The Rule of Thirds

by Chantel Guertin

  “It’s fine,” I say, making eye contact. “I just finished sorting everything out with the coordinator. Besides, a guy I like is also volunteering. It’s going to be totally distracting.”

  Dr. Judy slides her glasses onto her forehead and studies me. Why did I have to say that word? Dr. Judy hates distractions. She says distractions are an avoidance technique. And she hates avoidance worse than she hates distractions.

  “Not distracting. Just fun, I mean. You know, like a normal teenager?”

  “When do you start?” She takes a sip of coffee and wipes off the mark the cup left on her desk.

  “Monday after school.”

  “How long is the shift?”

  I tell her I’m not sure.

  “Well, try to keep it short.” Instead of telling me to leave if I feel uncomfortable, she says to stick it out for the entire shift. “Remember your coping techniques. And I see you . . . Wednesday, right?” She looks back at her computer. “So we’ll check in then.” I wonder if she’ll charge the full amount for this 15-minute squeeze-in between her Saturday regulars. “Good luck, Pippa,” she says. “I think this might turn out to be good for you.”

  • • •

  “Funeral Boy,” Dace says dramatically, twisting her Oreo apart then licking the filling. I dip my own cookie—still intact—into my glass of Diet Coke. Disgusting to some, I know, but I like the way the bubbles make the cookie tingle in my mouth. It’s Sleepover Saturday.

  We’re in Dace’s room, spread out on her bed: feet on the pillows, heads at the end of the bed, our stash of Oreos, Twizzlers and bottles of Diet Coke (for me) and water (for Dace) strewn across the white carpet. Say Anything is playing on the flatscreen on the wall in front of us, muted. It’s about a cute slacker guy who loves a girl who’s valedictorian. Dace’s bedroom looks like the cover of Coconut Records’ Nighttiming (which is no coincidence; she emailed her mom the cover art and told her that’s what she wanted for her sweet 16). Pretty much everything is creamy white—desk, dresser, carpeting, even her door, which has a full-length mirror on the back. The exceptions are these super cool pink curtains behind her bed that make it look like there’s a window there, only there isn’t. (On the album cover, there’s a massive eyeball peeking through the curtains, but Dace’s mom vetoed that part.) On her side tables—which are made of stacked bricks—are these really cool vintage-y lamps with yellow shades. It’s magazine-perfect, a.k.a. the total opposite of my room, which is sort of organized chaos.

  I just told her about my encounter with Dylan. I thought she’d think I was being pathetic—Dace tends to treat her crushes like her contact lenses: two weeks and she tosses them. But I’ve been into Dylan ever since I first met him—in freshman year. It wasn’t the ideal scenario: I was mid-freakout at 9:05 on the third day of school. I couldn’t get my locker to open even though I’d tried, like, 42 times. And I couldn’t just go to first period without my books because I’d oh-so-brilliantly taped my timetable to the inside of my locker door. I couldn’t remember where first period was. Great plan, huh? So I was in the middle of freaking out (this was the pre–panic attack era) when Dylan swooped in, banged on my locker a few times and magically opened it.

  “No problem,” he said, as I fell in love with him. “Happens all the time.”

  I’d sometimes see him in the hall after that. He’d nod or smile. But nothing more. Since he was a junior we never had any reason to talk. Other girls would’ve made up an excuse: thrown a party, or straight-up asked him out, or even—cheesy as it is—sent him a candygram on Valentine’s Day, but I couldn’t bring myself to do any of those things.

  Then last spring the paper decided to run a feature on what colleges the seniors had picked, and I got the story. I asked him to be in the story, and we talked for a while about the admissions process and how hard it was to get into Harvard. And since I’d never really forgiven myself for not asking him out over the past two years, I asked him one last question: who are you taking to prom?

  You know, purely for professional reasons. For the story. There was a long pause while he looked at me. Or, rather, the camera lens I was hiding behind. And I snapped my favorite picture of him. It’s in my nightstand drawer. He’s looking directly into the camera. Like he’s looking for something. In the moment, I got a feeling like a rollercoaster drop. Was he . . . ? Then he shrugged. Said he’d probably go, but he wasn’t going to bring a date just for the sake of bringing someone.

  And then I forgot all about Dylan for a while. About everything, really.

  “Of all the boys in all the volunteer placements, you get Funeral Boy,” Dace says, licking the middle of her cookie.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” I say, leaning over the end of the bed to dunk another Oreo in my glass of Diet Coke. “It makes him sound like he’s going to die or something.”

  “It’s a term of endearment,” Dace says, popping up onto her knees and throwing one of her cookie wafers at the trash can. She sinks it and raises her arms in victory, then concentrates on the other half. She had been on the school basketball team since middle school, but this year she didn’t even try out. So she could focus on modeling. “But listen, are you sure you can handle it?”

  “Dylan?” I say.

  “The hospital.”

  I nod. “Totally. That’s what therapy’s for, right?” I grab my camera off the floor beside the bed and shoot Dace for a while. She stands up, hands on hips, and studies me, the lens between us.

  “Honesty Pact?” She grabs a Twizzler from the bag on the floor, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulders and partly covering her face. As she stands up she flips her hair back and bites off a piece, twirling the remainder in the air.

  “Honesty Pact,” I reply.

  “OK, then let’s get down to real business,” she says. “How you’re going to be spending all your waking hours with the boy you love.”

  “Not all my waking hours. Three afternoons a week. If he’s even there those days. And I don’t love him.”

  “Bullshitake mushroom.”

  I lower my camera. “OK, maybe I used to have a crush on him, but that’s over. Remember the gay theory?”

  “Yes. No. We had a gay theory?” She grabs a lipgloss from the top of her dresser, then studies herself in the mirror as she applies it.

  “Mmm-hmm. He’s never dated a girl,” I remind her.

  “Not that we know of. And it’s not like we’ve seen him with any guys.”

  “True.” I put the camera down on the bed.

  “Maybe he just has really high standards.” Dace climbs back onto the bed.

  “Spalding had a lot of pretty seniors last year.”

  “It’s not just about looks,” Dace says. “You know that.”

  “OK, consider the gay theory set aside for the moment. But there’s no evidence he likes me. Or thinks of me at all.”

  “False, Philadelphia. And there’s no evidence that he doesn’t.”

  Dace grabs the remote off her nightstand and points it at the TV, pausing it. The main guy is standing in the front yard of a house, holding over his head—what, exactly?

  “What’s he holding up?” I squint at the TV. “Seriously the biggest radio I’ve ever seen. How can he even hold it over his head?”

  “Who cares? He’s got the right idea. You need a grand gesture. Like this dude. You’ve got to take a chance and see what happens. Or you’ll never know. This is your last chance. Isn’t he going away to college? God, your life is this movie.”

  “Yeah, that’s sort of a problem . . .” I say. “It’s three weeks into the term. He should be at Harvard. Why isn’t he there?”

  “Maybe he’s commuting.”

  “From Spalding to Boston every day? That’s only, like, seven hours. No biggie.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize this was geography class,” Dace says, stabbing m
e in the arm with the remote. “Maybe he’s home for the weekend. To volunteer at the hospital. Who cares? Point is, I’d say you got the best volunteer placement of all.”

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 13 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

  The hospital is about a half hour walk from school, but there’s a path at the end of the football field that leads to the ravine, and you can walk the entire way there, totally oblivious to the rest of the world. It’s like a hidden forest—even when it’s bright out, it’s a dark and ominous world in the ravine, as though it’s the land the sun forgot. Once I’m down there, I look through my camera up at the canopy the red oak trees create. I adjust the aperture as high as it can go and then zoom in on a branch right above my head, bringing it into focus and letting the leaves go out of focus. It’s one of my favorite techniques—there’s nothing special about this particular branch in the ravine. But focusing on something so specific, and letting everything else go, gives me a sense of calm.

  The path exits onto an easement between two houses, and then it’s a short walk to the end of a residential street, through the parking lot of a plaza and then around the back of the hospital to the front door. Climbing the stairs, I take a deep breath. On the top step I point my camera down and snap a picture of just the toes of my sneakers in the bottom third of the lens. And breathe.

  This time I make it past the front door unaccompanied by my best bud, Mr. Panic Attack. Dark gray speckled floors, light gray walls lined with plaques of donators’ names, a large fountain in the middle of the atrium, the elevators beyond. The reception desk is to the right, but it’s empty. An elevator is waiting, doors ajar. The doors close behind me, then reopen on the fourth floor. Fluorescent lighting illuminates a world tinged in yellow—the walls, the tile floor, even the vinyl chairs in the small waiting room I pass. The nurses’ station is to the left, and one of three wipe boards on the wall has CANDYSTRIPERS written in black marker across the top. Someone’s added an extra “P” with a blue pen and an arrow. I’ve got to remember to tell Dace about that later.

  “You’re late.” A girl glares at me. She’s got to be five years older than me, with enviable zit-free, buttery skin and blue eyes. She’d be really pretty if it weren’t for her massive frown. Her blonde hair is pulled tightly into a bun. She’s wearing a super cute pink-and-white striped polo shirt, khakis and a pair of Crocs. Unfortunate, that last bit. Her name tag says Hannah.

  “Where have you been?” She shakes her head. “Honestly, why are there always a million of you kids in every other ward except mine?”

  I shove my camera in my bag and stash it under the counter with the other bags.

  “I need you on—” she checks her clipboard “—plant watering.” She grabs a watering can off one of the shelves and thrusts it at me. “Do the entire rehab ward, and come find me when you’re done.”

  Water plants. Easy. How could I screw that up?

  “Oh, and what’s your name?”

  “Pippa.”

  “Spell it.”

  I watch her scribble my name on her clipboard as I spell it.

  “Don’t take too long. I have about a million things I need you to do.”

  How many plants are in the ward? Where is the rehab ward? And how am I going to sneak away and figure out where the music team plays?

  A directory points me in the right direction—to both the rehab ward and the bathroom, where I fill up the watering can. Then I knock on the first door in the hall. There’s no answer, and the room is empty. No patients, no plants.

  Easy peasy.

  In the next room there’s a woman lying in the bed, her eyes closed.

  “I’m just here to water your plants,” I tell her in my most professional voice. She doesn’t open her eyes. Her hair is long and white and fanned out over her pillow. I’m just thinking how pretty her hair looks and how I should consider having long hair like that when I’m old when my heart starts beating really quickly and the walls seem like they’re really close and my throat feels like there are cotton balls in it and I can’t breathe out my nose either because there are cotton balls in there too. I rush into the hall and drop the watering can, then fall to my knees. I push myself against the wall, sit on my bum and lock my head between my knees. The watering can is on its side, spilling the water.

  Inhale, count to five, exhale, count to 10.

  Then I do the technique of talking myself through the situation, like Dr. Judy taught me.

  Me: “Why are you feeling weird?”

  Also Me: “The lady in the bed.”

  Me: “What about her?”

  Also Me: “She didn’t look like she was breathing.”

  Me: “Good. You’ve identified the source of your anxiety.”

  Also Me: “What’s good about that? How am I going to volunteer if I keep freaking out like this?”

  Me: “Focus on the present. Focus on the facts. That woman was just sleeping.”

  Also Me: “I know.”

  Me: “Lots of people get better in the hospital.”

  Also Me: “I know.”

  I say “I know” a few more times, breathing in on one word and out on the next, the way Dr. Judy told me to. Then I lift my head up and open my eyes.

  OK, Pippa. The first time you entered a hospital room with an actual patient inside? You know, since the last time you entered a hospital room?

  You failed.

  • • •

  It takes me awhile to clean up the spill in the hall with paper towels from the bathroom, but I finally get it dry and then refill the watering can and get back out into the hall. Dr. Judy says that the best thing to do when I’m in an uncomfortable situation is to stick it out and push through. Giving in to my anxiety and running from the situation makes it even harder to come back. So let’s try this again.

  In the next room there’s an elderly woman (awake, thankfully) sitting at the end of her bed, holding lipstick in one hand and a small compact mirror in the other. She looks over at me. Bright green eyeshadow goes from her lash line up to her eyebrows. Blush smears from her nose to her ears.

  “Oh hello!” she says as she looks up from the compact. “What do you think of this shade?”

  She purses her lips. The lipstick dyes her lips, yep, as well as a swath of the rest of her face. Maybe I debate what to say for a moment too long.

  “You hate it. Too dark? Too red?”

  “No. Well, it’s just that, it’s a bit overpowering for your skin tone,” I say, then regret my honesty. Who am I to judge?

  She frowns at her reflection. “Maybe you’re right.” She sighs. “I just wanted to look nice.”

  “Oh you do look nice!” I’m not being a very helpful or friendly candystriper. “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No. But doing my makeup makes me feel better, especially when I’m cooped up in here. I only just got around to it now, though, and the day’s half over.”

  The windowsill has a lineup of vases. The first holds daisies and is filled halfway with water. Am I supposed to top up the vase? Hannah didn’t mention anything about cut flowers in vases. I decide to go for it, then move on to the spider plant beside it. Then some other plant with large green and white leaves.

  “You forgot the one on the end.”

  I eye the pink plant at the end of the row. “Isn’t that a cactus?” I say, unsure.

  “Ha! I like you. You’re the first girl who’s known that in the two months I’ve been here. The others all fall for my little test and water it.”

  Two months? She doesn’t really look sick, but why else would she be here so long? Unless she’s never coming out of the hospital. I push that thought away.

  “You know what does need water?” she sing-songs, snapping the compact shut and putting it on the tray table with her lipstick.

  I shake my head.

  “Dorothy.”


  Oh great, she names her plants. “Which one’s Dorothy?”

  She gives a deep, throaty chortle and points at herself.

  “Oh,” I say, then laugh.

  “I’m so thirsty and all they give us to drink are these tiny cups of water.” She points at the paper Dixie cup by her bed. “I’d love to get a glass of fizzy water. With those bubbles that make you burp but feel so good in your mouth?” She grabs a tattered fabric change purse from beside her bed and opens it, then hands me a five-dollar bill.

  “Like Perrier?”

  Dorothy nods. “That would be really lovely, dear.”

  I smile. “Sure thing. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  At the nurses’ station, I grab my bag from under the desk and head to the elevator, happy for the break. I’ve been watering plants for what . . . an hour? I check my watch. Oh. Twenty minutes. Well, whatever.

  I push the elevator button just as I hear a familiar voice behind me. “Now where do you think you’re going?”

  My stomach lurches and I turn around to see Hannah. This is like Silence of the Candystripers, and Hannah-ble Lecter is going to bite off my tongue.

  “I—I’m just going to the cafeteria to—”

  “Cafeteria? You work five seconds and you’re already taking a break?” As the doors to the elevator open, she waves the trio of doctors inside to go on without me. “We’ve got a Code Yellow. Room 414.”

  “Code Yellow?” I look around. I’m guessing she’s not referring to the décor fail in this joint.

  She shoves a set of folded white bedsheets and a bottle of disinfectant at me, then heads back to the nurses’ station.

  I shuffle down the hall to room 414 and push open the door. A burst of urine-infused air hits me in the face.

  The clean sheets end up on the green vinyl chair in the corner so I can grab a tissue from the box beside the bed. I tear it in half then twist each into tight rolls, kind of like Twizzlers, and stuff them up my nose. Test inhale. Can’t smell a thing. Perfect. Or, as close to perfect as you can get when you’re about to change soiled sheets.