Rule of Thirds, The (11 page)

“I took a guess. Remember that day in the caf?” He grins.

“How could I forget? The tissue up my nose. Mortifying.”

“Charming, more like it. Maybe I’m biased by my own creativity, but I think this bouquet breaks the Food Theory. Because this looks pretty awesome, and I’ve had my share of Twizzlers, and they taste good too. So what gives? Have I found the one item in the world that defies that theory?”

I laugh. “You’re crazy.”

The front doors slide open, the afternoon sun making me squint. I’m about to ask him where he parked when I spot a black SUV. Ben appears around its side, a massive bouquet of flowers in hand.

“What’s wrong?” Dylan asks.

Ben waves.

“Do you know that guy?” Dylan says, nodding in Ben’s direction.

Ben comes toward me. “Hey babe,” he says, kissing me square on the lips before I have a chance to stop him.

“What are you doing here?” I say, then look at Dylan, who’s looking at the two of us. I can’t read his expression. But I’m not optimistic.

“What, I’m not allowed to come pick up my girl? Hey bro,” he adds, nodding at Dylan.

“It’s Dylan,” Dylan says, studying Ben.

“These are for you,” Ben says, thrusting the flowers into my arms, where they dwarf the Twizzlers.

Surely Dylan must know that I wouldn’t have told him all that stuff about Dad if he was just some guy? Surely he can see Ben’s not my type? But Dylan is stone faced.

“Got it,” he says. “I didn’t realize you had a boyfriend. See you, Pippa.”

It’s the first time he’s ever called me by my nickname. My stomach feels like it’s dropped down to my knees. I can’t move my legs. Dylan heads toward his car. He ducks behind a cargo van, and he’s gone.

“What are those?” Ben says, nodding at the Twizzlers in my hand.

“Twizzlers,” I say. “Duh.” We look at each other a moment. “Ben—”

But he interrupts me. “I’m going to the mall to get the stuff for my Vantage Point display,” he says. “You want to come?”

He means those three-panel foam project boards that everyone uses to display their photos. I need one too. “Actually, I guess I do.”

And that’s how I end up in Ben Baxter’s SUV, headed to the mall, of all places. I touch my phone about a half-dozen times during the ride over, considering what to text Dylan. But I have to forget about my so-called love life. I have to focus. I have to finish my Vantage Point entry.

• • •

But I can’t. When we get to the mall I tell Ben I’m going to run off to use the bathroom. On the way I pass a large setup of chairs in front of a stage that has a T-shaped runway. The lights dim just as I get there. It seems like ages ago that Dace was in one of these fashion shows—brief exhibitions of mall clothes that happen every hour, on the hour, to remind shoppers of the wonderful products available to buy. Beats pump from the oversized black speakers on either side of the stage. The black curtains part and the first model walks out.

It’s Dace.

She walks the length of the runway, pauses at the end, turns in that way I’ve seen her practice a million times, and struts back to the top of the stage before disappearing through the curtain. I grab my phone.

Me: Hey! I’m here at your show. You look great! Meet me after?

She doesn’t answer my text but she obviously doesn’t have time. Dace comes out a few more times, and I wave, but she never makes eye contact. The lights are bright—maybe she can’t see me? The show ends and she still hasn’t texted so I wait by the side of the stage. Eventually, all the models come out to see their friends or parents. Everyone except Dace. There’s a black makeshift tent behind the stage, where the models change. “Dace?” I push open the curtains but the space is empty.

My phone buzzes and my heart skips. Dylan? Dace? But it’s Ben. Of course it’s Ben. Wondering where I am. I make my way to the food court.

Ben’s at a table for four by the new recycling station. “What happened?” On the chair next to him is a large black board and his satchel, the strap from his camera dangling out the top.

“Dace was in the fashion show.” I check my phone but there’s no response. And I realize: I still haven’t texted Dylan.

“I’ve still got to use the bathroom—can you just wait with our stuff here a minute?”

“Sure,” he says. “Take your time.”

Me: BEN IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND!!!!

Me: I don’t have a boyfriend!

Me: Can we talk?

When I get back Ben’s just leaving the Sbarro a few steps from our table. He sets down a tray of Diet Pepsis and pizza slices. I reach for the Canon Rebel on the table and he says, “That’s mine, babe.” He’s right—there’s no dent on the case. “And listen, no more pictures right now. Eat up. I’ve got to get going.” But I haven’t even gotten my foam board yet.

The pizza tastes like the cardboard box in my mouth. I wipe my hands on a napkin and stand up. He hands me my camera and bag, and I distractedly sling them over my body. “I’m going to take the bus home—I still have to get my foam board.”

Ben shrugs, and then I go for it. “Listen, Ben, we need to talk.” My heart pounds. I’ve never done this before. “I don’t think this is going to work between us. I really like you, but I just don’t think I like you in that way.”

Ben keeps his eyes on the pizza. “Because of that dude?”

“Yes. No. It’s complicated.”

“Huh. Well that sucks. But . . . all right.” He doesn’t actually seem that heartbroken. “See you at Vantage Point?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I? Mrs. Edmonson wants everyone in photo club to meet at the school. To look at our contest entries.”

“Sure,” he says. “Right. See you tomorrow.”

• • •

The house is quiet when I get home. I head straight upstairs to my room. I plug my camera into my computer, and check my phone again as the pictures download. Still nothing. Once the pictures have finished downloading I pull them up one at a time.

My heart pounds. Something’s off. The pictures are different. They’re shots of kids at school, shots of football practice, shots of some SUV. Ben’s SUV. I pull the cord from the camera and look at the pics through the screen. Same pics. I turn the camera over in my hands. My hands are shaking. The dent. There’s no dent.

This isn’t my camera.

My hands can’t text fast enough.

Me: I have your camera. Where r u? Can u drop it off?

Ben: Really? Weird. At a party. Camera’s in my car. I’ll drop off tomorrow?

Me: I really need it tonight—I want to finish my VP entry!!!

No response.

I squint at the screen. Wait, what?

My Vantage Point folder is gone.

Hands shaking, I call Mom.

“Were you on my computer?” I ask, panicked.

“Of course not. What’s wrong?”

“My Vantage Point folder is gone. Trash is empty. Someone’s been on my computer.”

“Breathe, Pippa,” she says, then gasps.

“What?”

“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but when Ben was over, he asked if he could get a photo from your computer—one of the two of you he said you took awhile back. He wanted to get it printed and framed as a gift for you.”

I feel sick.

“I’m so sorry, Pip. He wanted it to be a surprise and I thought it was so sweet of him. Do you think he deleted your photos by mistake?”

He didn’t delete them by mistake. He did it on purpose. Talk about keeping your enemies closer.

• • •

Hours later I’m in bed, tossing and turning, when my phone buzzes. I grab it from under my pillow, praying it’s Ben.

Dace: Hekp.

Me: ???

Dace. Help! Can u come get me?

Me: Where r u?

Dace: Cole’s. Crazy party. 47 Oakwood. Or Maplewood? A street with a tree name.

Dace: Please get me? Drunk. PS Sorry.

Me: Be there in 5.

My hoodie’s by the bedside table and I pull it over the clothes I fell asleep in. The bedroom door makes its usual creak, but Mom’s still snoring as I pass her room.

I tiptoe down the stairs and out the back door, then make my way around to the front, pop the car in neutral and back it out of the driveway. It’s in a case like this that I’m glad we don’t have a garage. There’s no way I could escape undetected if I had to open a garage door.

For a split second I feel a pang of guilt over Mom’s rule about driving without a licensed driver, which is, in a nutshell, don’t, since it’s illegal. But then I make my own rule.

PIPPA’S RULES FOR BREAKING MOM’S RULES ABOUT DRIVING

1. When your best friend drunk texts that she needs rescuing even when you’re technically in a fight, drive the car.
   

When I get to Cole’s house, bass is pumping out the windows. The street is lined with cars, but there’s a spot at the far end of the street. Once I’m inside, the smoke in the house requires actual effort to penetrate. People are everywhere—dancing, making out, passed out. How will I find Dace?

Me: I’m here. Where r u?

Dace: Upstairs. Bathroom.

Strange kids crowd the staircase in a line that leads all the way to bathroom. At least, it does in those ’
80
s movies.

“Hey, there’s a line,” a guy hollers as I push past him on the stairs.

“Yeah, well, I’m cutting it,” I grumble, totally focused. “Dace?” I pound on the door.

It opens a crack and a hand grabs mine and pulls me inside.

Dace is a mess. Her eyeshadow is smudged and her mascara runs down her cheeks. Her eyes are bloodshot. She smells like she’s been bathing in rum.

“They were all doing coke and they wanted me to do it and . . .”

Whoa. I pull her into me. “Did you?”

She shakes her head. “That’s why I’m hiding in the bathroom.”

She wants to escape out the bathroom window but it’s like a
40
-foot drop to the grass below. I grab her hand and pull open the bathroom door.

“Ooh, lezzers in the bathroom!” Some guy shouts then makes kissy noises at us. I stifle the impulse to kick him in the balls. It would be too good a fate for him. Instead I pull Dace toward, and then through, the front door.

“My head . . .” Dace moans.

• • •

Dace promises to be quiet as I open the door to the house, and somehow we manage to get upstairs without waking Mom. I go to the bathroom and get the bottle of Advil.

She is spread out across my bed. I push her over to one side and pull the covers over her, then climb in beside her.

“I love you, Pip.”

“I love you too, Dace. I’m sorry.”

“Me too. So dumb. Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Why were you there? I thought you were done with Cole.”

“I don’t know. I hate the fact that he hooked up with some other girl at my party. I wanted to get back at him. Asher broke up with me or whatever, not like we were together, but anyway. So, I don’t know, I had this idea I’d make out with Cole’s best friend at the party. Get back at him.”

“Who? Zach Gellerman? You’re so competitive.” I hug her. “So did you?”

“Oh who knows? I definitely made out with some guy, but I don’t think he even knew Cole. Not that Cole even noticed. Not my proudest moment, that’s for sure.”

“Oh Dace . . .”

“You know who else was there, sucking face?”

“Who?”

“Ben.”

“Really? Shit. I need to get my camera back from him. I’m
99
% sure he swapped it on purpose. And deleted all my photos for Vantage Point from my computer.”

Dace sits up, eyes wide. “What? Are you kidding?” Then she gasps. “Wait—what if he stole my mom’s iPad too?”

I think back to the night at Dace’s party—and the way, contrary to what I told Dace before, I left Ben alone while I went to the bathroom. Shit. Bathroom breaks, apparently, are my downfall. Could Ben be the thief of Spalding High?

I groan. “He had the chance to grab your mom’s iPad. I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Dace says, and she scrambles out of my bed. “We just need a clothes hanger.”

• • •

“Cut the engine and turn off the lights,” Dace says as we turn onto Oakwood. “Let’s coast the rest of the way.”

My hands grip the steering wheel, devoid of feeling. “The street’s uphill. I’ll just park here.”

“Pippa! We’re, like, five houses away. How are we going to make a quick getaway?”

“We’ll run,” I say, shutting off the engine and opening the door.

We find the SUV parked across the street from Cole’s house—how’d I ever miss it the first time? “Just act normal,” I hiss, walking around the front bumper and over to the curb. Turns out that advice was futile. Dace is on all fours, the coat hanger she brought, now stuffed up the back of her hot pink shirt. She nods, motioning for me to join her as she crawls on the grass. She’s swaying. Still drunk. Why did I—in my perfectly sober state—let her talk me into this? I pull her to her feet and hold her up as we creep past the cars.

We’re steps away from the SUV when Dace breaks free. “All rigggggggght!” she roars like she’s a UFC announcer. “Let’s bust this guy!”

“Dace—geezus!”

I pull her down to the grass, behind the SUV, so we’re out of sight of anyone inside Cole’s house. Dace pulls the coat hanger from under her shirt and unwinds the top, then hands it to me. “You’re on, Pippa.”

The wire ends in a hook. It looks a bit like the question mark floating above my head. The SUV’s front window seems impenetrable. “Dace—I don’t have a clue how to do this.”

Dace throws her hands in the air. “This is your moment, Pippa. Your chance for revenge. Your
opportunity
to get back what’s rightfully yours. Also, I’m gonna throw up.” She puts her head on the grass, moaning. Her long blonde hair spills over her shoulders.

“Oh crap.” I lean over and rub her back. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”

Dace lifts her head. “No way. We’re not leaving. You slide the hanger between the window and the door and wiggle it around—there’s a switch that it has to catch on—or something. It totally worked this one time for Veronica Mars.”

My bitten fingernails aren’t able to pry the rubber weather sealing away from the SUV’s glass window. “Dace, can you do this? Dace? Where are you?”

Smash!

The tinkling of pebbles—glass, actually—spilling against concrete. Oh, there’s Dace—standing at the back of the SUV beside a boulder-sized hole in the back window.