Rule of Thirds, The (6 page)

Dylan: Philadelphia Greene!

He texts again before I can get my fingers to stop shaking enough to text back.

Dylan: Food Alert! Ice cream sandwich. Left it on counter last night for 10 min, just so it would soften the cookie but ice cream oozed out. Looked terrible but never tasted better!

Me: U can’t modify original state. It’s cheating.

Dylan: Not cheating. Dedication to cause. Totally allowed. Rule #43. Didn’t u get the Rule Book? Besides we’re on the same team. We’re in this together.

Me: Who’s our competition?

Dylan: No competition. We’d blow everyone out of the water with our awesomeness.

Yeah, the part about forgetting all about Dylan? Scratch that. I’m officially back in total like with him.

• • •

“So you kissed this boy, Ben Baxter, but you can’t stop thinking about another boy,” Dr. Judy says, clicking away at her laptop. I’m pretty sure she’s playing Solitaire.

“Maybe it’s because I’ve liked Dylan for so long?” I explain. “And I don’t know Ben as well. So I should give Ben a chance, right? Because long term he’s probably better for me.”

“Let’s back things up a minute. Do you think you should be kissing boys who you’re not sure you like?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t sure I liked Ben. I do. I just think I might like Dylan better. What I’m asking is whether it’s stupid to like Dylan. And I can’t really know if I like Ben if I don’t give him a chance. And that means kissing.”

“But you know you like Dylan and you haven’t kissed him.”

“Kissing doesn’t really matter. Dace says kissing is basically like coughing. Not a big deal. And doesn’t really tell you anything anyway.”

“Is that what you think?”

Dr. Judy’s specialty is asking me what I think. Which is
so
typical shrink. Correction: psychologist. But why do I have to have all the answers? If I had all the answers, would I be here?

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve kissed enough to know if it makes a difference or not. Can we talk about something else?”

“No. I find this fascinating,” she says, taking a sip of water. “Tell me again why you kissed Ben?”

“I didn’t. He kissed me,” I say again.

She pushes her glasses onto her forehead. “Did you tell him you aren’t sure if you’re into him?”

“When was I supposed to do that? After he kissed me? That would be kind of awkward, don’t you think?”

“What do you think?”

Here we go again.

“You know what? Fine. I won’t kiss him again until I’m sure. OK?” I fiddle with the hem of my shirt.

“If that’s what you want. Now what about Dylan?”

“I like him. A lot. But I feel like I don’t know what’s going on with him. Like if he dropped out of school or what he’s doing with his life. But despite that I still feel this connection to him. Is that weird?”

Dr. Judy shakes her head and, surprise, surprise, asks me if I think it’s weird.

I tell her I’m not sure, and she says that it’s OK to not be sure of my feelings. That that’s what we’re here to talk about. Then she asks me what makes me feel like I have a connection to him, and I tell her I’m not sure about that either, that it’s just a gut feeling. That I feel safe around him.

“Listen,” Dr. Judy says, “why don’t we make a pact just to see how things play out this week. You call or text or see whoever you feel like, without worrying about what they’ll think or want from you. If you want to call the same boy three days in a row, do it. And then if you want to see the other boy, do that. And we’ll meet next week and you’ll tell me all about it.” Dr. Judy uncrosses her legs and then crosses them the other way. “Now how are things going in the hospital? How is it making you feel about your father?”

I make something up, about how the hospital seems to be helping, and the session ends a few minutes later. My circular reasoning continues on the bus ride home. Maybe the only reason I like Dylan is historical? And Ben likes me, and we have tons in common. And he’s driven. Or at least not a college dropout, or whatever. And just because I had thought of him as my competition doesn’t mean I have to keep thinking of him like that. Maybe he could be my boyfriend. Maybe I need to shift my focus from Dylan the slacker to Ben.

Dylan: Food Alert! Just had a Wardinski’s hot dog. Oldest hot dog in Western New York. Fully loaded.

Me: Oldest hot dog? That doesn’t sound very good.

Dylan: It might kill me. But it was totally worth it.

Flirting about old hot dogs. Well, there’s a first time for everything.

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?

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 27
9 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

“Can you take Mr. Winters to his chemo treatment?” Hannah asks, looking up from her chart. “Room
318
. They’re understaffed on the third floor.”

I register this information, then shake my head.

“No?” She looks at me incredulously.

“I’ll do it.” Ashley—one of the other volunteers—is standing behind me. “You’re crazy,” she whispers. “It’s the
best
job. You just take them there and hang out with the other candystripers, and it practically takes up the whole shift.” She smirks at me, grabs the form from Hannah, and practically skips down the hall to the elevator. Suddenly it makes sense why there’s never anyone around when someone soils their sheets, and I’m the sucker who cleans up the mess.

Hannah tells me to mop up a spill in front of room
422
. There’s an orderly in the supply closet, returning a mop and pail. Why am I cleaning up a spill if that’s a job a paid employee does? More importantly, will I ever be in the supply closet to make out rather than to get a mop? Right now, it seems as unlikely as not having any more panic attacks.

Thankfully, after cleaning the spill, Hannah rewards me with flowers. Not like, she gives me flowers. But she says I can deliver them. Apparently the Handy Helpers—volunteers over
60
—usually deliver the flowers but someone called in sick. The florist is in the atrium, which is obviously my favorite spot in the entire hospital (until the supply closet takes over as makeout central) because of the Dylan sighting, but today he’s not there. The florist disappears into the walk-in fridge and returns with a large bouquet of blue and pink flowers and two balloons—one that says “It’s a Girl!” and the other that says “It’s a Boy!” Shouldn’t you be sure of the sex before sending flowers? Then I realize, duh, it must be twins. Maybe this whole place isn’t all about death, dying, disease and the land of eternal depression after all.

“Flower delivery,” I say, knocking on room
242
, the way the woman at the florist instructed me. There’s a quiet “Come in” so I push open the door and walk in. A woman about my mom’s age lies on the bed. She gives a half-hearted smile when she sees me. “These are for you, I think,” I say, looking at the tag. “Shelby?”

She nods. “Thanks. You can put them over there.” She points to the window, where there’s a mountain of bouquets and baskets piled on the sill and below. There has to be at least a dozen bouquets of flowers, two dozen balloons and an army of teddy bears of all different sizes and colors.

I set the bouquet down. “Wow, you’re popular,” I say. But she doesn’t look very happy. Dark moons underline her eyes, and I realize, this woman hasn’t had a good night’s sleep for weeks.

“My twins were born three months early.”

“Oh, are they OK?”

She says that they’re in the NICU, the neonatal intensive care unit, because they only weigh two pounds each. “I hate that they have to be there. I’m there so much the nurses kicked me out, actually. They said I need to get my rest.” She sighs. “They’re beautiful.”

“Congratulations?” I say. “Er—I’m sorry?”

She almost laughs. “I know—I’m confused too. I don’t know whether to be happy I have two beautiful babies or scared for them because they were born prematurely. So it’s almost like I’m not letting myself feel anything.”

“You have to let yourself feel your feelings,” I say. “That’s what I hear, anyway.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Feel my feelings—I’m going to think about that.”

Four floors, nine bouquets and an hour later, I’m going up on the elevator on the way to the fourth floor, having one of those think-sessions that tend to happen on otherwise empty elevators. There’s so much pain in this building, it’s hard not to let it all get you down. There was a little boy lying still in his bed, an old man with a broken hip, another mom with some weird leg infection and another couple of people who didn’t have any idea yet what was wrong with them. The only thing they knew is that they felt like crap. Those hurt the most. I’d seen the beginnings of that story before, and I knew how it ended.

Then the doors open on
3
, and Dylan walks onto my elevator.

“Hey,” I say, mustering a smile.

He looks up at me, somewhere else, and for a moment I have this weird feeling he’s totally forgotten who I am. “Oh hey,” he says. No smile. Nothing. Actually he looks miserable. He presses the button for the ground floor even though the elevator is going up. “Oh,” he says. He looks at me. To see whether I noticed? And the whites of his eyes are kind of gray and his skin looks ashen. Dark circles. He looks down at the book in his hand.

“What are you reading?” I ask him.

“Oh, uh . . . what?” he says, distracted.

“Hey, are you OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, just um . . . sorry, I’m just a bit preoccupied.”

“Oh.”

Don’t get distracted . . .

“So actually,” I say, “it’s great that I ran into you. I wanted to invite you . . .”

The doors open on the fourth floor.

He manages a weak smile.

“Your floor,” he says.

“Of course,” I say. My floor. There’s some magnetic force keeping me on the elevator but I push against it and step out. The doors are closing just as I turn around. He’s looking down at his book again.

What just happened?

My phone buzzes and for a split second I think it’s him.

Dace: U ask Funeral Boy to party?

Ugh. It’s like she’s psychic. I start to type out what just happened, then delete it.

Me: No.

Dace: Well what r u waiting for? U don’t want ur new bikini to go to waste do u?

Me: What new bikini?

Dace: The one Abercrombie says he can’t wait to c u in. He’s coming. 1 down 1 to go!

• • •

“He totally brushed me off. I was there, I was about to ask him to the party and instead he told me, basically, to get off the elevator. There wasn’t anything friendly about it. It was like he didn’t want me to be there. Not like I was a friend, like I was someone he didn’t like. He
despised
. You should have seen it—it was his whole manner. ”

I’m laying on my right side on the bed, looking at
17
-year-old Dad on the wall.

“Ugh, I thought things were
good
. Oh, and Ben’s coming to the party. Dace says
because
of me. Which is cool. But I just wish Dylan were coming. Even though he totally brushed me off. Ugh—why do I
care
so much?”

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Maybe his brush-off had nothing to do with me? Maybe he had other things on his mind. Maybe he has a thing about personal conversations on elevators? What if I hadn’t seen him on the elevator—then what? Am I seriously going to throw away a chance at love with Dylan, all because Ben jumped my lips quicker and the elevator doors opened before I could ask Dylan to the party? I sit up and grab my phone off my nightstand and bring up Dylan on the text message screen.

Me: Chip n dip Alert! Tmw @ Dace’s. Pool party included. Wanna come?

• • •

And then I watch the screen, waiting for his response to come. Which is how I must have fallen asleep, because a couple of hours later I wake up with the phone still in my hand. The clock says
3
:
19
a.m. “Yep,” I say to my dad. “It’s that pitiful.” I put the phone on my nightstand and turn off my light.