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 choose. 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?