The Rule of Thirds

by Chantel Guertin

  “Yeah, it’s a guilty conscience thing. My mom felt bad about making me move here for my senior year, so she bribed me.” He opens the door for me, and I get in.

  My phone buzzes and I jump, worried I’m getting busted, but it’s Emma, texting to ask when I’m going to interview her. Word travels fast. I text her back “Tomorrow” then put my phone away. Why hasn’t Dylan texted again? It’s been nearly 20 hours since he asked for my number. Hasn’t he had anything interesting to eat? Text me, McCuter! I push the thought out of my mind though, and try to focus on the present. I’m skipping school with Ben. Which is kind of a date. With a guy who seems pretty into me. I should be happy about that. So why am I skeptical? I don’t want to judge a potential love interest by his cool clothes, car and interests, but what if my food theory also applies to boys?

  “What do you think about going to the river walk?” I suggest.

  The path winds alongside the Cherokee River and stretches the whole length of Spalding. It’s one of my favorite places to shoot, especially in autumn. There’s a trail through the woods for walking and a paved path that runs a bit higher up, and Dad and Mom and I used to ride our bikes along there on Sundays in the summer, and then stop for a picnic in Hannover Park. And, OK, there’s also this spot where people park behind the trees, right where the river turns into rapids, and it’s all secluded, and they, well, you get the idea. I’ve never been there, at least not at night, when it counts. And even though it’s super lame it’s definitely on the list of things I’ve got to do before the end of high school. I mean, come on. Is that too much to ask?

  Ben pulls out of the parking lot and makes a left onto Elm. My phone buzzes again. It’s Dace calling. Before I can even say hello, she launches in. “So Cole wanted me to come watch him at football practice after school,” Dace says. Cole’s a senior at Spalding and the latest object of Dace’s short affection span. “But I told him I don’t want to sit through an entire football practice so I said I’d just meet him at Pete’s Pizza after, and now he’s pissed at me and told me not to bother coming at all. What the Fudgee-O?”

  “Did she just say ‘What the Fudgee-O?’” Ben asks.

  “You can hear her?” I say to Ben. “Wait, I thought you had a go-see this afternoon?” I say to Dace.

  “Who are you talking to?” Dace demands.

  “You. But also Ben—”

  “Ben Baxter? Pippa Greene. Where are you?”

  “Skipping. I mean, I’m sick. Cover for me if necessary.”

  “I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “I didn’t do anything. And also, he can hear you,” I hiss.

  “Then ask him for the male perspective. What’s the big deal about me watching Cole grunt and chest-bump for an hour? Is this some sort of male ego thing?”

  “He doesn’t care about practice,” Ben says. “It’s code for let’s get in each other’s pants under the bleachers after.”

  I turn to stare at him. “Are you serious?” I signal for him to turn down the gravel road shortcut.

  “Positive.”

  “Hookup session under the bleachers,” I report back to Dace.

  “Figures. Wow, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. That I’m up for. OK, I better go do damage control. Call you later.”

  Has Ben already made out with someone under the bleachers? He pulls into the gravel lot and parks under a row of overhanging trees, at the far end of the lot.

  Ben grabs his camera out of the back, then we walk through the parking lot to the opening in the wooden fence.

  “Isn’t it so pretty here?” I say nervously, leading the way to the trail.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Ben says, and I look at him. He raises his eyebrows and I blush.

  The path winds down to the water and then onto the narrow trail. I stop every so often to snap a picture. “I like the theme you chose,” I say, moving slightly to get three elm trees into the upper left intersection of the nine sections of my frame.

  “Can I see?” He leans close to me to check out my photo. He smells like cologne. “So you put the trees really far over there on purpose?” he asks, confused.

  “Yeah. The rule of thirds,” I say. He doesn’t respond. “Can I see yours?” I say. Oh god, did I just say that?

  “I was just messing around.” He passes me his camera, but it feels like he’s reluctant. I squint at the first photo. He’s centered a group of four trees. Even though I really love following the rule of thirds, a lot of people break the rule and get interesting shots. But his photo lacks any sort of interesting composition. It’s just a bunch of trees.

  “Come here,” he says, grabbing his camera back and then pulling me in for a hug. “This is fun.”

  I nod, aware of how close he is. There’s a part of me that wishes it were Dylan here with me but I push that thought away. Dylan isn’t a photographer, Ben is.

  “You ready to move on?” Ben asks, and I nod, following him down the path. I ask him what his theme is for Vantage Point, but he says he’s not sure. “How’s your fashion theme coming along?”

  “Actually, my theme is Memories.” I get a bit of a sinking feeling as I tell him; I still haven’t told Dace. I need to—I know that—I’m just waiting for the right time.

  He gives me a funny look. “What happened to fashion?”

  “I changed my mind,” I say, feeling too guilty to say more.

  “But you won your division last year,” Ben says. “And I was reading up on the rules. You can keep the same theme two years in a row.”

  “I know,” I say. “But I don’t feel passionate about it.”

  Ben shakes his head. “You should stick with the sure thing. You want to win the five grand, and you know the judges liked your fashion stuff. I wouldn’t mess with that. You still have the photos from last year?”

  “Of course.” He has a point, and I’m desperate to go to the Tisch camp—the money would be nice too—but it just doesn’t feel right. I want the judge from Tisch to be impressed by my work, to remember me when I apply for college there next year.

  The trail leads to the park by the waterfall. I head toward the gazebo in the middle of the grassy space. “My mom and dad got married there,” I say. “Do you mind if I snap a few pics before we turn back?” It’s perfect for my Memories theme—they got married in the autumn. Ben sits down on a bench near the gazebo and watches me as I move around, shooting peaks on the gazebo roof, the lines of benches, the chipped-paint stairs.

  I turn back toward him and see him moving his camera away from his face. As he stands, I wonder if he was taking a picture of me, but before I can ask, he tells me that’s exactly what he was doing. “You’re much more interesting to look at than anything else,” he says, his intense blue eyes fixed on mine as he steps toward me, stopping only when his toes are touching mine. I want to look away, but I also don’t want to look away, not one bit. He moves closer even though it seems completely impossible to stand any closer to me. I feel all fluttery and weird and like everything’s happening in slow motion but also at super warp speed and then before I can even register what’s about to happen, his lips are on mine.

  • • •

  There’s clearly, obviously, most definitely, something wrong with my cellphone. Why am I not getting any texts? I slap my phone against the white plastic chair I’m sitting on in Dr. Judy’s waiting room.

  OK. So I’ve gotten 17 texts from Dace. (She got to third base—literally—with Cole; that was the section of bleachers they ended up making out behind. Apparently it wasn’t as sexy as it sounds, on account of all the gravel and dirt.) There are also two from Emma, one from Gemma, one from Mom and one from some random number that nearly gave me a heart attack thinking it was Dylan until I determined it was spam, probably not Dylan offering me a chance to win $1 million.

  But there’s only one person I want to be g
etting texts from, and that’s Dylan. Which is crazy, because I haven’t been kissed in 458 days, and the 458-day dry spell breaks, and I’m not even thinking about the guy who kissed me. Because I’m totally distracted by the guy who hasn’t kissed me. Why even ask for my number if you’re not going to use it, McCuter? Could he have accidentally deleted my number? Should I creep his Facebook page to see what he’s up to? I’m not Facebook friends with him. And should I really friend him if he hasn’t texted? Won’t I look desperate? Maybe I should make a fake Facebook profile and friend him. But why would he friend someone he doesn’t know and who has zero friends?

  I’m totally over him.

  My phone buzzes just as I’m about to turn it off and then back on again for the third time.

  Dylan: Philadelphia Greene!

  He texts again before I can get my fingers to stop shaking enough to text back.

  Dylan: Food Alert! Ice cream sandwich. Left it on counter last night for 10 min, just so it would soften the cookie but ice cream oozed out. Looked terrible but never tasted better!

  Me: U can’t modify original state. It’s cheating.

  Dylan: Not cheating. Dedication to cause. Totally allowed. Rule #43. Didn’t u get the Rule Book? Besides we’re on the same team. We’re in this together.

  Me: Who’s our competition?

  Dylan: No competition. We’d blow everyone out of the water with our awesomeness.

  Yeah, the part about forgetting all about Dylan? Scratch that. I’m officially back in total like with him.

  • • •

  “So you kissed this boy, Ben Baxter, but you can’t stop thinking about another boy,” Dr. Judy says, clicking away at her laptop. I’m pretty sure she’s playing Solitaire.

  “Maybe it’s because I’ve liked Dylan for so long?” I explain. “And I don’t know Ben as well. So I should give Ben a chance, right? Because long term he’s probably better for me.”

  “Let’s back things up a minute. Do you think you should be kissing boys who you’re not sure you like?”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t sure I liked Ben. I do. I just think I might like Dylan better. What I’m asking is whether it’s stupid to like Dylan. And I can’t really know if I like Ben if I don’t give him a chance. And that means kissing.”

  “But you know you like Dylan and you haven’t kissed him.”

  “Kissing doesn’t really matter. Dace says kissing is basically like coughing. Not a big deal. And doesn’t really tell you anything anyway.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Dr. Judy’s specialty is asking me what I think. Which is so typical shrink. Correction: psychologist. But why do I have to have all the answers? If I had all the answers, would I be here?

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve kissed enough to know if it makes a difference or not. Can we talk about something else?”

  “No. I find this fascinating,” she says, taking a sip of water. “Tell me again why you kissed Ben?”

  “I didn’t. He kissed me,” I say again.

  She pushes her glasses onto her forehead. “Did you tell him you aren’t sure if you’re into him?”

  “When was I supposed to do that? After he kissed me? That would be kind of awkward, don’t you think?”

  “What do you think?”

  Here we go again.

  “You know what? Fine. I won’t kiss him again until I’m sure. OK?” I fiddle with the hem of my shirt.

  “If that’s what you want. Now what about Dylan?”

  “I like him. A lot. But I feel like I don’t know what’s going on with him. Like if he dropped out of school or what he’s doing with his life. But despite that I still feel this connection to him. Is that weird?”

  Dr. Judy shakes her head and, surprise, surprise, asks me if I think it’s weird.

  I tell her I’m not sure, and she says that it’s OK to not be sure of my feelings. That that’s what we’re here to talk about. Then she asks me what makes me feel like I have a connection to him, and I tell her I’m not sure about that either, that it’s just a gut feeling. That I feel safe around him.

  “Listen,” Dr. Judy says, “why don’t we make a pact just to see how things play out this week. You call or text or see whoever you feel like, without worrying about what they’ll think or want from you. If you want to call the same boy three days in a row, do it. And then if you want to see the other boy, do that. And we’ll meet next week and you’ll tell me all about it.” Dr. Judy uncrosses her legs and then crosses them the other way. “Now how are things going in the hospital? How is it making you feel about your father?”

  I make something up, about how the hospital seems to be helping, and the session ends a few minutes later. My circular reasoning continues on the bus ride home. Maybe the only reason I like Dylan is historical? And Ben likes me, and we have tons in common. And he’s driven. Or at least not a college dropout, or whatever. And just because I had thought of him as my competition doesn’t mean I have to keep thinking of him like that. Maybe he could be my boyfriend. Maybe I need to shift my focus from Dylan the slacker to Ben.

  Dylan: Food Alert! Just had a Wardinski’s hot dog. Oldest hot dog in Western New York. Fully loaded.

  Me: Oldest hot dog? That doesn’t sound very good.

  Dylan: It might kill me. But it was totally worth it.

  Flirting about old hot dogs. Well, there’s a first time for everything.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26 10 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

  “So I have the perfect solution,” Dace says. She’s on my bed, pretending to do homework but is really on Instagram. I’m going through my Vantage Point photos.

  “We have a problem?” I ask, distracted as I scroll through the photos in my Vantage Point folder. I’ve been putting contenders in the folder over the past few months, ever since I thought of the Memories theme. I can only show my best six, but right now there are almost two dozen pics. I flag a picture of the gazebo in Hannover Park, the yellowed album page from the garage sale, and the doors to the Train Station—where Dad and I saw the David Westerly exhibit.

  “Yes. And the solution is a pool party.”

  “A pool party? Isn’t it a little late in the season?”

  “It’s going to be 70 degrees this weekend. We have to take advantage of it. That’s why I’m calling it the Indian Summer Pool Party. Saturday. Vivs and Fred are going to some medical convention in Vegas. You know what that means: what happens when the parents are in Vegas . . .”

  “Doesn’t get back to them in Vegas?”

  “Exactly. Ooh, that’s the perfect name for the party. WHWTPAIV.”

  “Really rolls off the tongue.”

  “And you’re inviting Funeral Boy. And Ben.”

  “Um, no. I’m too stressed about Vantage Point. I don’t have time for a party. Besides, I don’t ask guys out. I want Dylan to ask me out.”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize it was 1952.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t want to come to a high school party anyway . . .”

  “Excuse me, it’s not a high school party. I’m inviting Asher, and he’s not in high school.” Asher is this guy who works at a bar and, in theory, goes to community college.

  “What about Cole?”

  “I’m inviting him too.”

  “You can’t invite both of them.”

  “Of course I can. It’s a party. The point’s to invite lots of people. So you should do the same.” She hops off the bed. “I’m going to get something to drink. Want anything?”

  I shake my head. A picture of Dylan spans my computer screen. Dr. Judy said to have fun. Maybe I should be more like Dace and just have a few boys on the go at the same time—at least for a week.

  When Dace returns, I tell her she’s right—maybe I’ll try to date both guys. But she just laughs. “Oh no,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re a one-guy kind of girl. You have to ch
oose. That’s why you invite both guys—nothing like a little healthy competition to see who steps up their game to win your eternal affection. It’s the natural selection process. Like in the wild when the ape eats the antelope.”

  “I don’t think apes eat antelopes. Ants maybe, but not antelopes,” I say.

  “You get the idea,” Dace says. “A Natural Selection Party. NSP for short.”

  How many names is this party going to have?

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 27 9 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

  “Can you take Mr. Winters to his chemo treatment?” Hannah asks, looking up from her chart. “Room 318. They’re understaffed on the third floor.”

  I register this information, then shake my head.

  “No?” She looks at me incredulously.

  “I’ll do it.” Ashley—one of the other volunteers—is standing behind me. “You’re crazy,” she whispers. “It’s the best job. You just take them there and hang out with the other candystripers, and it practically takes up the whole shift.” She smirks at me, grabs the form from Hannah, and practically skips down the hall to the elevator. Suddenly it makes sense why there’s never anyone around when someone soils their sheets, and I’m the sucker who cleans up the mess.

  Hannah tells me to mop up a spill in front of room 422. There’s an orderly in the supply closet, returning a mop and pail. Why am I cleaning up a spill if that’s a job a paid employee does? More importantly, will I ever be in the supply closet to make out rather than to get a mop? Right now, it seems as unlikely as not having any more panic attacks.

  Thankfully, after cleaning the spill, Hannah rewards me with flowers. Not like, she gives me flowers. But she says I can deliver them. Apparently the Handy Helpers—volunteers over 60—usually deliver the flowers but someone called in sick. The florist is in the atrium, which is obviously my favorite spot in the entire hospital (until the supply closet takes over as makeout central) because of the Dylan sighting, but today he’s not there. The florist disappears into the walk-in fridge and returns with a large bouquet of blue and pink flowers and two balloons—one that says “It’s a Girl!” and the other that says “It’s a Boy!” Shouldn’t you be sure of the sex before sending flowers? Then I realize, duh, it must be twins. Maybe this whole place isn’t all about death, dying, disease and the land of eternal depression after all.