26 HOURS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT
Everything’s so messed up that I even arrive late to my 10 a.m. Vantage Point review session with Mrs. Edmonson. She’s booked each of us into 15-minute slots to individually show her our Vantage Point entries and give us feedback before the big day. When I get to the photocopy room, Ben’s inside and I can hear Mrs. Edmonson gushing over his photos. The metal lockers are cold against my T-shirted back as I slide down to sit on the tile floor. When he opens the door, I stand up and rush over to him. He looks away.
“Ben—my data card. Please, just give it back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, not even stopping. And he’s around the corner. “Pippa?” Mrs. Edmonson calls from inside the photocopy room. I swallow hard. Push the door open.
She pats to the chair beside her. “Everything OK? You’re late—I let Ben go ahead of you because he was waiting.”
“Sorry,” I say, plugging my USB key into the com- puter. Focus on the photos.
Which are fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Breathe.
“My theme is Memories,” I explain half-heartedly, opening the folder with the photos I’d backed up to my laptop—ones that never made it into the folder he deleted because they weren’t my best shots. The gazebo in Hannover Park, the single photo on the yel- lowed album page, room 334 at the hospital, the steps leading up to St. Christopher’s, my dad’s Nikon.
As I walk Mrs. Edmonson through the photos, I feel better. Sure, I know I can do better, but these are still pretty good shots. But when I reach the end, she’s silent. Not the reaction I was going for. She clasps her hands, resting them in her lap, and studies me. “Pippa, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just saw an almost identical slideshow from Ben. What gives?”
He not only stole my photos but used them? “How could he use the same photos? What was his theme?”
“Same theme. Most of the same photos. Maybe slightly different angles, but very, very close.”
“But how could they be his memories? Mrs. Edmonson, these are my memories. The room my dad stayed in at the hospital, his old camera he gave me, which is right here”—I pull the Nikon out of my bag. “This is insane. Ben stole my data card, he swapped cameras with me. He stole my Vantage Point photos off my computer.”
She looks alarmed. Neither of us speaks. She has to believe me. Who would make that up?
“Pippa, this doesn’t reflect well on either one of you. It’s your word against his. Why would he take your photos?” She crosses her legs. “If the Vantage Point judges think either one of you is using photos that aren’t your own, you’ll both be disqualified. Not to mention how badly it’ll reflect on the school.” She thinks for a moment, wringing her hands. “I could tell both of you you’re not going to Vantage Point at all for this—clearly one of you is lying—but you’re both very talented photographers and I don’t want to deny you this opportunity. And I know how much going to the Tisch camp means to you.” Her tone softens. “So here’s what I’m going to ask. You’re going to have to come up with brand new photos for the competition. I don’t want to see a single photo- graph even remotely similar to Ben’s. I suggest you start from scratch, to be sure.”
“Start from scratch? Are you kidding? I’ve been working on my entry for months! How am I going to come up with six good new photos by tomorrow? And what about Ben?”
“I’ll tell him the same thing. Now I suggest you get out there and start shooting. You don’t have much time.”
YOU ARE READING
The Rule of Thirds
Teen FictionSixteen-year-old Pippa Greene never goes anywhere without her camera. She and her best friend/supermodel-in-training Dace long ago mapped out their life plan: Pippa will be the noted fashion photographer, and Dace the cover girl. But ever since last...
