Read Rule of Thirds, The Online
Authors: Chantel Guertin
“Philadelphia Greene,” she says again. She slips the glasses down onto her nose and peers at me. “Of course,” she says. “You’re Evan’s daughter.”
I nod, and the question comes again: “How
are
you doing?” But this time with more warmth. And this time I just shrug. Pause. Neither of us says anything.
And then I tell her the honest truth—that everyone always asks me that, that I’ve heard the question asked with about a billion different intonations and interrogatory uplifts and each time the answer is the same: fine, I guess. “I mean, I miss him, but everyone seems to be thinking I should be doing worse than I am, but I’m not: I think I’m fine. Why can’t everyone just accept that?”
“So brave,” she says.
“You know what, Glenys? Can we not do this? Can we just avoid distilling me down into some noble inspirational soul just because I happen to be Evan Greene’s daughter? I don’t feel brave at all. I don’t feel inspirational. In fact, you know what? I don’t feel anything. Which my therapist and my mother and my guidance counselor and pretty much everyone else tells me is a real problem. So that’s how I’m doing. I’m
not
doing.”
Dead air as Glenys watches me. There’s a slight tint to her glasses. Is
she
crying? I squint and move my head, to see her from a different angle. When she does finally speak, she doesn’t directly respond to anything I’ve said. “Your dad came in here one day and sat in that chair you’re sitting in,” she said. “I knew his name, of course, it’s one of those names that everyone in Spalding seems to know, but I’d never met him. You see, I also run the hospital’s art therapy program. Your dad needed my permission for a project. He wanted to shoot the hospital. As kind of our in-house photographer. To document our stories. I told him yes, of course. We’d be honored.”
This is the first I’ve heard of any of this. “Do you have any of the photos?”
She must hear the hope in my voice. Photos of my dad’s I didn’t know existed? His captured memories? And by extension, him? I ache to see them.
But Glenys shakes her head. “Oh honey,” she says, and this time a tear does run down her cheek. “He never got the chance.”
• • •
I get on the elevator in a daze, not realizing it’s going down instead of up. The doors open on the ground floor to what sounds like live music. Just before the doors close, I slip through and follow the sound around into the atrium. There he is.
He’s resting against the edge of a large fountain in the center of the atrium. Head down, strumming his guitar. Two other guys are playing with him, one on bass and another on keyboards. Dylan’s wearing faded jeans and a blue plaid shirt. He taps his right foot in time to the beat. When he sings I recognize the lyrics to “The Problem with Me”—a song from Dylan’s band days. Rules for Breaking the Rules won Battle of the Bands three years running—I was there every time. Reflexively I retrieve my camera from my bag. He’s engrossed in the music and doesn’t notice me shooting as he plays. When I move my focus to capture the audience I notice they’re all teens. One guy, about my age, is hooked up to an IV, the tubes connecting him to a pole on wheels, like he’s a string puppet. A girl beside him has a bandana over her head. Another girl is bald. Cancer patients, all of them. I grip my camera and swallow hard.
Dylan just stands there when the song ends. The bass player moves next to him and then the keyboardist comes up on the other side. They put their arms around each other and bow, and then Dylan’s bandmates point at Dylan and the clapping gets more intense. Dylan smiles and whispers something to the other guys, who laugh. Once the clapping dies and everyone starts breaking off into little groups, heading off to wherever they’re heading off to, Dylan catches sight of me. He smiles, slings his guitar over his back and approaches. My heart races.
“Philadelphia Greene,” he says, and I smile. “You’re going to have to pay for those photos.”
The best I can muster is a nervous laugh.
“Are you on a break? Want to grab a bite?” he asks.
I have never wanted to do anything more in my life.
• • •
“That’s one inedible food group,” Dylan says as we pass the Jell-O.
Three
glass bowls of Jell-O—I pull up my camera and snap a few pics for this week’s photo club.
“I have a theory about that,” I say, letting my camera dangle around my neck so I can grab a tray by the hot food.
“A theory, huh?” he says with a gorgeous grin. He has dark stubble, like he hasn’t shaved in days. He really could not be any hotter. “I’d like to hear this theory.” He punches me lightly in the arm. Punch. In. The. Arm. Yessss . . . Dace doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Punch in the arm = total, uncontrollable physical attraction.
“Gravy?” the lady behind the counter asks. I shake my head and she hands me a cardboard boat of fries, which I cover with cheese sauce over at the condiments. Dylan gets a burger and asks if I want to share a cookie.
Answer: Obviously.
“Chocolate chunk or white chocolate macadamia nut?”
“Chocolate. Always chocolate. I don’t like nuts.”
“Not into nuts. Duly noted,” he says. We take our trays over to the cash just as Cafeteria Callie walks up to the till and hands a key to the girl. She takes the key and they swap places. Great timing, I think, but then I remember my mission: Operation Kill Callie with Kindness. I plaster a smile on my face.
“Hi Dyl,” she coos, totally ignoring me.
“Callie, hi!” I practically scream with enthusiasm.
They both stare at me like I’m certifiably crazy.
“Chocolate milk?” Dylan asks me, opening the fridge door.
I nod. He grabs two containers and puts them on his tray. Which makes it our tray, doesn’t it? Sharing a tray, Callie. Take that.
“Dylan and I are going to eat together. Want to join us?” I say, praying that my assumption that she’s just come back from a break is accurate, and she won’t be able to.
“I’m working. Aren’t
you
supposed to be?” she looks right at me.
Dylan just laughs. “Everyone needs a break once in a while, right?” He’s been volunteering here longer. He must know what we can get away with, right?
Then, on our way to our table, he says, “That was nice of you to invite Callie to join us.”
“Well, she’s your friend, right?” I say, but I’m secretly praying he’ll say,
No, she’s my cousin.
Instead he nods. “Yeah. She’s great.”
Great.
Ughhhhhhh.
There’s an empty table by the window but Dylan says he knows a better place to sit. I follow him to the metal door at the cafeteria’s far end. Dylan pushes it open, holding it for me.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around. It’s like we’ve entered a hidden world—it’s a space about the size of a large swimming pool, with trees hiding the walls of the hospital, and a small pond in one corner.
Tall reeds, lily pads—it’s that kind of pond. Goldfish swim through the clear water. “They’ll have to take those guys out soon, when it gets too cold,” he says as he sets the caf tray down on the concrete edge of the pond, then sits down. I do too. It’s cold on my butt, but I don’t really care.
“Cool, right? They finished this place at the end of the summer but no one really seems to know about it yet, so it’s like a secret hideout. It’s supposed to be a retreat for people who spend a lot of time here. Chemo patients, palliative care, that sort of thing.”
Dad would have liked this spot.
“But won’t it remind people stuck here that they’re never getting out?” I wonder aloud, looking at the lone bench, nestled in the tall grasses.
Dylan tilts his head back away from me. “I don’t think so. It sucks being at the hospital, but people are here to get better. And there’s no reason it can’t be inspiring and hopeful.”
“Hopeful?” I blurt out. “You’re outside, but you’re still in the hospital. It’s like jail. How many cancer patients even leave this place? Alive, I mean.”
Dylan’s face clouds over. “Do you really think that?”
I shrug. Neither of us says anything for a moment.
“OK, Very Important Question,” he says, and my breath catches in my throat.
He holds up a packet. “Ketchup on your fries?” he says, then looks at my tray. “Wait,
what
is going on with your fries?”
I force a laugh. “Cheese sauce.”
He looks like he’s in pain. “But why?”
This time my laugh’s for real. “Awesome sauce, really. And yes to the ketchup.”
“Both?”
“It’s like mac ’n’ cheese. Seriously insanely awesome.” He squirts ketchup on my fries.
“Oh, and an example of three things that work so well together. Three’s the theme this week in photo club,” I explain, snapping a pic of my fries, then shaking my head. “Tastes better than it looks. Try one.”
“I think I can safely disagree without even trying one. It looks disgusting.”
“It’s the theory. But you have to try one first, before I explain.”
He reluctantly picks up a soggy fry and puts it in his mouth. He’s not even done chewing when he holds up his hands. “What is going on here?” He swallows, then shakes his head. “This may be the best fry I’ve ever had in my life.”
I laugh.
“How did you know that these soggy-looking things would be so kick-ass?”
I pop one in my mouth, then explain my theory.
“So let me get this straight. If the food
looks
good, it’ll taste bad. But if it looks bad, it’s going to taste great?”
I nod. “It’s a simple formula.”
Dylan grabs the cookie from his tray. “This is totally going to bust your theory,” he says. “Look at this thing. Perfectly round. Evenly distributed chips. It looks great. How can you screw up a chocolate chip cookie?”
I shake my head. “Perfectly round. Evenly distributed chips. Clearly made in a factory months ago.”
He breaks off a piece, then takes a bite. And makes a face. “Astonishingly terrible. It sort of tastes like those pellets you get at the petting zoo—to feed the deer?”
“Oh you’ve tasted those?” I smile.
“You know what I mean. You’re blowing my mind, Philadelphia Greene.”
“It’s just a cookie.” My face is hot.
“But it isn’t. I’m starting to get you, I think. You don’t do things like anyone else. Am I right?”
“What about you? Not many guys in bands get accepted to Harvard.” Or go through high school somehow managing to be one of the coolest guys in the school,
and
friends with everyone. Always volunteering to help out at lame assemblies to make them fun, or open freshmen’s lockers without making fun.
His face clouds again. He shrugs. “I guess.” Then he slaps his leg and says he has an idea. “Every time you taste something delicious that looks awful, I insist you take a picture and text it to me. To remind me that something I never would’ve ordered is, in fact, edible.”
“That sounds like a plot to make me your guinea pig,” I say, though there’s not one part of me that minds being his guinea pig.
“I prefer ‘personal taste-tester.’ It’s a prestigious role, and I’ll do the same for you.” He pulls out his iPhone. “What’s your number?”
Oh yesssssss. I shiver with excitement.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” I say, then wish I’d said yes because now he’s going to think I’m just nervous or something. But he takes off his plaid shirt and passes it to me. Underneath he’s wearing a Rules for Breaking the Rules T-shirt.
His shirt is warm and soft, like it’s been washed a thousand times, and smells like musky soap and peppermint gum. He unlocks his phone then slowly says, “Philadelphia Greene,” as he types my name. His fingers look rough, I guess from playing guitar. “OK, hit me.”
As he’s looking down I seize the opportunity to check out his arms, which are muscular and tanned, but then I notice the inside of his right arm. It’s badly bruised. He catches me looking and glances down, then slaps his hand over his arm and laughs.
“What happened?”
“Guitar injury,” he says. “Hazard of being in a band.”
Then my phone buzzes. Dylan McCutter has just sent me a text.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25
11 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT
Spalding’s on high alert. OK, not really, but Lisa calls an emergency
Hall Pass
lunch meeting, even though it’s only Wednesday, because there’s a big story breaking and she wants us to get it into the next issue, which comes out next Friday. At least seven people have had things stolen in the past two weeks. But we, the self-sacrificing staff of
Hall Pass
, are prepared to swap our pens for magnifying glasses and get to the bottom of the case of the stolen items. I kid. Lisa and I seem to be the only ones who care.
“Who wants to help cover the story?” Lisa asks from her place at the head of the photocopy room table.
“Can’t,” says Abigail, a senior staff writer. “I’ve already got two stories and a profile on the new Phys Ed teacher.”
“What’s the story anyway? A list of stolen items? Do we have any leads?” Brendan asks.
“Not yet, but maybe we can figure out a pattern,” Lisa says. “We could have a serial on our hands.”
Brendan raises an eyebrow, skeptical. Poor Lisa watches too much
Dexter
. I decide to throw her a lifeline.
“Why don’t we make it a Streeter spread? Take pics of everyone who’s had something stolen, and include a funny quote that ties in with the lost item?” Jeffrey’s going to want to take this on, for sure. A bunch of lost items? It’s Vantage Point gold for him.
“Good idea. Pippa, you OK to take it on?” Lisa asks me. I look over to Jeffrey, who’s lost in his computer.
“Jeffrey, you want to double-byline it?” I ask but he shakes his head.
“Still working on getting all the headshots of the cast of
Annie
. Streeters are your thing. You find the stuff, then maybe I’ll be interested.” He smirks at me—nothing like a little friendly competition.
Fine,” I say, secretly happy to get the story for myself, even though I really don’t need more on my plate. But I remember Emma searching for her iPod the other day: I want to help her out if I can.
Lisa hands me a sheet listing the students who’ve had stuff stolen. Even though she takes her job
way
too seriously, I’m excited about this story.
I head out the back doors to the football field to find Cameron “QB
1
” Jenkins. The football team is trying to win the all-region championship this season, so their two-a-day practices have turned into three-a-days. I ask the coach if Cam can talk to me for five minutes and he waves him off the field.
“I’m doing a piece for the paper about everyone who’s had stuff stolen,” I say as Cam takes off his helmet, his curly black hair plastered to his head, soaked with sweat. “I heard that you lost something?” I say in my most professional voice, pen and mini Moleskine notebook at the ready.
PIPPA’S RULES FOR INVESTIGATING
* This rule mostly came into effect because Lisa’s handwriting is super messy and I can’t figure out what the word is beside Cam’s name.
Cam tells me he lost
hwthymonimufth
.
“Can you take your mouthguard out? I can’t really understand you.”
He spits his mouthguard, all slimy and disgusting, into his hand.
“My heart-rate monitor—out of my locker in the changeroom. Coach makes me wear it because I get really riled up you know, and he doesn’t want me to have a heart attack or whatever.”
“Probably good advice,” I say, taking notes, then slipping my notebook into my back pocket and tucking my pen back into my topknot. I snap a picture of Cameron with his helmet resting between his arm and his hip, mouthguard in hand.
“You think you’ll find the guy?” he asks as he puts his helmet back on.
“Hopefully,” I say, backing up so I can get a wide shot with the other players out of focus in the background.
A tap on my shoulder makes me jerk my camera just as I hit the shutter button. That’s gonna be a blur.
I turn around to see Ben behind me, oblivious to his photography faux-pas: never surprise a photographer when the camera’s up to her face.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks, putting a hand on my back. Telling him about the assignment takes about as long as it takes Cameron to return to the field.
“Are you really going to find whoever did it by taking a bunch of candids? Besides, iPods are a dime a dozen. Everyone has one.”
“Not everyone. I don’t have one.”
“Really?” Ben can’t hide his surprise. “Poor Pippa.” I cringe but then he pulls me into a half hug. Most action I’ve seen since Reggie in the Scoops freezer. “Sounds like something Principal Forsythe should be handling. Come on, I want to shoot with you. Wouldn’t you rather be taking pictures you
want
to be taking?” he teases. “Can I convince you to skip next period and shoot some threes with me?”
“My mom has a rule about skipping class. Don’t.”
“I have a rule about skipping class too,” Ben says. “Don’t get caught. And you won’t, because I just told the office that you’re sick and I offered to drive you home since I have a spare.” His arm still around me, he turns us toward the parking lot and starts walking.
I feel all ability to resist him fading, and I give in. He asks where I parked and I explain that my mother has our only car. Instead of teasing me again, he smiles.
“Even better. So we can just take mine.” He pushes a button on his keychain and the lights on a black BMW SUV at the left side of the parking lot blink twice.
“Wow, nice car,” I say, feeling self-conscious.
“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 getting 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.