I close my eyes, blocking Ben out, and channel Dr. Judy. Breathe, breathe, breathe. There’s nothing I can do. What Ben does is out of my control. All I can do is focus on my own entry.
“Pippa Greene?” The woman with dark brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail is holding a clipboard. “Are you ready?” The other two judges stand on either side of her.
I take a deep breath. “My theme is Light in Dark.” As the judges examine the board my own eyes flick from image to image. The sunlight streaming through the skylights into the cancer center. Mr. Winters, knitting the orange scarf. The yellow tulip set against the granite of Dad’s gravestone. Howie, skateboard raised above his head—a picture I never thought I’d use, but that reminded me that light was there at the hospital, all along. I just didn’t see it. The bench in the reeds. And lastly, the photo I found on the roll of film when I went to get it developed: Dad. He’s propped up in the hospital bed against a mound of pillows, a container of chocolate pudding and that first copy of The Catcher in the Rye on his tray table. Unaware that I’m taking his picture, he’s completely himself. His eyes are crinkled at the edges, and he’s laughing. The last time I saw him truly happy.
“My father discovered he had pancreatic cancer earlier this year,” I tell the judges when they ask me whether I’d like to provide any context to the photos. “He was a photographer too. He received special permission from the hospital to capture the hospital’s stories, but he—” I have to clear my throat. “He died in June. I didn’t deal with that all that well.” I clear my throat again, and cough, then brush away my tears with the back of my hand.
“I basically tried to ignore the fact that he was gone forever. But then I got assigned to do my volunteer hours for school at the hospital where he died. And I decided to attempt to do what my dad started—to show that this place that most people think is just about pain and suffering, is really about hope and having courage in the face of what, in some cases, are the worst possible circumstances.”
• • •
The hour of judging is the longest of my life. Dace and Mom are standing on either side of me, their arms linked with mine. They’re trying to distract me with idle chatter but I can’t focus on anything else. Jeffrey’s parents and his little sister, Rosie, are standing with him at his display. Ben is alone, talking on his phone.
“Are you sure you can’t come?” he’s saying. There’s a pause, then he speaks again. “Yeah, but you could still make it to see the awards presentation . . . no, I get it . . . OK. Bye, Dad.”
Someone taps the microphone and I turn my attention back to the front. Saul is up on stage at the podium.
“I’d like to thank all the competitors, sponsors and judges who have made this year’s Vantage Point possible . . .” he starts, but I tune him out as he rattles off the prizes I know by heart: first place wins $5,000 and a spot at Tisch camp. I’ll settle for second—I don’t even care about the $1,500 as much as I do about getting a spot at Tisch camp.
“This is it!” Mom whispers excitedly in my ear.
“All right, I won’t go on any longer. We’re ready to announce the winners,” Saul says.
“I have chills,” Dace says, unlinking elbows and grabbing my hand. “It’s like the Miss America Pageant.” I squeeze Dace’s hand.
They start with the freshman/sophomore division winners, and everyone claps but I’m not really paying attention. Then finally, it’s our turn. Saul clears his throat and rattles off the honorable mentions: “From Simon Chamberlain High in Buffalo, ‘Transportation’ by Ling Mao. From Westlane in Niagara Falls, ‘Animosity’ by Russell Cromwell. And from Spalding High in Spalding”—I hold my breath—“‘Found’ by Jeffrey Manson.”
Jeffrey’s parents cheer and Jeffrey runs up to the stage.
Either I’m going to Tisch, or I didn’t even place. Ben’s arms are folded over his chest. Will he beat me with my own photographs? The three honorable mentions stand for a photo with the judges, and collect their plaques and checks for $500 each.
They step away from the stage and Gabrielle steps up to the lectern.
“And now, for the top two photographers, who will be enrolled in the two-week intensive photography camp at Tisch. In second place, from Spalding High, ‘Light in Dark’ by Pippa Greene.” Dace squeals and Mom squeezes me tight. It takes a second to register: I’m going to Tisch.
“And in first place, also from Spalding, ‘Memories’ by Ben Baxter.”
Ben walks past me. “You coming?” he says. I follow him, stunned, up to the stage. But once I’m up there, the fact that he cheated and lied doesn’t matter. I’m going to Tisch. I shake hands in a blur, accept my plaque and check, then beam uncontrollably for the camera.
When I get back to Mom and Dace, they both clobber me. Mom studies my plaque. “I’m so proud of you.”
“We’re going to New York!” Dace squeals.
I can’t stop grinning.
“Who’s hungry?” Mom says as we leave the building. “Pizza? The real deal, not the frozen stuff.”
My thoughts go to Dylan. I check my phone. It’s 2:30. “Can we stop at the hospital first? There’s something important I need to do.” Mom just nods. For once, she doesn’t ask any questions.
• • •
I take the stairs up to the third floor, too impatient to wait for the elevator. I push open the door to the cancer center, expecting to see him right away, but he’s not there. His treatment probably long since finished. I want to ask at the desk, to see if they know if he’s still at the hospital but there’s a line of patients waiting to be treated. I pull my phone out of my bag.
Me: Dylan! I’m at the hospital, are you here?
No reply. Callie will know. But in the caf there’s another girl on cash. I’m standing there, trying to work out a new plan when Callie comes out of the swinging door beside the hot counter. She’s drinking a Coke through a straw.
“Callie! Do you know where Dylan is?”
She looks surprised.
“I saw the board in the cancer center,” I say. “I know.”
She sighs, then nods. “Probably in the recovery ward. Back on the third floor, very end of the hall.”
I race to the stairs, up to the third floor, down the hall, not letting myself think about what it all means. Past the nurses’ station to the end of the hall, then to the end of the next hall. I find the door to the recovery room, second to the end, and push it open, only then realizing I probably should’ve knocked. The room is lined with beds, one after another. I scan the room, not seeing Dylan. Then, I spot him, at the very end, on the left side, by the window. He’s sitting in a chair, reading. I rush over, and he looks up, startled.
“Hey,” I say.
“What are you—”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Are you OK?”
He puts his book on the windowsill.
“What’s wrong with you? How did this happen? How long have you had cancer?”
Dylan bites his lip, watching me. Then he stands up and pulls another chair over. I sit down. So does he. He pulls his chair close, our knees touching.
“Back in the summer, I found a bump on the back of my neck. It started to swell, so my mom made me go to the doctor,” he says. “They did some tests and figured out it was Hodgkin’s. So since then I’ve been getting treatments. Radiation every day at first, for weeks. Now I get radiation twice a week and blood work once a week to see how I’m doing.”
“So . . . you have cancer?” Tears well in my eyes.
He takes my hand. “It’s a form of cancer, yeah. It’s in my lymph nodes, but they caught it really early. It’s a pretty common cancer in teens. But things are looking good. I didn’t have to have chemo, only radiation, so I didn’t lose my hair or have any of the really bad side effects, which is good, I guess.”
“But on the chart it said today was your final treat
ment.”
He smiles. “Yeah. Oh wait—not in a ‘lost cause’ way,” he says, laughing, putting a hand on my knee. “Total opposite. They did more bloodwork just a few minutes ago, and I’ll find out soon if I have to do any more treatments at all, or if they’ve gotten rid of all the cancer. I’m pretty optimistic. In young people they say it’s highly curable, and that I could be totally cancer free.”
“So . . . you’re not a volunteer at all?”
He shakes his head.
“But not a deadbeat college dropout either?”
He laughs. “I deferred. To focus on getting better and to stay close to home. My mom was pretty shaken up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I wasn’t telling anyone, really. I didn’t want their tilted heads, their sad, Poor Dylan eyes, you know?” He acts it out, and I let out a small laugh. “And you just assumed I was on the ‘music team’—which by the way, is so not a real thing. And I remembered about your dad. And I didn’t want to tell you I had cancer because, well, I didn’t want you to think of me as nothing but a cancer patient.”
“I definitely never thought that. With the bruises and the falling asleep and bringing Callie to the party. I thought you were a . . . slacker.”
“I really did fall asleep. It’s terrible. The radiation makes me so tired.” He shakes his head. “And Callie’s just a friend. Our moms are best friends. And even though she can be a bit possessive, she’s really sweet. She’s one of the only people who knows about the Hodgkin’s, so it’s just easy to be around her. I think I’m making her crazy talking about the elusive Philadelphia Greene, though.” He looks at me.
Neither of us says anything for a minute. There’s so much I want to ask him, but I don’t even know where to start. So instead I reach over, tentatively, and grab his hand, then give it a squeeze. “I get it.”
“I’m glad you know. Though I’m sorry this is how you had to find out.”
He squeezes my hand back and then it dawns on him. “The competition! How was it?”
I smile. “Second place.”
“You’re going to Tisch?”
I nod.
“Stand up. I want to shake the hand of the most talented photographer I know.”
I laugh as he stands, pulling me up, then grabs my right hand with his, shaking it goofily.
“Do you want to see my favorite photo from the display?” I ask once he’s dropped my hand. I reach into my bag, and pull out the envelope with the duplicates of the photos I used in my entry.
He studies the photo of the bench. “Where it all began,” he says, grinning.
“Where what did?”
“The relationship of Dylan McCutter and Philadelphia Greene.”
“We’re in a relationship?” I bite my lower lip, grinning.
“Philadelphia Greene, I think you’re one of a kind. And you’re going to New York.” He shakes his head. “So impressive.”
I can’t stop grinning. “I owe you for the inspiration.”
“Oh really?” He raises his eyebrows. “Because I can think of a way you can repay me,” he says, playfully kicking my toe with the toe of his shoe.
“How?”
“By letting me do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.” He sets the photos on top of his book.
My stomach flips.
“What’s that?” I say, but I know exactly what he’s going to do. Finally.
“This,” he says, sliding his arms around my waist and pulling me close. I reach up to put my arms around his neck, closing my eyes as his lips brush mine, lightly at first, then with more intensity, and then, I can’t really think about anything else at all, and I lose myself in the moment.
Chantel Guertin’s Rules of Acknowledgments
Try not to forget to thank anyone. If you do, apologize profusely and offer to give them a Costco-size bag of Twizzlers. Hope they really like Twizzlers.
Thank your publisher, ECW Press: Jack David & David Caron for being the big men on campus; Erin Creasey for that very first email last summer, which was like getting a note in class from the girl you totally want to be friends with; Carolyn McNeillie for the perfectly Pippa cover design; Troy Cunningham for taking a bunch of loose pages and making them easier to read on a windy day; Jenna Illies for being captain of the pep squad (at a school where being on the pep squad means you’re seriously awesome); Jennifer Knoch for making sure sentences make sense; and Lesley-Anne Longo for catching typos. Also to the rest of the ECW crew for their support.
Give your editor her own number. Crissy Calhoun, you’re a dream editor. Pippa is way cooler because of you.
Hug your family, for their love & enthusiasm: Michel and Susan Guertin, Danielle Guertin, Janet & Terry Visser, Sarah Farmer & Rob Newton. And my family to be, the Shulgans: Myron, Nancy, Mark, Jody, Cameron, Alice, Isaac, Julie & baby Junkin. Last but definitely not least, Myron & Penelope. I’m sorry there aren’t any pictures in the book. Also, Mr. Baz, obviously.
Give xo’s to early readers, researchers, and advice-givers: Heather A. Clark, Samantha Corbin, Melissa Di Pasquale, Melanie Dulos, Suzanne Gardner, Hayley Gillis, Leanna Gosse, Claudia Grieco, Sarah Hartley, Janis Leblanc, Jamie Lincoln and especially Marissa Stapley, for pool days and good juju bracelets.
Save the best for last: Chris. For the wintry weekend of editing in the woods. For driving around Schenectady on no sleep. For believing in me, loving me and making me laugh. For chest bumps and stormy squeezes. Love you, Shulgs.
CHANTEL GUERTIN is the bestselling author of two novels—Stuck in Downward Dog and Love Struck—and a beauty expert on The Marilyn Denis Show. She likes rollercoasters, notebooks and dressing up her cat, Mr. Baz, on special occasions, like Wednesdays. She also really likes jujubes, but never eats the green ones. She lives in Toronto.
Copyright © Chantel Guertin, 2013
Published by ECW Press
2120 Queen Street East, Suite 200,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4E 1E2
416-694-3348 / [email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Guertin, Chantel, 1976–, author
The rule of thirds / Chantel Guertin.
ISBN 978-1-77090-463-7 (ePub)
Also issued as: 978-1-77041-159-3 (pbk.); 978-1-77090-462-0 (PDF).
I. Title.
PS8613.U4684R84 2013 jC813’.6 C2013-902469-7
Editor for the press: Crissy Calhoun
Cover design: Carolyn McNeillie
Cover images: Tallent Tam,
www.tallentsblog.com
Author photo: Steven Khan
The publication of The Rule of Thirds has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and by the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,681 individual artists and 1,125 organizations in 216 communities across Ontario for a total of $52.8 million. We also acknowledge the f
inancial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
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