back fat above the top of her jeans. Back fat that does not exist.

“You do not have a muffin top.”

“Not yet. But that’s because I just spit out that fry. Trust me, it’s what all models do. That or cocaine. Do you want me to develop a coke habit?”

“I want you to eat.”

“I am.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a Sugar-Free Red Bull and a plastic bag of celery. “Did you know it burns more calories to chew celery than it actually has?”

“That’s called negative energy. And likely also a form of eating disorder.”

“Hilarious,
Mom
.”

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask before I can stop myself. Dace gives me a death stare.

“I’m sorry,” I concede. “I’m stressed about Vantage Point.”

“Why?”

“Nothing . . . never mind,” I say, but I can’t think of any way to cover, and Dace knows I’m lying.

“Spill it.”

“I changed my theme,” I say so quietly I can barely hear myself.

“When? To what?”

“It’s just—I got this idea to do something else . . . . It’s about memory. Memories. I was inspired and just sort of playing around with it—and it—it’s just sort of worked out.”

“Memories?” Dace says. “That’s the name? Like the corners of my mind?”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“It’s just so brilliant. I hear literal is back this year.”

“It has nothing to do with you.” Why is she making this all about her when this has
nothing
to do with her? Who cares if she’s the subject of my photos? It’s my
photos
that matter.

“How long ago did you decide this?”

“A while ago. And you can’t be upset with me. You don’t let me tag along to any shoots. What was I supposed to take pictures of?” It’s a low blow, since not tagging along to shoots really isn’t the reason I changed themes.

“When were you planning to tell me, ever?” She bites into a celery stick as if my answer won’t matter to her.

I tell her that of course I was planning to tell her, but I didn’t know how and I didn’t want her to misunderstand.

“Misunderstand what? That you think I’m not good enough to be the model in your photos? That you can’t win with me in them? Thanks for your support.”

“Support? I didn’t complain that you’re not bringing me to your shoots, did I? No, because whether you bring me or not doesn’t affect your career. Why can’t you do the same for me?”

“Ha! If you hadn’t been so self-absorbed, maybe you’d notice that I’m not
going
to shoots. But you haven’t, because everything is All About Pippa, All the Time. Even right now. This is all about you. So fine, let’s make this about you and your
new theme.
Take a picture of this.” She gives me a smirk. “A memory of when I used to be your best friend.”

• • •

As though I need one more thing to do, I get to spend the afternoon at the hospital because even though I’m not supposed to work Thursdays, next Monday is Columbus Day and blah blah blah volunteers can’t work on holidays, we have to make up the hours and I got stuck with today. Which totally sucks because on top of everything else, the last thing I need, three days before Vantage Point when I’m still not finished my entry, and on the same afternoon that I get in the fight of all fights with my best friend, is to add in a little Sunny McSunshine time at the hospital. Argh!

Even Hannah senses I’m distracted.

“Why don’t you take one of the patients for a walk?” she suggests when she sees me watering the plant at the reception desk. The water is filled to the rim and overflowing onto the counter.

I head down the hall to Dorothy’s room because I know she’ll be up for it. Today she’s wearing mint green elastic-waist pants and an argyle sweater. She’s totally ready for the shuffleboard circuit.

“I like your outfit,” I tell her as we walk.

“I’ve had this outfit since
1972
. You know I haven’t gained one pound since I was
21
?” She laughs.

“That’s impressive.”

“Not really. Sure, when I was your age, it was great. Now it hurts to sit on hard chairs.”

I laugh. “Because of the hip replacement?”

“No, I’m too skinny!”

“You should eat more ice cream,” I say.

“I can’t have dairy. I really miss ice cream,” she says.

“Me too,” I say, thinking about Scoops. And Dylan.

We turn the corner and start down the next hallway. “When do you think you’ll get out of here?”

“Who knows? On top of the iron hip, I’ve got a heart arrhythmia they’re monitoring.”

“Don’t you wish you could go home?”

“Well, I do miss playing bridge with my friends. Thursdays are bridge days at the retirement home, and that Eleanor”—she shakes her head—“she is going to gloat like no one’s business if she wins because I’m not there. Other than that, I don’t mind the break. I’ve read four Harlequins since I got here. In the middle of
The Mistress’s Secret Baby
right now. Jake just found out that Carolyn’s baby is actually his.” Her eyes widen. “Besides, being here gives me hope.”

“Hope?”

“Sure,” Dorothy says, leaning on the railing for a moment. “That they’ll figure out what’s wrong with my heart. If I weren’t here, who knows what could’ve happened. Good thing I broke my hip, I say. I want to see my grandchildren graduate.”

“How old are they?” An orderly passes us, pushing an empty gurney.

“Twelve and fourteen. So I’ve gotta keep this thing ticking for a while.” She pats her chest and we continue down the hall. “Listen, don’t you worry about me. Now, my turn. I wanted to ask you something. Could you help me with my makeup?”

“I’m not very good at makeup, actually,” I confess, thinking of Dace. Constantly giving me makeup tips, even though I rarely wear more than mascara and lipgloss. Then I remember the makeup bag Dace gave me.

“I saw the way you were looking at me the other day. I know you can do a better job than I can. At least you can
see
what you’re doing.”

• • •

Dorothy sits in the chair by the window. With the curtains pulled back, there’s a ton of natural light. The brand new mascaras, liners and lipsticks are lined up on the windowsill. I pull up the other chair so I’m facing her.

I stand in front of her, channeling Dace. Starting with eyeshadow, so you can wipe off any mistakes. Then eyeliner. Dorothy’s eyelids are wrinkled, and it’s hard to make a straight line, but I don’t let on.

“Look down,” I prompt. Her blonde lashes turn black with mascara.

Dorothy sits patiently through it all. “Now it’s time for the lips,” I say, looking at my choices for lip color. “The trick for lips is to use a lipliner first. The problem is, there’s all those hideous dark ones—it’s better to use one the same shade as your actual lip color.”

Dorothy nods seriously, taking it all in. “See this one?” I hold up a light pinkish-beige lipliner. “This is pretty good for you.” I trace her lips with the pencil as I’m talking. “You’ve got to stay on the lips, not outside. Then, when you put lipstick or lipgloss on, it’ll stay inside the lines. It’s like coloring.”

I fill in her lips with one of her lipsticks, then use my finger to add a dab of my clear gloss overtop. I study Dorothy. “I think we’re done. But you tell me what you think.” I stand, grabbing my camera from the bed. “Can I take your picture?” I want to show Dace—that is, if Dace and I ever talk again. I adjust the shutter speed to use the natural light, then start snapping Dorothy from various angles.

“What do you think?” I say a while later, pulling the empty chair beside her and sitting down again. She leans in as I scroll through the pictures for her. When we reach the end, I look at her. There are tears in her eyes.

I lean over and give her a hug. Her ribs make ridges in her back, and I try not to squeeze too hard, but I can feel that she’s squeezing me with all her strength.

She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “My mascara’s going to run,” she says, and I laugh.

The clock at the nurses’ station says
6
:
20
. Just enough time to change. Orange stretchy skirt, black leggings, tan cable-knit sweater, handful of bangles. The new pink lipgloss Dace gave me makes me happy and sad at once.

Once I’m out the front doors, I check my phone.

6
:
30
. I don’t see Dylan’s dad-mobile anywhere.

6
:
35
: I debate texting him.

6
:
40
: Text him to tell him I’m waiting out front, on the front steps, in case I made a mistake about where we were supposed to meet. Like, helicopter pad on the roof?

6
:
41
: Stare at my phone.

6
:
42
: Still staring.

6
:
43
: Oh my god. He’s standing me up.

6
:
44
: Send myself a text to make sure my phone’s working.

6
:
45
: Phone dings! Text! My heart starts to beat faster. Then realize: it’s from me.