The Rule of Thirds

Chapter Ten

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 1: 5 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

Mom is not thrilled with the idea of me going to a concert on a school night. And she is even less thrilled with the idea of me going to a concert with a guy she’s never heard of. “Mom, don’t worry about it, he’s a nice guy, he got accepted to Harvard!” is my comeback to that one.

“It’s October, Pippa,” she says, and already I can see this comeback has backfired. “If he was accepted at Harvard, why isn’t he at Harvard?”

“Mom, just trust me, OK?”

She makes a couple more protests—she doesn’t like the sound of this, please be careful, she doesn’t want me making a habit of going out on school nights, don’t I have homework to do, blah blah blah. And then: permission granted. I don’t even care that I have to be home by 11. The concert starts at eight and there’s only one opener and Cherry Blasters only have two albums so, yeah, 11. Probably it’ll be over a bit after 10, actually, but I want a bumper in there so that I have some time before I get that blast of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” With a few more Dylan- ward texts the plan’s established: we’re meeting at 6, after my shift at St. Christopher’s.

Highlights of the day before the night of: lunch is a photo club meeting that sees us going around sharing our Threes photos. I almost think Ben’s not going to show up, but he eventually does, about fif- teen minutes into the meeting. He sits at the end of the table, not making eye contact with any of us. When it’s his turn, he flicks through an iPad photo album, and it’s weird. I recognize a couple of the photos from our afternoon in the park—three trees, three logs, three flagpoles I somehow missed. But once again his photos are not quite right. The angles are all off. They lack any sense of composition. They’re nothing like the pictures he showed us last week. Maybe he’s just having an off week?

I go last, after Gemma. Then there’s a moment where you can feel the room’s tension. “About next week’s theme,” I say, and everybody flicks to everyone else’s gaze. “Any ideas?”

Nada. Zilch. Zip. Which is what I was kind of hoping. “So,” I say, “what if we just skip the theme this week?”

“Yeah,” Jeffrey agrees. “I’m pretty busy putting my entry together for Vantage Point.”

As are we all, Jeffrey. As. Are. We. All.

After school is fun with sick people. I’m back on flower delivery. I guess because I did such a good job last week? Every time I take an elevator I expect Dylan to get on. But no, it’s all uneventful until I pick up a skateboard-shaped cookie, deco- rated with every type of candy imaginable. The address tag lists a room on the fourth floor, back in the Rehabilitation Ward.

“Howie?” I say as I knock on the door, guessing the patient’s name based on the icing inscription on the candy skateboard. I push open the door and find a boy, about 11, lying on the bed. The cast that goes ankle to thigh has about a thousand signatures on it. His eyes widen when he sees the edible skateboard.

“Holy crap, bring that over here,” he says, and I carry it over to the bed. A real skateboard rests against the wall beside the head of his bed. He notices my camera around my neck. “Hey, you take pictures?”

I say yes, and he asks if that’s what I want to be when I grow up, which I think is funny to hear, but it’s true. He tells me he wants to be a pro skateboarder.

“Is that how you broke your leg?” I ask and he nods. “You must be pretty bummed out.”

He shrugs. “Nah. I almost landed an eight-step handrail. Now I know I can do it. Soon as I get this off. Will you take my pic? I want to remember this.”