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.
6:46: Turn my phone off. Then back on. Then off. Then on.
6:47: Almost throw my phone against the wall but decide against it.
6:48: Think of very bad things that may have happened to him. Five-car pileup. Hijacking. Wonder if I should walk through Emergency to see if he’s lying on a stretcher, waiting to get admitted after being in a hit-and-run accident.
Back inside, the atrium’s empty, so I walk down the hall to the cafeteria instead of the ER. Callie’s on cash. My hands are sweating.
“Hey Callie.”
She looks up from her magazine. “Hey, what’s up?” she says with a smile.
“Have you seen Dylan?”
She shakes her head. “Not in a while. Why? Everything OK?” She looks genuinely concerned.
Do I tell her we have a date? But then tell her he’s standing me up? “I’m just worried because he hasn’t texted.”
“I’m sure he has a good excuse,” Callie says, ringing in a doctor’s order. “I just . . . Dylan is a great guy. But you shouldn’t have really high expectations of him.”
High expectations? All I had was the expectation that if we made a plan, we were actually sticking to it. Or if not, that the person canceling might send a text. Is that too much to ask?
“I . . . I think you might be wanting more from Dylan than he can give you right now.”
She takes a 10 from the doctor, and then gives him a handful of change. As he walks away, she looks at me. “You know what? I’ve already said too much.”
• • •
Ben Baxter is eating frozen pizza with my mother when I come home. WTF?
“Hey babe,” he says, getting up and wiping his mouth with a napkin. I am literally struck dumb, and it lasts long enough for him to walk over and kiss me on the cheek. Like we’ve been dating for years.
“Look who’s here,” Mom says. “I told him you were at the photo exhibit, but he hadn’t eaten. So I insisted he stay. At least somebody likes my pizza offerings.” She grins. “Did you eat? Are you hungry? How was the exhibit? You’re home earlier than I expected.”
“I didn’t go. Long story.”
“You still want to catch it?” Ben asks.
I look at the clock. Already after 8. “It closes at 9,” I say.
“Have you seen me drive?” he asks, then looks back at my mom. “Kidding.”
Fifteen minutes later Ben Baxter is through the doors of the Train Station when I realize I haven’t been inside since the time with Dad. I throw my camera in front of my face, focusing the frame on the old steel doors, and breathe. Snap a few pics. Then head in. Panic attack averted.
“There’s only 20 minutes left,” the woman at the desk tells us as Ben throws down some money but he just waves her off and grabs my hand. Unlike Dylan’s, Ben’s hands are super soft.
Forget about him! Dylan stood me up. Ben is here. I squeeze his hand.
Liam Argyle’s photos are so good they make me anxious at first, like I’ll never be that good, so now on top of obsessing about being here, and Dylan, I’m stressing about my future. But then, Argyle’s style consumes me. The way he both employs and breaks rules gets me thinking about new ways to shoot. A photograph of a row of street lamps catches my eye. It’s shot in black and white and the lamps are glowing, all but one, in the d
ark sky. There’s something about the photo . . .
“Does this one look familiar to you?” I ask Ben, and he looks at it and shrugs. “Naw,” he says, pulling me toward the next print. The PA system announces the gallery’s closing. Ben grabs my hand, but I shake my head.
The photos he showed, at his first photo club meeting.
“Don’t you have a photo like this?” I ask.
“Could be,” he says. “Who can remember every photo they’ve ever taken?”
We drive home in silence and when we turn onto my street, he pulls over to the curb.
“I’ve got to get home,” I say, as he unbuckles his seatbelt.
“Come on,” he coaxes, his left hand on the back of my neck, pulling me into him. My stomach churns. He leans in and kisses me.
I want to tell him he’s not my boyfriend. That I don’t like him that way. Who can remember every photo they’ve ever taken? I can. There’s an iPhoto album in my brain where every single one is collated and tagged, easy for me to call up—the composition, the thinking process, the set-up and capture. And I’d certainly remember a shot like the one Ben Baxter showed me. Any real photographer would. It’s a great photo. So: was it a coincidence? An homage to Liam Argyle? Or did he just rip it off?
His face is smooth, but it might as well be sandpaper. His breath smells like peppermint, but it might as well be rotten eggs. His tongue pushes past my lips with too much saliva, and I last maybe 10 seconds before I can’t stand another second more.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 4 2 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT
Mr. Winters wins the award for slowest walker, but he gets away with it, on account of being about 42 pounds and 93 years old and having tubes sprouting out of the most random places. “I know I’m slow, but what’s your excuse?” he says. He’s right. He may be shuffling, but I’m the one who’s dragging my feet. I’m supposed to be accompanying Mr. Winters on his way to the cancer center, just like I accompanied my dad. But ever since Dad, I made a rule, and right now, I’m breaking it.
PIPPA’S RULES ABOUT GOING TO THE CANCER CENTER
Avoid at all cost.
At first, visiting Dad wasn’t so bad. Cancer. I didn’t even know what the word meant then. The first couple of days at the hospital it actually was kind of fun. Mom hung out with him all day, every day, so by the time I showed up after school she was ready to head home for a bit, for a break. It was tough to get my dad by himself before that. He worked a lot, in his makeshift studio in the basement and in the evenings he often was out meeting with potential clients, like couples who wanted engagement, wedding or maternity photos. But at the hospital, I got him all to myself. He’d save the best part of his lunch for me, the chocolate pudding, and I’d eat it while doing my homework. Then we’d talk about school, about photography, about whatever book I was reading for English class. At first I looked forward to visiting him.
The Rule of Thirds Page 10